Kelsie 🦎

Russian hockey boy enthusiast

[behoright]

flawed and free | p. kochetkov

When you move / I can recall somethin' that's gone from me

summary: pyotr finds himself finally speaking the truth to himself, and to you

wordcount: 6.4k

song: movement by hozier

warnings: 18+! minors dni! crappy proofreading LOL sorry. contains cursing, smut n sexual situations. like a whole bunch fo nastiness sorry

a/n: so uhh….yall still horny? ᵐᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᶦⁿᵍ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵃⁿᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʰᶦᵃᵗᵘˢ

⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦⠀️⠀️

He had dreamed of making it this far for so, so long. 

And he was always told, by all his coaches, his family, eventually by Rod: playing in the NHL was going to require a different version of him. 

This was never cause for concern for Pyotr.

He could always be tougher, stronger. He knew if he was pushed, he’d always push back harder. There was no practice he would miss, no meetings he’d be late for, no nights out, no distractions. If everyone gave 100%, he’d aim for more. He made it here by working hard, and he wasn’t going to stop now. 

But things were different than he imagined. 

He knew he’d feel disoriented, but not like this.

The pace was different in Carolina. The days he’d be ready to give it that extra mile at the gym, they’d go overtime on the ice. Most of the time they’d go out on dinners until the final hours of the day, when he honestly just wanted to spend more time on his reflexes or recovery. 

The way everyone carried themselves, the fans, the electricity of the city were all so new, and most times he felt lost in the swirl of it all. 

And the language.

Thankfully Andrei had helped, more than he should have actually. 

Honestly, he didn’t think it was going to matter all that much, looking at his new Russian teammates. But he quickly realized that he wanted to belong to a whole team, not a clique. 

To get the Stanley Cup they needed to all be on the same page. 

Communicate.

And when Andrei started to push him, Pyotr felt himself treading water. 

All of a sudden he felt his personality crumple inside, his colorfulness get stuck behind the language barrier. He wanted to put himself out there, to be himself, but he had no way to express that.

He would have never said it out loud, but it was all starting to take a toll on him. 

Until he met you.

 ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀* ˚ ✦️⠀

“Pyotr, focus.”

Another day, another lesson. Like most of his days off, Pyotr found himself sitting across from you. 

Andrei had talked incessantly about his friends to Pyotr, who had never wanted to hear it. He felt like he could barely keep up with his social life at work, let alone with a group of people he had never met, in a country he was barely familiar with. 

And then one night, after basically being dragged by his teammate, Pyotr finally met you face to face. His heart skipped a beat as he heard you introduce yourself in almost perfect Russian. 

“I thought she could help more than me, PK.” Andrei said hesitantly later that night, as they both stared at you from across the bar. “Very nice and very smart. Very single too.”

“заткнись” 

“Shut up.” Pyotr answered, rolling his eyes. Hopefully, the bar was dark enough to hide his blush. 

And the rest was… easy. it all unfolded smoothly, and besides the language practice, you clicked immediately and began hanging out every week. With the excuse of learning, of course.

Teaching Pyotr hadn’t been difficult, when he was still embarrassed enough to put up a polite front with you. 

Yet months later, here you were sitting with him as he threw another tiny paper ball at you, this time comically bouncing off your head and sending the Russian into hysterics.

“You need to focus!” you said, jokingly pushing his arm.

“This.” he said, closing the book. “Boring.”

“Okay, okay.” you answered, studying his face. “Do you want to call it a night?”

“No.” he shook his head. “Want something fun. In English.”

“Like what, PK?” you sighed, your cold fingers resting on your forehead.

“Если я смогу заказать пиццу на английском, ты поужинаешь со мной. И мы тоже можем посмотреть фильм на английском.”

“If I can order a pizza in English, you have dinner with me. And we can watch a movie in English too.”

You stared at his face, lit up with hope; his fingers nervously picking at his skin under the table.

“Well, that’s not a bad idea.” you muttered. “Fine. But we go pick up the food, okay? So you interact with people more.”

The thought of socializing in public wasn’t thrilling, but he would have done anything to spend more time with you. He didn’t even admit it to himself, but Pyotr longed to see the parts of you that you hid behind the lessons, books, and schedules. 

He nodded firmly, extending his hand out to you.

“Deal.”

That word he knew.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

“So, any plans this weekend?” you asked, packing up as you wrapped up another one of your study sessions.

Once again, the “hour” you had planned together had extended into the rest of the afternoon he had free. 

You had told yourself it was all okay, that friends, afterall, can and do hang out daily, and for long periods of time. And there was no better way to learn a new language than conversation. If you needed to be that person for him, then perfect. 

Even if you couldn’t feel more guilty to steal all his time. 

And to feel like every single time you were close, you were hiding the biggest secret. 

It wasn’t anything you expected, to grow feelings for him. 

When Andrei had first introduced you, there were no sparks, no twinkle in his eyes. It was a friend of a friend, and one that needed dire help in learning English as soon, and as quickly as possible. 

But it sprouted overtime. 

Much to your surprise, despite the busy Canes schedule, Pyotr had been able to attend every single study session. 

The more time went by, the closer you two became. It’d been nice to see Pyotr relax around you. It was even a relief to see him try less, honestly. To watch him soften from the awkward guy who couldn't even look at you, stumbling over every word and yet refusing to take a break, to the one you could call a friend, and now let himself into your apartment and could be found, most times, sprawled on your couch. 

Feeling at home wasn’t as simple as learning verbs and propositions. 

It was the food, the people, the atmosphere downtown. 

The customs, the unwritten rules.

But this went further than that. Further than comfort. 

“Вообще-то, да, я-”

“Actually, yes, I’m-” his answer snapped you out of your rumination.

“Пи, скажи мне по-английски.”

“P, tell me in English.”

“Uh,” he rolled his eyes. “I am going on date.”

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe all friends went out for breakfast, lunch and dinner on their days off. Bought each other keepsakes, reminders of their bond. 

Perhaps, you were the only safe person in this town who wasn’t a teammate. And Pyotr needed all the help he could get, so maybe that’s why he hung around so often. 

It had to be that. 

“Oh wow, that’s great!” you exclaimed, hoping the tinge of jealousy wouldn’t be noticeable. It was bound to happen afterall.

“It’s been a long time since I go on one, so.”

“Yeah?” you answered, refusing to look up at him and packing up faster. 

“Yeah, because I cannot speak very much, so.” he sighed.

“Well, you’re doing so good. I’m sure everything will go fine.” you reassured him, now looking up at him. “She’ll have a great time.”

“I don’t go date very much. Ever. Even before.”

His sentence stopped you in your tracks. The tone shift didn’t slip by you. 

You knew each other, and knew when something was weighing on him.

“Why’s that?” you said, your throat tight. 

“Uh, how do you say, like. It’s, strange? Weird?”

“Oh, yeah. A bit awkward at times.” you chuckled. Maybe it was nothing. Nevertheless, you let your bag hit the ground and let yourself fall back on the spot next to him.

“Yes! That one. Makes me too nervous.” he said, looking down. 

“You don’t have to be nervous. You’re a great guy.”

“I know, I know, but… I-. Ah. Nothing.” he said, waving his hands around.

There it was. You knew there was something. 

“Wait, what is it?” 

“No, nothing. I don’t say. To, uh. To you. Forget.” he continued, avoiding your gaze.

“Oh, c'mon, P. We’re friends, right? You can tell me.” you said, trying to find him under the worry on his face.

Friends. Pyotr didn't know hearing you say this word could make his chest tighten even more.

Actually, he wasn’t even sure how he had ended up bringing this up at all. When he was around you, words seemed to come out in a way he hadn’t experienced before. 

“Yeah, you my friend. I see you more than team sometimes I think.”  he chuckled, fiddling with his hands in his lap.

“We do spend a lot of time together, yeah.” you muttered. “You don’t have to tell me, but I was just curious.”

Pyotr let his head fall back on the couch with a groan. He was flushed, there was no hiding it. No matter how many times he adjusted his cap. It didn’t help that you suddenly placed your hand on his thigh.

You two were no strangers to touch, having spent lots of flights taking turns sleeping on each others shoulders, countless movie nights ending up somewhat cuddled; but it never got old to him. In fact, it just made his heart beat faster each time, as much as he tried to deny it.

He couldn’t fall for Andrei’s friend, he couldn’t fall for his teacher, he couldn’t fall for you.

“Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry, P. Let’s forget about it.”

As he noticed you were getting ready to stand up, Pyotr instinctively - and unexpectedly, to the both of you - grabbed your hand.

“No leave. Please.” he said.

“O-okay, I can stay. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just… You not want to hear about that. Like, sex and uh, that. Like you said, awkward.” 

It was taking him every single ounce of control not to bolt out of the room and never see you again. What was he doing?

“Why not? We’re friends. It’s not too weird to me, P, but you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to.”

No going back now. 

“Not awkward for you?” he asked.

“Not really. It’s just sex. Not a big deal.” you said, shrugging your shoulders. 

Pyotr let out a laugh of bashfulness.

Americans and their easygoing attitudes. He still couldn’t put together how he had gotten himself into this nightmare situation.  Talking about embarrassing sex stories with the girl he had wanted more than anyone else before. All because he made up this fake date in a foolish attempt to garner more attention.

Acting like a teenager and against his own will.

“Okay. I tell you. But no laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” you rolled your eyes. 

“Last dates, very embarrassing for me”

“Why’s that?” you chuckled. 

“Don’t know, I…uh. Sometimes, when I kiss too much, or, or too long, I-, I-” he looked at you, raising his eyebrows. 

Pyotr swore his heart was about to stop. 

“You…?”

“You know.”

“Um….” you slightly shook your head, confused at what he was hinting to.

“черт, я кончаю слишком быстро, ясно, идиот?”

“Fuck, I cum too fast, okay, dummy ?” he spewed out in Russian, instantly regretting all of this.

It suddenly hit you. The fact that you didn’t get it before actually made you burst out in a laugh.

Duh.

Pyotr placed his hands on your thighs, slightly pushing you. 

“You said you do not laugh, please, please.” he whined, before covering his face. 

Maybe this was the time to leave and, possibly, move back to Russia forever.

“I’m not laughing at you! I just can’t believe I didn’t get what you were hinting at.” you explained.

“идиот”

“Idiot.”

“Hey! At least say it in English.” you joked.

He snorted, but as the laughing died down, a somber and thick silence fell upon the couch.

You turned to look at your friend, who kept toying around with the string of his sweats, his face burning red. He looked like he wanted to melt right into the furniture.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s no big deal.” you tried to reassure him.

“No, big deal. Maybe here, everyone talk about this. Not home.”

Pyotr trusted you with all of his being, but he didn’t know if maybe this was a mistake. He was most likely losing the minuscule and only chance he had with you. 

“Have you brought it up to any of the guys?”

“Okay, you joke now.” 

“Okay, okay you’re right. I don’t know why I ever assumed men talk about this together.” you chuckled. “Don’t you think it’d be easier to just, talk about it though?”

The quiet still hung thick in the air.

“Embarrassing. Sometimes, I don’t even take pants off before, and then, happens.” he murmured, finally. Barely loud enough to hear.

“A lot of guys deal with it, you know? It’s not like you’re the only one.” 

“Yes, but, then girls don’t like me.” he said quietly.

“Wait, what?” 

“Only get one date. It happens and no call back, no text.”

“Oh.” you sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Они тоже всегда выглядят такими разочарованными. Некоторые из них относятся к этому хорошо, другие смеются. Так что после этого я больше не хожу на свидания. И вдобавок ко всему, я даже не могу правильно говорить по-английски.”

“They always look so disappointed too. Some of them are nice about it, others laugh. So I don’t get dates after that. And I can’t even speak English correctly, on top of it all.”

“Seems to me like you’ve been able to speak in English just fine this whole time, P.” you said, turning to face him and touching his thigh again, in hopes he would look at you.

“Not good, but I getting better. You help me practice a lot.” Finally, he gave you a tiny smile.

“Maybe you just need to do that. Practice.” you said, perking up.

“What you mean, practice?” he asked.

“Just keep doing it until it doesn’t happen anymore.”

“How I can do if I don’t have date to help me?” he said. “Is not me, it only happens with girl.”

“Oh, I see.” you said. “Maybe you can find someone to help you? I’m sure there’s some trustworthy girls out there.”

“Maybe. Maybe like you.”

You felt your skin flush, the tingly sensation covering your chest in shock. You knew very well where this conversation could lead, and you didn’t know if it was a wise choice to go down that path. 

And Pyotr knew it too, he just, really didn't know what he was doing. He wanted to stop talking, save the little dignity he had left, but it felt impossible. He knew you could see right through him.

“Like…me?”

He didn’t mean for it to happen, but letting that thought slip past his lips had changed the air in the room drastically.

“Yeah. You are very nice and uh, you wait for me a lot. How do you say?”

“Patient?”

“Yes, you are patient.” he said. “I need patient girl.”

You could see the gears turn in his head, but you weren’t sure if he would’ve dared to ask. He hadn't been able to look at you this whole time, after all.

“Someone like you can help me.” he whispered. 

Someone had to be bold, and Pyotr, suffocating in his cloud of embarrassment, wasn’t going to be the one. 

“P.” you said, not brave enough to say the words.

Your hand was still on his thigh, which now felt too close but somehow still not close enough. All he could do was just…look at you. The heat on his face made his eyes water. He felt like a deer in headlights, your raised eyebrows making his body quiver. He could see you were waiting for a response, but if he opened his mouth more he didn’t know what he could have said.

And the damage that could have cost him. The space between you felt suffocating to him, but too far for you. 

Too far from me, you thought again, with a deep inhale.

This was not who you were. Or ever had been.

And this was not who he needed.

You scoffed, with a smile inevitably forming on your face.

“Wha-” he said, now looking more confused than terrified as his eyes darted over towards you. 

It was you, for God’s sake. 

His friend, his closest friend. 

“It’s just me, Pyotr.”

“Uh, I…”

“Oh, P, come on!” you exclaimed, finally gathering the courage to move and straddle his lap, before you could overthink yourself out of it.

Pyotr threw his head back with a snort as soon as you settled yourself on top of him. What in the world was happening?

“Что ты делаешь? Давай”

“What are you doing? C’mon” he asked.

When he finally dared to move his hands away from his face, you spotted the familiar smile adorning his cheeks. 

“Um, I’m sorry, I’m a girl who only understands English. I don’t know what you said.” you joked, loosely wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You fucking-” he laughed, his face boiling with embarrassment. “What you doing, eh? You gonna help me?”

“It really seems like that’s what you were hinting at, P.”

“You don’t have to do, you know. Nothing. Not language, not friend, not this. You-”

“You don’t want me here?” you asked.

“I not say that.”

“So, what, I’m not good enough at teaching now?" you joked. "Or is it that I'm not pretty enough for you, is that it?” you kept going, hoping to lift up his spirits a little more. “Big time hockey player now, you’re only going to date models?”

Pyotr's smile grew wider as he kept his face on the strings of his sweats, avoiding your body with his gaze.

Feeling it on top of his quads was already too much for him to think about.

“You are very beautiful, not that.” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “But, we are friends. We never did anything like this.”

“Okay, we don’t have to.” you said, dropping your arms by your side. Before you could even move one leg to stand back up, Pyotr almost automatically wrapped his fingers around your waist.

He felt like he was already losing control, his body giving him away like this.

“See, you’re saying one thing, but doing something different.” you said, poking at his nose. “Why won’t you just ask, P?”

“Cannot embarrass myself for you.” he said, his hands still on your waist.

“Oh, so I was right! You do want to!” you exclaimed, making Pyotr giggle, covering his face with his hands once again. That didn’t stop you from trying to poke at this face again, regardless if he was covering it. "I was right! I knew it!" The more you teased him, the harder he laughed, even if he was hiding it. You began bouncing on his lap jokingly, finding more spots to poke him as you both laughed: his ear, his neck, his shoulders.

Pyotr moved his touch back onto your back.

“Hey, come on, not move like that.”. He couldn’t look at you, in his feeble attempt to still your body.

“Why?” you muttered, still teasingly. “Is it turning you on?”

“No, silly.” he shook his head.

Silly.

It was the first word he ever learned from you. 

“Really?” you scooched closer to him, hips now meeting. “How about this?”

The stifled groan fully gave him away.

You tried to read his deadpan expression; the layer of annoyance wasn’t thick enough to mask how his jaw was tensing, a bead of sweat starting to form by his hairline.

Pyotr’s thighs began to flex underneath you, in an attempt to keep his pelvis from thrusting forward into yours. 

He could feel you, and you could feel him.

Both of you swelling slowly with pleasure under your clothes.

“Oh, god.”

You pressed yourself a little harder against him, your underwear pooling already. 

Wondering if you had taken yourself too far.

“Do you actually want this? You can say no, P. It won’t change anything about our friendship, I promise.”

“I want to, I want to bad. I am just, nervous. This embarrassing.” he sighed.

“Я не могу заставить тебя чувствовать себя хорошо.”

“I can’t make you feel good.”

“We’ll see about that.” you said, leaning over until your lips were a breath away from his neck. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Y-yes, yes.” Pyotr almost moaned as you made contact with his neck, leaving pecks up and down his goosebumps.

You began grinding on him, very slowly. You felt his cock grow bigger under your clothes as you moved back and forth on him. 

Pyotr kept his grip on you, clammy palms pressed tightly against your back. 

“Please, please, slow. Even with pants, I feel you so much, fuck.”

The familiar fire in his lower abdomen kindling.

It had always been like this.

Fire meets gasoline.

As much as Pyotr loved a good slow burn, and all the nights he spent fantasizing about hours of kissing and teasing, his system always had other plans.

His body didn't have a control dial. It didn't know how to start and slow down into the pleasure. It wanted it all and it wanted it now.

The more he felt the fabric of your clothes slither against his, the more he felt the head rush speed up inside.

Almost twitching already.

"Y/N" he groaned, barely louder than a whisper.

"I know, PK." you moaned, lips still lapping at his rough skin. "I know."

His grip tightened on your waist.

He didn’t know if he was trying to slow you down or if he was just losing control over his body. 

He needed to breathe, he had to relax, but there seemed to be no air. No amount of oxygen or deep breaths was going to bring him down. 

“Slow, slow, slow.” he continued.

He moved his lower back to press against the couch, to avoid completely lifting his hard bulge against you.

“Just breathe, P. I know it feels good, it feels good for me too.” you moaned.

Time began to warp as you two fell into pleasure together. Eventually, settling down in a comfortable rhythm.

The push and pull.

When you pushed yourself down strongly on him, he’d quiver upwards as much as he could.

As much as he allowed himself.

His diaphragm swelling, catching his breath and releasing it warm through his slack jaw and onto you.

You kept at it for a while, hands stuck firmly on the same spots, creating pools of sweat where your skin met.  

“Be careful, please. I-, I so sensitive.”

He would give himself away accidentally with a mumble of pleads.

A shudder and slight twitch of his hips, right before he tightened his grip to stop your actions.

The valleys of his short fingernails covered in the fabric of your shirt.

“Breathe, P. Deep.” you said, completely frozen.

As soon as you felt his breathing slow down for a couple of beats, you’d circle your hips again.

Trying to keep the groans at bay just grew the fire more it seemed.

Trying to keep himself locked, controlled, tamed.

It drained his energy, throwing all of it in the burning of his pelvis.

Pyotr knew he had to store his embarrassment away in order to enjoy.

In order to…live. 

He had begun to grow tired of his shyness. 

Tired of it in the lockerroom, watching his teammates joke around without him.

Tired of it on the ice, the sounds of hands pounding on the ice as he skated by, eyes stuck on the ice moving underneath him.

And tired of it taking over the space he had created with you. 

Some things were just... ruined by it.

And within all of this grinding, all of this puffing, the absurdity began to overtake him.

How much this bondage had been self-imposed.

His team wanted to be with him, his fans wanted to love him and it became quite obvious now that the woman he was holding wanted to be with him.

The way that he was.

It was all of his differences in, well, everything, that could bring it all together somehow. 

He just didn't know how.

"Shit" he moaned, increasingly louder now. "Shit."

He wanted to let himself go. At least for once.  

“Let’s take a break” you huffed.

Pyotr nodded, even though it felt too much.

It was all too much.

If you moved, if you didn't move. 

He didn't know how he was going to let it all be.

All he knew is how badly he wanted to, seeing you short of breath and glowing in front of him.

It felt unbearable to have you sit here like this, but this was all he had wanted since he first saw you. 

“Do you want to take your shirt off?” you asked.

“Maybe, I can.” he said. 

Why not? he thought. He’d made it this far.

Pyotr undressed, and watching you trail your eyes down his body jostled his cock really hard.

His v lines cramping with glee.

Thankfully he still had his pants on to cover that up.

“Can…can I take my shirt off too? Only if-”

“Yes, please.” he interrupted you, taking his hands to the hem of your crop top to swiftly pull it off. Seeing you shirtless didn’t help his desire cool down in any way. 

Panicked, Pyotr lounged forward, locking his lips with yours. 

“I-is okay?” he asked.

"It's all I've wanted." you said, meeting him again.

Opening your mouth simultaneously, tongues meeting in a wave of spit and wetness.

The kiss becoming a magnet to your chests, colliding as he turned his head to moan deeper into your mouth.

He wanted to beg, he wanted to push you away, knowing how he would soon react to this feverish kiss, but there was no going back now.

There never was.

The only way was forward.

He pushed his hips up, bucking into you and sending you both up and down on the couch with a jump.

All he could hear was the sloppy sounds of your kisses, the sharp inhale in between, and the symphony of moaning you were creating.

His eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Oh, fuck, oh, oh.” Pyotr started breathing heavily, more than ever before.

Breathing each other's inhales as you rubbed faster. Harder. Uncontrollably.

“Baby I-, oh, oh, fuck, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum.”

You didn't react, you didn't stop as Pyotr's body tensed, his eyelids closed shut as you kept kissing his now still lips.

He groaned faintly as he felt his clothes sop up the warm cum.

Heaven mixed with embarrassment, betrayal and oxytocin running through his synapses.

He came down as you slowed down your hips, still pecking at his face.

One glance at the grey fabric now darkening under you was enough to call a sliver of shame back into him.

“I said to you this happened. Fuck, I am so sorry, Y/N.” he uttered.

“You’re making my shorts wet.” you giggled into his skin. “Even wetter than before.”

“I said, me, uh, fuck, and look, it happened.”

You both let out a deep breath.

One of you out of frustration and the other out of excitement.

“It’s okay, right?” you said, slightly pinching the top of his cheek and running your fingers through his hair. You swore that he leaned into it. 

The worst had happened.

He mostly felt like disappearing, a mix of emotions swirling within him.

He knew your friendship was never going to be the same, whether for good or bad, and that this just complicated the emotions he had for you ten fold.

Pyotr studied your face.

Scanning for disgust, anger, disappointment… for that look that would change everything.

But he couldn’t find it. 

He thought he must be dreaming. Your rosy cheeks staring back at him. 

“Yeah, yeah. I guess it’s fine.” he smiled weakly, but genuinely. 

Pyotr’s chest felt warm as he kept his eyes on you.

And all he saw in you was…

Happiness.

Playfulness. 

It couldn’t be true. 

The acceptance spread all throughout him.

Maybe he could take a second to bask in it. Just one.

“Must feel uncomfortable in there.” you said, placing your fingertips on his waistband. He ran his fingers through his hair, still not believing what was happening as he blinked at the ceiling for a beat.

“I-, I mean, yeah.” he chuckled, knowing where you were going already.

Pyotr watched you longingly as you jumped up.

Perky as ever.

You tugged at his sweats, pulling them down and placing yourself back on his thighs. 

Pyotr’s thick cock, covered in cum, sprung out, much to your shock. 

Making your chest heave.

“P, you’re still hard.” you said, before he could rethink the decision basically let you gawk at him in such a state.

“Yes, sometimes, uh, stay like that after. For men, normal.” he sighed.

You flicked his forehead before raising your hands at him. 

“Oh! Why do that for?” he said, eyes peeled at you in shock.

“You don’t want to keep going?”

Oh.

oh.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, his confidence returning at full speed. He suddenly scrambled to undo the button of your shorts, pulling them down with your sopped panties and tossing them aside. 

Before you could even think about anything else, you sank on his cock in one swift motion, a whimper ripping out of you.

He had moved so fast that it took him a couple seconds to take in the sight of you naked, let alone how you felt on his cock.

“Fuck, shit.” he yelled.

Yes, yelled. In a deep, growly voice.

“I definitely didn’t teach you those words.” you joked, eyes still closed as you tried to adjust to him in every way.

Pyotr laughed, harder than he thought he could. The facade dropping so effortlessly. 

This was the how.

It was all less serious than he thought it had to be all this time. 

And it wasn't the culture, it wasn’t the language, it was you.

You were that person, the only one that could make him feel this way. 

And fuck it, if he had this moment with you he was going to enjoy it. 

Finally, letting go.

Pyotr kept laughing, a deep belly laugh as he wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

Two looks at you and he readjusted his hands on your back, throwing you on the couch with one swift motion.

Never pulling out of you, never moving away more than a few inches. 

“Я думаю, ты мне действительно нравишься” he panted, his shoulderblades kissing each other as he began pulling out slowly until his tip touched the edge of your entrance.

“English, P.” you moaned as he snickered. 

Seeing your brows furrow into pleasure as a smirk grew on your face made him twitch involuntarily, throwing himself deep into your wet cunt again.

Pyotr felt ecstatic, the rush of pleasure and endorphins climbing up his spine as he shook his head. He leaned down, his biceps flexing as he brought his smile into yours. 

This was it.

No more containing, no more holding back. He wanted to melt into you. He wanted to let himself go into this place, this moment in time that somehow ended up being you wrapped around him and purring his name. 

He moved slowly, his thrusts precise, assuring full contact every time he topped you full.

He could finally decelerate and lose himself in the velvety feel of your touch.

“How you call this?” he said, his lips moving across the skin of your neck now. 

“Neck.” you whispered.

Pyotr opened his mouth and attached himself to your neck, nipping at the skin. Leaving a string of bites, accompanying each one with a wet kiss on top.

Blood vessels breaking one by one with the burst of your moaning. 

“And this?” he asked again, as his lips ran lower, feeling your throat tighten with a gulp.

“Collarbone.” you whimpered. 

He was managing to keep his tongue steady as he ran it across your collarbone, lapping up the sweat and flavor of you as he kept thrusting inside you.

Patiently, each movement of his colliding with your hips, your bodies exchanging dampness. 

Pyotr licked, and bit, and kissed, and pecked, all within the ondulations of his body, ramming deeply into yours. 

“Tell me name of this.” he said once again, his swollen lips tracing the shell of your ear.

"Ear, P."

He ran his tongue across the shell, around, even making contact with your hair.

He wanted to have all of you, he wanted to taste every single square of your body.

He wanted to memorize your feel, your smell. All of your corner.

His fingers tightened against the fabric of the couch as he felt beads of sweat travel down his knuckles as your pussy clenched more and more around him.

He could see out of the corner of his eye your eyelashes fluttering.

“Name of this.” he said as he placed his fingers on your clit. “Tell me what you call.”

Pyotr’s eyes locked with yours, the deep amber of his pupils now darkened with lust. 

He wanted to see you twitch and quiver as closely as possible, despite his own desire and thrill clouding his vision.

He wanted to swallow every single one of your moans and gasps.

“Tell me what you call.” he repeated, his fingers moving and pressing down, drawing sloppy circles on your cunt, your back arching towards him.

You could feel his abs working overtime as your soft belly touched his.

“Can’t get jokes out now, hmm.” he chuckled, his eyes running across your frame as it began to tighten, your fingers grasping for dear life onto his back now.

After a long period of celibacy, his hours spent in front of a net or passed out in his bed recovering, Pyotr had kept his fantasies locked away as best as he could. Yet, he knew he could never keep them fully at bay.

He never thought it was going to be you. And yet, it was so obvious now that it could have not been anyone else. 

“And you?” he groaned. You could still hear his first climax lingering in the deepening of his voice. “How I call you?”

His tone, his piercing eyes snapping you out of your haze.

The way he fucked you so perfectly timed, so narrow, reliably letting you unravel like putty in his hands.

You were so, so close.

“Me?” you asked, breathless and confused. 

“You.” he said. “So beautiful”

"Oh, P." you whimpered sweetly. Your voice caught at the top of your throat as you began to reach the peak.

Pyotr had felt like he had been on the edge of exploding for hours now too, the overstimulation not allowing him the release he craved so badly.

His sanity hanging on by the cliff that he felt crumbling, little by little, in the deepest pits of him. The fire growing, flames growing as your silky skin started to melt into his. 

“котенок, то, как ты мурлычешь для меня.”

“kitten, the way you purr for me” he growled. “That’s how I call, huh?”

Your trembles reverberating across your skin, sending shocks to his system as you let yourself fall into your orgasm.

“да, да, да”

“yes, yes, yes” he said, watching you. He groaned deeper, his voice resounding in a place in his chest he didn’t even know existed. The louder he spoke, the more words, the tighter the knot in his belly became. 

Your figure tightened, joints locking as you saw stars.

All you could feel was Pyotr's chain moving above you.

His body felt like one with yours.

“So pretty” he continued, his words coated in his thick accent. "baby, fuck. fuck." 

Pyotr's growl echoed throw the apartment as he let his eyes fully roll back and he let go. His hips twitched uncontrollably now, his cock thrusting at its own rate until he slammed deeply into you, moving all of his cum between you two.

He let his hands soften as the rest of his muscles followed, his big frame falling on top of you piece by piece. His wet hair tickling your scalp somehow.

Fully intertwined.

Breathing matched again.

In all of your glory.

He wanted to leave his face into your neck forever, just as much as you wanted his body smashed against you again and again and again.

“See?” you laughed. “That went well.”

Pyotr buried his face deeper into you as he laughed, finding the strength to eventually roll onto his side just to admire you, all sweaty and heaving.

He felt himself blush an even deeper shade of red as he caught the sight of your body, marked with his presence.

Handprints, marks from his grip, the shimmer of his cum covering the inside of your thighs.

“Uh, sorry, left, uh, spot. There.” he said, suddenly feeling bashful again in his afterglow. "And there, too."

"That's okay. I really like them." you smiled. “Now you can go on as many dates as you want, P.”

“No” he smirked, his eyes fixated on your lips.

“No?” you asked, matching his smirk.

“No date.” he said, inching closer to you. Pyotr slid his hand behind your ear, his fingers in your hair. “Only date with you.”

He leaned in and kissed you deeper than he thought he had all night.

“This? Fun. But no, I serious now. Take date. Tomorrow.”

[redemptions]

hello!! i was wondering if you would write something for wooyoung🐈‍⬛?? maybe like some oblivious friends-to-lovers, where everyone around them *knows* they’re in love, but they just haven’t figured it out yet?? and when they realize they’re all grabby and affectionate?

…just an idea💡if you’re interested!! thank you!! i love your fics so much!! 🩷🩷🩷

I've been trying to think of a good idea for this for ages and I finally got it! I started writing the Wooyoung date for Citrus Kisses and then this fic happened. I'm honestly kind of obsessed with it???

I hope you like it!

oblivious

pairing: idol!wooyoung x reader

genre: childhood best friend to lovers, some angst, perceived unrequited love, woo is kind of slow on the uptake

wc: 3.6k

summary: 5 times people thought you were dating and 1 time you actually were

masterlist // requests: open

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1.

He smiles at you tightly, sorrowfully and walks away down the school corridors. He doesn’t see your smile slip or the way that the tears that well and threaten to spill.

He is sweet in how he lets you down, tries to be gentle, tries to explain that he’s not interested, I’m so sorry. And you try not to cave in on yourself as you assure him it’s all fine, you just wanted to shoot your shot.

He said he’ll see you in English class and you hope that the ache in your chest can lessen before you get there.

So wrapped in your thoughts, you don’t notice when a familiar person comes up behind you until their shoulder bumps yours. You leap and heart in your throat, take in Wooyoung’s winning smile fade into deep concern when he realises that tears are slipping down your cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” He demands immediately, hands moving to grip your shoulders, stopping you from trying to hide your face.

You insist nothing is wrong but he doesn’t believe you. Wooyoung has been your friend since kindergarten, always by your side, always fighting for you like you fought for him. He knew when you were falling apart just when you knew when he was holding it all in.

There is no point in trying to hide it so the embarrassing confession slips out of you. “I asked Jaehyun out,” your voice trembles, “he said no.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes blaze. “I’ll kill him.”

You grip his jacket sleeve, holding him in place. “No, no,” you shake your head, “he was nice about it. It just…hurts.”

Wooyoung frowns. His fingers flex around your shoulders, as if barely holding himself back. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt.”

“Me neither,” you laugh bitterly and sniff. You shook your head. “I’ll be fine, I just…need a minute.”

He pulls you into a hug, tucks you under his chin and you wonder when he got tall enough to do that. You hold back, clinging to him, and let him murmur that they’ll skip the next class, go to library and hide out in the backrooms reading comics until you smile again.

You can only think about what Jaehyun said, about the way his eyes had widened in genuine surprise before he asked, “I thought you and Wooyoung-ah were dating?”

2.

Wooyoung is talking a mile a minute, faster than normal. Excitement and joy is vibrating out of every pore he possesses. You are just as happy for him. You had watched him work so hard for his moment, for even the chance to audition for even the smallest of companies.

It had paid of and you were officially looking at one of the newest idol trainees. You think he’s going to be amazing at this - passionate, talented, determined and ridiculously charming. You can recognise it even if you roll your eyes every time he tries to play a game on you.

“I’ve seen you throw up after going on a rollercoaster,” you say, “there’s nothing you can do that I’d consider attractive.”

It’s a bare faced lie that you’ve only recently come to accept as such. You don’t dwell on that now, choosing not to notice how bright Wooyoung’s face is or how, even mid conversation, he fills your plate with food generously.

You hum along and enjoy your grilled meat, as Wooyoung tells you all about the studio and the other trainees and the classes they’ll need to take.

You nudge his ankle with your foot under the table. “I’m proud of you Youngie,” you murmur, “so fucking proud.”

And if he looks at you in a way that makes you avert your gaze, lest you go blind - well, that’s just for you to know.

A waitress puts the request refill of water on the table and offers the polite customer service smile when she asks, “will you and your girlfriend need anything else before I go?”

You can’t stop the way that your heart clenches at the thought, the word causing your insides to freeze and overheat at the same time. It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t.

Wooyoung laughs as if it was the funniest thing in the world. “We’re not dating,” he corrects.

The woman flushes and stammers her apologises before making a speedy mistake. You swallow around a mouthful of food and try not to think about the way that your heart had become lead, sinking into your stomach and making it churn.

Wooyoung looks at you like there’s some shared joke and you make yourself chuckle.

It almost sounded geninue to your ears and it must do to Wooyoung - or perhaps he’s just too happy in himself right now to notice - because he doesn’t call you on it. He just continues the conversation as if he had never stopped, as if you weren’t coming to a rather startling realisation that would make everything quite complicated.

3.

It’s official. 

The music video is out in the world, ATEEZ has debuted and your Wooyoungie is right in the centre.

He had been sending you the promotional footage, face timed you a few times while he had been in the middle of an intense preparation period but it was different to see it as it was now - your friend’s face, glossy and styled and most likely a little photoshopped; a song that you’d not heard in its entirety with your friend’s vocals laced throughout.

He invited you to the celebration party at KQ, because he wanted his important people there, please say you’ll come. You’d come with his family, chatting with his little brother before Kyungmin had caught sight of his now idol brother and sped across the room to greet him.

You watch as Woo breaks from his conversation with a member of ATEEZ - San you recognise vaguely - to gather the boy close. He makes eye contact with you over Kyungmin’s shoulder and beams, so happy to see you.

It warms you as much as it breaks your heart.

When he hugs you, he holds you as close as he does his baby brother. One arm at your waist, the other against the back of your head to hold you when he squeezes and confesses how much he’s missed you. You mumble back the same, letting your fingers dig into the smooth leather of his jacket and breathe in the semi fancy cologne that you’ll tease him about later.

He introduces you to everyone and you try to remember the most important names. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were very respectful in their greetings, leading the group as the eldest. Jongho and Mingi offer you shy smiles while Yunho and San begin to talk about all the things Wooyoung has said about you.

Yeosang - you’d met before, back at the academy, before they had joined KQ and ATEEZ - pulls you into a welcoming hug and jokes that he told the guys you were real.

“They just couldn’t believe that someone could put up with Wooyoung-ah for this long willingly,” he jokes goodnaturedly, and you giggle at your friend’s dramatic gasp.

“What can I say, Youngie grows on you,” you tease, “like a fungus.”

Wooyoung moans about deep betrayal. Jongho’s eyes light up as he rolls the name ‘Youngie’ around his head, visibly preparing every way he could tease his hyung. Mingi catches Wooyoung in a headlock and mocks him about his likeliness to mushrooms.

Wooyoung has always been touchy so you don’t really register how he has a hold on you somehow the entire night. A arm slung over your shoulder, a hand on the small of your back, a hand on yours when he pulls you from one person to the next.

Hongjoong notices though. When you slip away to use the bathroom, he slides up to his younger member and reminds him softly that they don’t have a dating ban but you both should still be careful.

Wooyoung looks at him with amused confusion. “Careful with…?”

Hongjoong says your name. “I wouldn’t want anything to ruin it for you guys,” he assures.

The singer laughs and pats his leader on the back. “Don’t worry, hyung. We’re just friends. Absolutely nothing going on but thanks for the worry.”

Hongjoong takes Wooyoung at his word, doesn’t push it, but he can’t quite believe it’s true. 

Not when Wooyoung finds you in the crowd like a beacon. Not when he leans into whisper in your ear. Not when you flush and smile, eyes shining, before you say something that makes Wooyoung grin wildly. Not when he slips an arm around your back like it belongs there.

No, he won’t push but Hongjoong is 95% sure that Wooyoung is full of shit.

4.

When Wooyoung is hurt, like genuinely hurt, he goes quiet. He goes still. His eyes don’t reflect the same light that they usually do, his smile doesn’t spread as far, his silence stretches.

You always hated it. It felt just wrong for Wooyoung to act anything like his usual self, so you would do your best to make him feel better. Anything he needed, you were right there, ready to give it.

This time though, you knew it had cut deep. You’d met his girlfriend - ex girlfriend, you corrected mentally - a handful of times. Jiyoung. She was like a mirror image of her boyfriend - smiley, excitable, physically affectionate and, well, damn beautiful. They looked like a power couple. One of those couples that made you stop and stare.

It had hurt you to know that but Wooyoung was happy and that’s all you wanted for him.

But that happiness had been removed from him and now, you were petty in your hatred for the girl you had once thought of becoming better friends with.

“She said I’m too much,” he admits from his place, curled under the covers. You were right next to him, not quite touching but close. “That I want too much.”

You want desperately to close the space but you know that, like this, Woo would only feel overwhelmed. If he pulled away from you, you weren’t sure what you’d do. 

You were quick to reassure. “You’re not.”

He laughs bitterly, the noise twisted and heartbreaking. “Well obviously I am.”

You shake your head and rest your hand against where you knew his hands are clutching the duvet closer to him. “She’s wrong,” you say, “her issue is hers only. You…you’re Wooyoung of ATEEZ. You love everything and everyone you care about so hard. That’s not a bad thing.”

He was quiet for a moment. Your breath shook when one hand slips free of its hold to catch yours, fingers intertwining but just holding, reaching for connection. “What if it is though?” He rasps, “what if this is how every relationship of mine will end?”

“It won’t,” you promise.

You aren’t sure if he believes you right now, all the pain and thoughts too much to reach rationalisation. You want to say that he was always enough and that there were people around him who loved and cared for him just as he was. That if every romance he had ends like this, you would be there, ready to hold his hand until they were old maids.

You don’t though. You just hold him.

Later, after you’ve gone home, you order pork belly and kimchi jjigae to come to the door. Wooyoung knows it’s from you - it’s their comfort food, the choice they always go to when they’re nursing heartbreak or disappointment or any other strong emotion.

He calls to San, says that you sent food for them.

San enters the living room with an arched eyebrow. “She brought you food?”

Wooyoung corrects, “she brought us food.”

“Dude that’s marriage material,” San jokes.

It causes something to tighten uncomfortably in Wooyoung’s stomach but he pushes it aside. He wiggles his eyebrows in mock suggestiveness. “I can give her your number.”

San shoots him a strange look, one of furrowed eyebrows and a strained twist of his lips. He looks like he wants to say something but decides against it, huffing a laugh and shaking his head. “It’s okay Woo,” he soothes, “it’s not worth the drama.”

Wooyoung wants to argue, that flare of overprotectiveness when it comes to you rearing its head instinctively. “She definitely is.” He shoots back.

San gives him that look again but Woo doesn’t see it, already turning to head to the dining area so he could set up to eat. He was clearly hungry, he thought, that was why he felt an immense sense of relief that San didn’t want your number.

It must be.

5.

It doesn’t happen often these days but whenever time allows, you meet up to have dinner with your family. Sometimes, the Jung family will appear too, your parents gossiping over soju like it’s their job. It's embarrassing for sure but you love it, love seeing your parents happy with their friends, living like real people outside of parenthood.

You are cutting up meat to feed to Kyungmin, who grins up at you and calls you noona when he says thank you.

In turn, Wooyoung has been steadily adding meat and side dishes to your plate, poking you when you haven’t eaten fast enough for his likely.

“Try this,” he insists, holding his chopsticks out towards you, some new banchan, “it’s good.”

You oblige him, because you know he’ll start to pout and whine if you don’t. You angle your gaze to the space over his ear so you don’t focus on the intense way he feeds you. That doesn’t really help, your heart is still jumping in your chest. It is good food though, and you hum in agreement.

His mum giggles childishly at the action and your mum scolds her with an amused snort.

Wooyoung glances at them curiously. “What is it?”

His mum insists it’s nothing, waving her hand in front of her face in a way that is definitely not reassuring. Your mum, on the other hand, offers him a sweet smile when she says, “you take such good care of my daughter.”

You notice the tone behind her words almost immediately. Of course you do, you’d been on the receiving end of it multiple times over the years, especially now you’re in your 20s.

“You know, when I was your age,” she’d start, “I was already married.”

“I know eomma,” you say, on autopilot now more than anything else.

“Your dad and I were high school sweethearts,” she continues with a wistful sigh.

“I know eomma.”

“It’s just such a wonderful thing, being married to your best friend.”

She’s not subtle but you always sigh and tell her to drop it. Your dad usually has to step in and remind her to stay out of your business, that you’ll start dating and get married when you want to - “but I wouldn’t object to a son in law like that Jung boy,” he jokes with a wink.

Now, your dad is distracted, deep in conversation, and Wooyoung looks at your mum with a curious light to his eyes.

“I try to,” he answers honestly, “she takes good care of me too.”

His mother almost squeals and he shots her an absolutely flabbergasted expression. Your mum hushes her quietly with a soft pat on her arms before turning back to Woo, “she takes care of you huh?”

Your ears are burning. “Eomma.”

She doesn’t hear you. She sighs dramatically and bumps shoulders with the Jung matriarch. “They look after each other.”

“Eomma,” you raise your voice a little.

She continues anyway, “You know, we always spoke about what would happen if our families could join.”

Wooyoung’s eyes are wide and his lips part in shock.

His mum nods her head. “—— would make such a good daughter in law, right?”

The flush has spread across your cheeks, down the back of your neck. You feel nauseous, hate that this conversation is happening in front of you. Not when you are so utterly in love with that man and he just didn’t see you like that.

You hadn’t mentioned that to your mother before, too embarrassed to confess it to anyone by your inner self. She has no idea that her dream for you is breaking your heart.

Your mum agrees, “Of course. And Woo is already so attentive.”

“He’d make a great husband,” his mum adds. Her eyes twinkle when she looks at you, “and a great father.”

“Eomma,” Wooyoung says, his voice firmer than you’d heard it before. The back of his neck is red but his jaw is set, tight and firm. “That’s enough please. It’s embarrassing.”

They’re quick to apologise, and at this point, your fathers realise something must be happening because they swoop in, directing the conversation to Kyungmin and his school experiences. You barely hear it, not over the rush of blood in your ears.

Beside you, Wooyoung is tense, head angled down to his lap. But his eyes - they are on you. Not cloaked, not matching the stiffness of his shoulders or the firmness of his words. His eyes were bright, wide, the way they always looked at you. It made you breathless and made you want to cry in equal measure.

When he quiet slips you a napkin, and puts another bite of meat on your plate, you wonder whether he thinks the same thing.

The next day, your mother calls you to apologise, mortified in herself. She admits that she and Jung-unni had been talking about before and seeing you together in those moments, they got excited. They pushed it. She stumbles over her apologises.

You tell her it’s okay in a whisper, your chest feeling lighter, because Wooyoung is still asleep, pressed in close behind you and you’re not willing to disturb that peace just yet.

+1

Wooyoung feels adrenaline pumping through his veins. Singing has made his throat hoarse and he is covered with a sheen of sweat. He’s been preforming for nearly two hours, the end of the concert rapidly approaching. Getting to stand up and preform with his members, his second family, always feels like a dream at this point. Before the exhaustion kicks in, before the post concert aches become overwhelming, all he feels is the surreal reality that he gets to live this dream of his.

They’ve all slipped backstage, changing into different adaptions of their current tour merch before the encore starts. He has to get his mic reattached by one of the assistants because he accidentally knocked it out of the tape securing it during that last dance number.

“How long do we have?” He asks.

The assistant hums thoughtfully. “Probably less than 5 minutes?”

Wooyoung nods his head. “Okay, I can make it.”

And then he’s peeling away, speeding down the backstage corridors. Hongjoong shouts after him to make sure he does or there will be hell to pay. Woo knows nothing will come of it, just he knows when he is enviably the last one back on stage, the leader will roll his eyes and put him in a headlock for the world to see.

He doesn’t mind though. Anything to get a few moments with you.

You look up in surprise when he comes through the green room door, swinging it open with such ferocity that it bounces off the wall behind him. You are curled up on one of the sofas there, wearing one of his hoodies. The monitor across from you shows you the stage, where you had been watching him preform. It made him warm knowing that.

“What-“

You didn’t have time to finish your sentence before he had reached you, hands coming around the back of your neck and the curve of your chin to angle your face upwards for a kiss. It was sloppy, intense, matching the uptick in his heartbeat. You meet each slide of his lips with your own, hands coming up to clutch the front of his shirt.

Wooyoung shudders, goosebumps rising across his exposed skin, and licks into your willing mouth, enjoying the taste and the sweet noises you make.

When he pulls back, you are wide eyed, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. Wooyoung can’t resist leaning in again, nipping at the soft flesh of your bottom lip.

You hum. “What are you doing here?”

“3 minutes,” he says. He’d been counting. “Missed you.”

You laugh and it sounds like the sweetest of music. “You saw me after your solo stage.”

“Which was 30 minutes ago,” he reminds. He takes another kiss. “Too long.”

Your hands are still holding on tight to him. He hovers over you, crowds you into the sofa. His fingers stroke your jaw.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” you whisper. You’re already tilting your head back up for him, and who is Wooyoung is resist such a tempting offer?

“Worth it,” he breaths against you.

Wooyoung’s told you before that he has a lot of time to make up for, missed kisses that he hadn’t allowed himself to think he wanted. He couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to have you here, to know that you were the one, perfect in every possible way for him.

“An idiot,” he called himself.

You’d smiled shyly and pressed your forehead against his. “My idiot.”

You call him that again when a haggard assistant appears in the still open doorway and demands Wooyoung get his butt out of there now because they have 30 seconds.

Wooyoung still takes another kiss, teeth clanking together, before goes.

“My idiot,” you murmur warmly.

He flashes you a winning smile. “As long as I’m yours.”

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a/n: please let feedback whoever you're comfortable - comments, asks and reblogs really support me!

also I have nearly 1k followers on here! thank you so much

[kniesonice]

It’s You. ╰┈➤ AS37

summary: when your best friend needs a fake girlfriend for his cousins wedding, you are the girl he claims is his. after all, what’s the worse than can happen? well, after sharing a bed, an awkward conversation about sex with his family and an unexpected kiss, you and andrei are forced to confront feelings you thought you had been repressing.

[word count] 10.9k

warnings: MATURE! friends to lovers | fake dating | fluff | a lil angst | weddings | l kissing | reader is mentioned to have glasses | fade to black smut scene | drinking | mention of sex organs | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

pairing: andrei svechnikov x reader

a/n: the end of 2024, I put out a poll asking which players you wanted to see my write for (that I haven’t done yet) and svechy was one of the players you guys wanted to see! so I hope you guys love this 💋 this uses some scenes from a no-longer published fic—if it looks familiar, that’s because it is ❤️

🎵 perfect places by lorde, scared of my guitar by olivia rodrigo, must be nice by ruel, breakfast in bed by nessa barrett, carry you home by alex warren, it's you by zayn, best friends by 5 seconds of summer, delicate by taylor swift, + always been you by shawn mendes

andrei already knows that it's not the brightest idea he's ever had. actually, refrain that, it's quite possibly the worst idea he's ever had.

it's just—the idea passed through his system and fell out of his mouth before he could even blink. andrei's mother and aunt had practically ambushed him on a three way call just over three weeks ago—8 a.m in russia, 1 a.m. in carolina—which already had him in a frazzle. but then they immediately started asking about the dreaded (dreaded for andrei, more so than anyone else, obviously) plus one attached to his cousins wedding invitation.

the wedding that yes, was in fact only three weeks away. and a plus one attachment that andrei still hadn't confirmed or denied if he needed. because according to his very empty left side of the bed, and the singular toothbrush on his bathroom counter, andrei svechnikov is very much single and very much not needing a plus one.

but it just came out before he could stop it.

‘of course i'll be bringing someone to the wedding mama and tetr! in fact, i'll be bringing my girlfriend!’

and know here he is, 2 hours into an 18 hour flight from raleigh to his hometown in a first class seat that, despite its expanse of leg room, feels all too small. it's suffocating for no other reason than his own doing and sneakiness that he’s drowning in.

because you're next to him, happy and sipping on your third glass of champagne—skin radiating heat with the bubbly alcohol running through your bloodstream. you're halfway to tipsy and somehow completely oblivious to the way andrei's shoulders are still tight and ridged, something that normally subsides after take off.

as far as you know—because it's what your best friend told you, mind you—you're attending andrei's cousins wedding as his best friend. because since 2019, where you meet the russian hurricanes rookie downtown at a shitty dive bar playing music far too loud, you and andrei have been just that. best friends.

you suppose the friendship blossomed because of your common interests of sports and adam sandler movies and how the smell of coconut is one of your favourite things in the entire world. or perhaps it was your differences that had you and andrei forming such a strong friendship.

you hate rollercoasters, but andrei loves them.

you love tequila, but when andrei drinks tequila he ends up with his head inside a toilet bowl.

you would rather eat rubber than an olive, but andrei puts olives on everything he eats—much to his dietary staffs displeasure. salt is a killer people.

regardless, the both of you bonded over shitty honey garlic wings served with a side of ranch—sauce on the side per your request, to which he called you a weirdo for. whatever—and became fast friends.

so obviously three weeks ago when andrei asked if you wanted to come to the wedding so he, you and quote, 'doesn't have to be alone while he young cousins force him to play around the yard, and his distant family talks his ear off the entire weekend,' you easily complied. you booked the time off work that afternoon before leaving the office without so much as a second thought.

but andrei didn't tell you why he needed you to join him. not the real reason anyways. because what? he's just supposed to say, 'oh by the way, this weekend I need you to be my fake girlfriend because I told my family that's what we have become. boyfriend and fucking girlfriend.'

yeah, unfucking likely. and andrei knows that you're not going to kill him over his little lie. that's just not you. he's also sure that if he was truthful from the beginning with you, you would've agreed to the whole fake in love act with the snap of a finger. because you're giving and caring and so damn compassionate that it's almost sickly.

but andrei just couldn't. he kept pushing the truth back, telling himself that the moment would come and that’s when he would come clean. but now you're both on the plane to russia, wedding just a few days away, and you still have no idea that in 16 hours you're going to be sharing a bed and holding hands and maybe even needing to show a few kisses.

god, it's a mess.

"do you feel sick?" your smooth voice breaks andrei out of his stress whirling thoughts, lifting his palm off his sweaty forehead like he's been caught stealing candy. it's then when andrei realizes he audibly groaned out loud, which obviously did it’s part in grabbing your attention.

he swallows and sends you an unconvincing smile. "no, i'm fine." andrei feels sick alright, just not in the way you're picturing.

you blink like a baby deer at him from over the adjustable wall between your scoop like seats—your champagne glass abandoned on the fold away table in favour of clutching the edge of the wall between your manicured fingers.

a pout pulls at your lips before you reach out, touching his forehead with the back of your hand. "are you warm?"

andrei jerks back, worried that you’ll notice the misting of sweat dusting his hairline. "no, what? I'm fine, y/n."

you send him a skeptical look, "you look like you're about to blow chunks everywhere."

"that's gross."

"it's true," you chime. a beat passes, your gaze never wavering from andrei's wound up, tight expression, while the plane continues to easily glide through the clouds.

you take your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing on the plump skin until it will undoubtedly go raw. andrei has to stop himself from reaching over to pull your lip out with his thumb.

"are you mad about something? nervous?" you push, determined to get your best friend to spill regardless of how tightly wound up he is. and obviously you've noticed that he's been a little...off, for lack of a better word, the past three weeks. andrei is your best friend, of course you noticed.

but you know better than to push him, and that andrei will open up when he's ready—like usual. but the champagne floating around in your head has your tongue slipping, and curiosity has gotten the best of you.

"is it something I did?" you swallow, something tentative in your tone that makes andrei's belly clench with guilt.

"no," he breathes before running a calloused hand down the front of his flushed face. andrei looks back over to you, eyes flickering between your wide and sad ones, and he just breaks. "I fucked up."

ever amused by his dramatics, you quirk a brow at his distress. the drunk haze has you unable to see his actual, very real, distress. "you get the sushi from that airport kiosk after I went to the bathroom, didn't you?"

but it's then —when andrei looks over at you with a guilt ridden, pouty raw lip, that you blink. hard. a wave of hot sweat rushing over your skin as every possible problem arises in your body.

andrei mutters your name in that deep, gravelly way and you think you might be the one who ends up puking.

"what is it?" you swallow, "what happened? are you okay?"

he groans again, no less dramatic than the previous display, head falling back against the plush first class cushioned head rest, giving himself a nice view of the hard plastic roof above.

andrei thinks back to the phone call with his family—more specifically, how pleased they sounded when he told them that you were the girl he was bringing home.

you, the girl he's cared for since before he could string a cohesive english scentence together.

you, the girl who his mom facetimes more than she facetimes her own son.

you, the best friend his family has had the pleasure of falling in love with and accepting as one of their own. but left disappointed when andrei said, no, nothings there between you.

just friends.

it's too late to back out now—for obvious reasons, clearly—but also for the fact that he can't take this away from his family now. not when his mother had said she's been waiting for the two of you to fall in love.

so fall in love you must. even if it's fake.

andrei's head lols against the headrest over in your direction, and he gulps slowly, adam's apple bobbing largely. before he can chicken out and do something crazy like jump out of the emergency exit, andrei's lips part with hesitation.

"we have to pretend to be in love," he pauses, "like in love."

at first you just blink at him, face completely flat and void of emotion, and then every so subtly, your brows draw together. "...why?"

"I just," andrei hesitates like he's not quite sure exactly what to say to you. he chalks it up to the way your soft eyes are unwavering—patient, even—and that's the reason andrei just spews.

he tells you everything. from the wedding invitation with the accompanying plus one he got in the mail a year prior, and all the way through the conversation with his mom and his aunt just a few weeks ago. the taunting plus one and lack of girlfriend that just bubbled up in his chest until the lie just fell off his tongue.

andrei takes a much needed inhale, his cheeks flushed like a little boys in the summer heat. "and when my mom asked for my girlfriends name...I don't know? you were the first person I thought of."

you nod after a beat, every so slightly that andrei is not sure if he's imagining it. you fall back into the large seat with a fluttering sigh, "oh fuck."

andrei can't help the disbelief laced laughter that rumbles through his broad chest, because, yeah, oh fuck is right.

you turn to look at him, face a little less flushed than the last time you did.

"if it makes you feel any better," he continues awkwardly, scratching the spot next to his heart like a nervous habit. "my mom was really excited that we're together now."

"andrei."

he winces, "are you mad at me?"

the question prompts a flash of deja vu from meer minutes ago, when the question was flipped between you. "no," you tell him after a beat, running a clammy hand over your untamed hair. "i'm just...trying to digest it all."

"right, of course." andrei swallows and sits up straighter in his seat, "and I know i'm springing this on you very last fucking minute. but i've already figured it all out, and i've got some sort of a game plan for us."

"a game plan?"

"yeah," he nods, "I've called it the 'andrei and y/n love affair 2025.'"

"that's good," you gulp, pulling your knees up against your chest. your matching cream sweat set all blends together in this position, and andrei thinks you look like a cute marshmallow—but he chooses to not verbalize that right now, because it may just push you over the edge.

even though right now, you're surprisingly calm and it's kind of freaking him out even further.

you continue, "I hope you have this said love affair plan written down because we really gotta figure this out before we get to russia."

instinctively his chocolate eyes flicker towards the map screen, stealing a glance at the ETA of the touchdown. andrei looks back at you, "oh, we've got time."

for the next hour and forty five minutes, you and andrei go through every possible nook and cranny of your fake relationship and nail it down. from the beginning right until the very end, the plan has been polished and repeated between you over 20 times. each.

throughout the conversation you started to come a little more to. it helped that andrei asked if you were okay every fifteen seconds—which any other time may be a little annoying—but right now, you accept his persistent with open arms.

knowing that he feels bad about the situation is enough, even though you could never actually be mad at him. not over something as simple as this. the amount of times andrei has picked your drunk ass up from a variety of different carolina bars over the years—or took care of you the next morning—let's just say you definitely owe him a favour or two.

besides, it's not like you're really worried about faking a romantic relationship with andrei. most of the time it feels like andrei is already your boyfriend, just without the kissing and…stuff. now that's making you a bit nervous. but you digress.

you've both had a few glasses of champagne now, allowing yourselves to relax a bit more—which was much needed. it also allows your usual banter and teasing to return between you and andrei, hushed laughter falling from your lips under the dim lights of the cabin.

"so," you muse, a little slurred. "when did you realize you liked me?"

"you're ridiculous," andrei snorts, earning a cautious look from the old lady on the other side of the plane. neither of you notice.

"what," you laugh, "i'm prepping you for the questions." you reach over and push his thick thigh with the tips of your fingers. he barley budges.

"'nobody is going to ask me that." andrei counters teasingly, nudging you back.

"they might!" you counter, a teasing smile still tugging at your lips, a sight that has andrei following suit with his own boyish grin.

"if they ask...i'll say," he pauses, making you wait with half baited breath, tucked under the first class blankets that andrei always thinks feel like toothbrush bristles. andrei shrugs casually, "i'll say always."

your head whips in his direction from where you previously started to flip through the dinner menu—always so easily distracted—so fast that andrei gets a whiff of your raspberry shampoo. it's a pleasant smell, one that reminds him of coming home after a road trip to you sleeping on his apartment couch.

his words settle over your skin like a prickling whisper, and you blink a few times in surprise.

but then, like he didn't just say something so heartfelt and beautiful, turns towards the airplane dinner menu, humming thoughtfully as he reads the three options. "I think i'm gunna get the steak."

—

carefully, but with precision, you roll your shoulders, bones and vertebrae squeaking and cracking in—a much needed, mind you—protest.

you can still smell the lingering champagne and the scent of plane on your skin, and on andrei's as he walks back towards you from where’d he’d been in the heart of baggage claim, both of your suitcases in tow—wheels squeaking along the weathered floor tiles.

andrei looks all but awake as he raises his eyebrows in question, "all ready?"

you groan sleepily as a form of answer, raising your arms in a limb stretching pull, tank top risings and exposing your lower belly to the bustling airport. you removed your fluffy hoodie as soon as you stepped onto the hot, sticky tarmac and it's now sitting comfortably around your best friends broad shoulders, making him look like he belongs in a country club.

oddly enough it suits him—when you said that though he gave you a look.

despite the way andrei urges you along, he too is fighting exhaustion. changing time zones is always a struggle no matter how many times a year andrei does it, and this weekend trip is no exception. there's matching eye bags under both of your eyes, and even though andrei knows that his family is waiting for your arrival, all he wants to do is climb into his small double childhood bed and pass out.

and you're in the same boat it seems, ugg slippered feet dragging on the ground beside andrei as you both step onto the descending escalator—suitcases clinging annoyingly at the change of surface.

the ride down is held for nothing but the whirling sound of the machinery as you and andrei stay quiet. not only are you both on the brink of falling asleep while up right, but you're both so damn nervous about perfecting your plan that speaking about it will only make it worse.

and if you panic, andrei will panic and it will just go to shit.

so silence is good.

once you're stepping off the escalator and onto the ground level of the airport, andrei automatically places his large palm on your lower back, steadying you as you both make your way towards the large exit doors that lead to the even larger parking lot.

a parking lot that undeniably has his family waiting for the both of you. suddenly you’re wishing you guys just called and uber.

your heart flutters anxiously, feet coming to an abrupt stop at the thought of the days ahead. you're supposed to be a girlfriend from here on out, and that has your tongue molding into a sheet of sand paper.

once he notices you’ve stopped walking, andrei spins to look back at you, his brows pulled in the concerned way he always seems to have when it comes to your well being.

"do I look okay?" you ask frantically, running your hands over your oily, yet somehow also frizzy, hair.

"you look fine," andrei soothes, pulling your hands away from your head and holding both of your clammy hands in one of his. stupid giant boy. "stop playing with it though, or else we will really have a problem "

you send him a deadpan look. "you're not funny."

andrei grins despite the sleep lacing his expression. he easily tugs you back into his side as you both begin to short walk towards the doors. finally. "you're right. i'm actually hilarious."

you roll your eyes and push the door open, a wave of heat washing over your already dewy skin and making you feel a bit woozy. andrei reaches over your head and pushes it open further, holding the door and allowing you to easily slip outside.

he continues, "you don't need to be nervous, y/n. you've met my family before and they are already obsessed with you." andrei makes a noise between an amused scoff and a laugh, "my mom texted me yesterday and said she's already changed your contact name to, future daughter in law."

"jesus christ," you exhale shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead. your eyes flicker up to his, "don't say that or i'll start feeling bad."

andrei holds off from smirking, "don't feel bad."

"too late."

"hey, just stop for a second." andrei gently takes ahold of your wrist, his index finger automatically stroking the outer part of your forearm. you know he's doing it to calm you, but unfortunately it only turns your stomach flutters up to a maximum.

andrei swallows, and all signs of his playfulness from mere seconds ago fades. his eyes swim with sincerity as he continues, "if this is too much just tell me and i'll handle it. I don't care if my mom whoops me with her shoe—if you're uncomfortable with this plan, i'll make sure it doesn't move forward."

you blink before managing to give one firm shake of your head. obviously you're nervous, but not enough to ruin your best friends entire trip. not over this. "i'm fine."

he looks skeptical, "promise me?"

"we're not 5." you deadpan.

"promise me."

you sigh—a mixture of reluctance and amusement. "I promise. i'm just...nervous. and overthinking everything. i’ll be fine once I get some sleep."

andrei's response comes easily, like he doesn't even need to think about reassuring you. "that's okay. just be you." he squeezes your wrist. "seriously."

your lips part in an attempt to deflect the wave of tenderness rushing between you and andrei—some sarcastic remark about him becoming a softly, surely. but the excitable gasp from across the surprisingly calm parking lot halts you.

"andrei!" his mothers voice is full of excitement as elena svechnikov bounces on her heels. both you and andrei look towards the commotion and find not only his mother, but his father, igor, and for some reason the family dog.

your best friend grumbles under his breath. "oh god."

you squint through the sunshine reflecting on the cars and distorting your vision. "is that a sign?"

he matches your squinty expression, even going as fair to shield his eyes from the sun with his gigantic hand. "that's definitely a sign."

his mother, ever to sweetest lady—seriously like purse candy, shirt of her back, treats you like her own kind of sweet—is clutching a piece of red and black decorated bristol board. canes colours obviously. a big and bold font that says welcome home smack dab in the middle.

you're pretty sure there are even a few pictures of you and andrei accompanying the words.

andrei's shoulders fall in what is probably exhaustion and the act of giving up. his eyes flicker towards your side profile, a careful expression on his face as he asses yours.

"we got this," you mutter after a beat, squinting through the blistering sun and away from his parents—up at your best friend.

"I hope so." without another passing second, andrei interlocks your fingers together, a soft yet confident smile overtaking his face as he pulls you both across the parking lot and in the direction of his family.

you don't even register the feeling of his hand in yours until his mother is greeting you both happily, pulling you into a bone crushing embrace that has the potential to crack your ribs.

"wow mom," andrei snickers playfully, ruffling the dogs overrun head of curls as it jumps up his thighs. "you must love y/n more than me if you’re greeting her first."

elena waves of his teasing before pulling andrei into a hug that mimics the one you just received. andries father gives you a polite hug and then takes one of the suitcases andrei wheeled up to the side of the car.

"how was the flight?" his mom questions, eyes darting between you both with the upmost twinkle of curiosity.

"long," you breathe a laugh.

andrei grins, "but we were fine. lots of talking to pass the time."

you shoot him a look, and andrei winks at you in response.

this guy.

registering your voice, the family dog bounds towards you next, its chubby legs and paws scratching at your legs, tail wagging happily while it pants up at you—clearly seeking affection. affection that you're happy to provide. always a sucker for animals, you crouch down and scrub behind the dogs ears. it earns you a satisfied rumble from its tiny body.

"you guys are definitely tired," elena clicks her tongue in displeasure, running a knuckle over her sons cheek like he’s a kid. "let's get you two home."

she gently pets your head before making sure her husband is packing the luggage in the car correctly—even though igor claims there's no correct way to pack a trunk. andrei's mother begs to differ.

the dog follows in her footsteps, leaving you. with a sigh, you place your hands on your knees and push up from your crouched position.

clearly you should've checked how close andrei was standing behind you, because your proximity has you completely grinding your ass against his crotch as you move to stand.

you gasp as andrei lets out a gentle grunt.

"sorry!" you wince quietly, but before you can move away, andrei arm wraps around your waist, fingers flexing against your lower stomach as he pulls you back into his chest, holding you in place and not allowing you to escape.

"it's okay baby." he says. you try not let your eyes widen at the nickname or the way you can feel his semi poking at your lower back. you're sure the blush you're now sporting is visible by anyone in the general vicinity and that's embarrassing enough.

elena hearing your voices, turns away from her husband and looks towards you. the sight of you embraced has her cooing, hands held to her chest like she's just seen the rebirth of christ himself.

"aren't you too so cute, I'm glad you two are finally together." it's clear she's not seeking any kind of response with her admiration because she turns and gets into the passenger seat before either you or andrei can attempt at closing your gaping mouths. you seriously look like fish.

the car door slamming shut has andrei blinking. he clears his throat once, and drops his arm from around your waist, and despite the heat of the sun, his lack of touch leaves you feeling cool.

you quickly move away from andrei and his...situation, allowing him the space to subtly fix his problem before anything else. you try not to think about it and pass your backpack to andrei's father, who is waiting patiently for the last bit of luggage.

"you okay sweetie?" igor sends you a weary coupled with amused glance, placing your pink bag on top of andrei's green suitcase. "you're looking flushed."

your eyes widen into saucers as your skin only warms further. jesus christ.

thankfully, ever your savour, andrei saunters up next to you, shoving his own carry on into the trunk with anything less than grace. he laughs, "it is summer, dad. we're both roasting." andrei jerks his head towards the front of the suv while the dog barks happily from his mothers lap. "go ahead and get in dad, run the air conditioner for a second. i've got the rest of the bags."

as soon as igor gets into the driver's seat, your both whipping in each others direction, looks of bewilderment on your faces as the last 5 minutes linger in the air.

"fuck i'm sorry," andrei whispers frantically, pretending to adjust the suitcases to not draw too much attention to either of you. "I don't know what came over me there. are you okay?"

you can't help your eyes from flickering towards his crotch. "are you okay?"

"I will be as soon as we stop talking about it."

you snort a laugh before quickly covering your mouth with your hand, concealing the sound. andrei sends you a harsh look which only makes you giggle more.

he shuts the trunk. "just...get in the car."

"such a gentlemen."

all earlier teasing and playfulness comes to a lull as the cool and plush leather seat envelopes you—the lack of rest and pure exhaustion quickly creeping back into your bones. it's truly game over when the car starts moving, lulling you into a much needed sleep.

not even the smell of airplane and greasy hair can stop the comfort of your best friends thick body pressed against yours, providing you with the most perfect pillow as you knock out, the beautiful city of barnaul passing through the window panes.

— day 1 BREAKFAST

you have very faint memory of climbing up the stairs of the svechnikov home after arriving back from the airport. andrei helped you out the car—sleep still clouding your eyes and your legs wobbly like a brand new baby giraffe.

the next thing you know, you're blinking awake, the sun shining through the sheer blue curtains and assaulting your eyes. you're not sure exactly what time it is, but based on the light and the smell of breakfast food wafting up the stairs, you can only assume you've slept through yesterday afternoon and night.

you blink a few times, squinting at the alarm clock on the bedside table until it becomes clear—7:08 a.m. you groan into the quiet room, the mattress squeaking under your weight while you shift into a more upright position. the navy blue plaid duvet falls to your hips. it unmistakably smells like andrei, and although it's a room you've stayed in before, being in here never fails to make you feel all warm and fuzzy.

there are posters up on his wall of ovechkin and a few other russian nhl stars. old hockey sticks sit collecting dust in the corner of his room, and next to them is your suitcase. andrei must've rolled it in after you got into the bed, where you undoubtedly knocked right back out.

you stretch the stiffness from your limbs before slipping out of bed. you're still in your travel clothes, so you make quick work of changing into something a little more appropriate—cut offs and an old shirt of andrei's because you really can't be bothered to dress up for 7 am breakfast—and cleaning yourself up.

after a quick trip to the bathroom where you speed run brushing your teeth and washing your face, you timidly make your way down the stairs, the noise of bacon sizzling on the stove and gentle chatter becoming louder as you enter the room.

evgeny, andrei's brother, spots you first from his spot already sitting at the dining table. he quickly swallows his gulp of tea before calling your name in welcome greeting, "hey, you're up. how was the flight?"

it causes a chain reaction really. elena and igor turn to look in your direction from where they're fussing over scrambled eggs and various meats in the frying pan—both greeting you warmly in a way that just sounds like one long jumbled scentence. evgeny's fiancee, sara, smiles and says your name in the bubbly way she does, patting the chair next to her as an invitation.

the dogs loudly barking and it's kind of a lot for this early, but you've done it all before, and easily navigate through the bustling kitchen, and the happy dog weaving through your legs, to take a seat beside sara.

"it was alright," you answer evgeny's question while sara wordlessly pours you some orange juice. it's your favourite, and elena always makes sure it's made fresh anytime you and andrei come visit. the thought of that alone has any lingering tiredness disappearing, and a absentminded smile blossoming on your face at the simple gesture.

he snickers and shoves some bacon into his mouth. "long, huh?"

"you can say that."

"sausage or bacon, y/n?" igor glances at you over his shoulder.

you hum, "bacon, thank you."

"you and andrei," his mother woos knowingly, "you're both the only people I know who love bacon as much as you do." elena holds a plate towards her husband, and once he piles some bacon beside the gooey eggs, she's placing it on the woven placemat in front of you.

"speaking of sleeping beauty," evgeny's playfully tone has you looking away from your breakfast and towards the archway that sits between the kitchen and family room. and there stands andrei,  sweatpants hung low on his hips, and hair messy like he's been running his hand through it.

you heart ticks as you lock eyes and the corner of andrei's lips turn upwards into a lazy smile.

"get enough beauty rest?" his older brother continues to tease him, earning evgeny a flick to his bicep courtesy of elena.

your brows furrow, as its only then you realize andrei wasn't in his childhood bed, but in fact, you were. "where'd you sleep?" it's not uncommon for you and andrei to share a sleeping place, even if he's on a half deflated air mattress, grumbling like a baby, while you snuggle in the cozy bed.

"the guest room — although," he shoots his mother a look, "it was hard with all the clothes that have seemingly taken over that bed." andrei rounds to the back of your chair, hovering over you while he playfully scolds his mother.

naturally you tilt your head back to continue looking at him, his mothers rebuttal comforting background noise.

he looks down at you, a half frown settling over his face. "you're squinting. you forgot your glasses, didn't you?" he reaches out and runs his thumb along the crease between your eyebrows.

the action is so soft and so sincere that you almost forget you need to reply like a normal person. "oh, right. yeah, I did."

you didn’t even realize you’d forgotten them.

andrei always notices.

he hums in what sounds like displeasure, taking his thumb off your face in favour of moving to sit on the unoocupied chair to the other side of you and sara. then andrei gulps down three huge gulps of your orange juice and just like that you forget about the butterflies in your stomach—snatching back the glass and shoving at his shoulder.

elena sits down across the table, breakfast plate piled high with eggs and fruit and sausage. it's just as mouth watering as your own plate. "you know," she starts, "you don't have to sleep in the guest room, andrei."

he shrugs, the kind of shrug that tells you he's listening to his mother but he's not actually hearing her. no, he’s too busy shoving eggs covered in pepper into his mouth. "it's no big deal," andrei stays through bites.

elena waves a dismissive hand, while she forks some cantaloupe with the other. "oh don't spare me son, I know you two share a bed, and It's alright to sleep upstairs with y/n." she pauses, a half amused and half concerned drawn look at her face. "well, I can imagine you do more than just share the bed."

you choke on your sip of juice at the same time andrei almost spits out the piece of bacon he just greedily scarfed. it earns you both curious looks from around the table. well, curious for everyone except evgeny, who looks all too amused with the way this conversation is headed.

"oh, that's okay-"

andrei cuts you off, a blush settling high over his cheeks. "mom, do not continue that thought."

"what?" she squawks, "it's completely normal for people who are together to make love."

"make love!" evengey relates with a laugh.

sara hides her face.

igor, used to his wife's antics, just stays silent. but the half smile on his face lets you know that he too is amused.

but you and andrei are like statues.

elena continues, "although i'd prefer if you didn't do anything in your childhood room, andrei. it's too nostalgic for you to just...strip it of its innocence." she forks some more egg onto her utensil, "but as soon as you guys get back to carolina, please, get to making me some grand babies."

"okay," andrei cuts her off before either of you can truly die from embarrassment. he scratches the spot near his heart awkwardly, and even in your own state of despair, you have to resist the urge to distract him. "can we save the sex talks until dinner." he trails off, muttering under his breath, "and the babies until the wedding."

it's sara who clears her throat, clearly also feeling the laughable tension—and snickering from her husband—tainting breakfast. she plasters on a smile, before shifting the conversation. thank god.

"I can't believe it took you guys so long."

you tilt your head, "what do you mean?"

sara laughs in a way that tells you she finds this whole ordeal cute. not sure if that’s the word you would use to describe it, but anyways. “to get together. you know, dating.”

"right!" you almost shout, blinking fast. without thinking, you toss your hand on andrei’s thick thigh, rubbing it briefly like some weird form of possessive affection.

at your touch, andrei tenses. you can feel it under your palm. if it wasn’t for his family all around, you would’ve face palmed right in that very moment. is this a normal thing girls do with their boyfriend? grope his thigh during family breakfast?

before you can remove your grip and regret your entire existence, andrei casually tosses his thick arm over the back of your dining room chair. his fingers stroke your shoulder over your (his) oversized shirt, wordlessly reassuring you that everything is fine.

it feels far from fine, especially with your hand starting to sweat.

“yeah,” andrei shrugs the shoulder that’s not beside yours, “guess I finally realized what was right in front of me.”

you shove some more eggs into your mouth, chewing slowly while your try to not freak out. and then andrei’s hand is on the back of your head, scratching your scalp like it’s an everyday occurrence.

why are you kind of wishing it was?

sara and elena gush, sharing knowing looks over the table. a look that says yeah, I remember falling in love with a svechnikov.

which on one hand is great—they are truly buying the whole fake dating thing.

but on the other hand—fuck, do you look like you’re actually in love with your best friend?

"I always thought the two of you would be cute together.” sara notes after swallowing her bite of whole wheat toast. “i've been telling y/n that since, what, like our engagement party in september?"

andrei makes a light noise, “is that so?” he tugs at the roots of your hair, “you never told me that.”

“mhmm,” you hum noncommittally, finishing off your glass of orange juice. you barley remembered that conversation with, at the time, newly engaged fiancée until this moment. you briefly recall you and sara, wine drunk and with a ring glittering on her finger—her smooth voice talking about you and andrei and how she thinks he’s in love with you.

you look at andrei, “didn’t cross my mind.”

“oh no?” he murmurs, voice all low and syrupy.

evgeny snorts, “get a room.”

you let out a laugh that sounds a lot like a grumbly breath, retracting your hand from andrei’s leg. you attempt to get the pitcher of orange juice but your best friend beats you to it, refilling your glass almost dangerously full—no doubt planning on stealing some more.

then andrei takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and then resting them on top the table. it so sweet and domestic and if it wasn’t doing funny things to your head, you’d probably melt at the sight.

elena grins, “awe, they’re holding hands.”

and then—

“yeah soon enough they’ll be making babies in the bathroom.”

— day 2 REHEARSAL DINNER

andrei check his watch, not impatiently mind you, because when it comes to waiting for you, andrei has all the patience in the world.

plus his mother would kick him in the butt if andrei even breathed the wrong way right now about your current lack of presence. his cousins rehearsal dinner starts in an hour, and with a 45 minute drive to the vineyard, andrei is looking to leave like, 2 minutes ago.

which is fine, because he's not just waiting on you. sara is still upstairs with you, and his mother is changing out her purse on the kitchen island because her usual handbag isn't the right shade. andrei didn't even realize there were different shades of black. but whatever.

it’s just about as andrei is about to climb up the stairs and make sure you haven't burned all your hair off and are having a breakdown in his dinosaur themed bathroom , the sound of shoes clicking on the floorboards echo through the home.

and then you're appearing, in some breezy conversation with his brothers wife while you descend down the stairs. your dress, which is the perfect shade of summer blue, swooshes coolly around your ankles, making you look like a real life princess. your hair is styled perfectly, and you've even added a little extra glitter to your eyelids and andrei thinks you look fucking ridiculously pretty.

your eyes catch his, and you falter. time slows down like honey between you and andrei, warming your skin and making your knees feel heavy.

andrei's lips part like he's going to say something, but elena waltzes into the room, igor just being her—both sporting wide smiles as the height of the evening approaches.

his mother spots you and inhales sharply. "oh wow, don't you look beautiful. andrei, honey, doesn’t she look beautiful?"

it seems to break you both out of your locked, heated gaze. you smile naturally like being polite is second nature, closed mouth and with glossy lips as you continue the rest of the way down the stairs. you gravitate next to andrei instinctively.

"yeah," andrei breathes, a half smile on his face that says something words can't yet. "she does."

and then he ruffles your hair and everything shifts again. you smack him away form your freshly done hair, but andrei just takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers as his parents usher everyone out the door.

—

the speeches go by in a flurry of laughter and emotion, warming your chest in a longing way you didn't release you held. there was one point when the best man started talking about how lovely the bride to be was, and your eyes got a little misty. which meant that there were fat tears rolling down your cheeks. andrei caught it, and instead of snickering at your emotion, he tugged you into his side, wiping your tears before they could continue to fall with his thumb, before turning his attention back to the speeches.

somehow, that was worse than him laughing.

thankfully as soon as the food came around, your stomach growled and the tears and sudden feeling of impending doom towards being single forever, disappeared. it's delicious and perfect and andrei keeps purposefully nudging his knee against yours under the table when someone makes a loud, stupid joke.

and that always ends up with you hiding your grin in his shoulder.

andrei, long clearing his own plate, snatches one of your brussels with his silver fork. right off your plate without a care.

your mouth goes agape, a half laugh falling from your lips. "hey!" you scold, "those are mine."

"sharing is caring," he reminds you, stabbing two more from the pile before raising them to his mouth.

"so?"

"so, do you want me to starve or something?" 

you quirk a teasing brow, "maybe if you savoured the taste of your own dinner, instead of scarfing it down like a neanderthal, you would actually be full."

"I can help it," andrei says around chewing, leaning in real close before continuing. "they're so buttery and delicious." clearly, andrei is trying to sound sudective and wind you up, but all you can hear is his chewing and it has you laughing, pushing him away as his voice tickles your neck.

"you're so gross." you laugh, grabbing the last full brussel that andrei was hoarding on the prongs of his fork, and then pop it into your own mouth.

he tongues his cheek as you chew up at him, a shake to his head so slow and soft that you're not even sure he's done. it's admiration, and amusement, and care—and it sends your heart into cardiac arrest.

andrei's gaze is so intense that it has a shiver running up your spine. the feeling making you straighten your posture and force yourself to look away. you don't see the way his face falls, or feel the way his heart drops.

and andrei doesn't know the way your heart has completely opened up to him in a different way. a way that reminds you of the feeling of home. of the past. of love.

"so, how'd you two meet?"

someone who you're pretty sure is a college friend of the groom, asks from across the table, looking between you and andrei curiously. his girlfriend has the same look on her face, hugging her man's arm fondly.

their display of affection makes you feel a bit funny considering you and andrei are supposed to look in love, but aren't even cuddling with one another at the dman rehearsal dinner like the very real couple.

so—awkwardly—you lean through the space between you and andrei, and wrap your arms around his bicep, your cheek resting against the crisp linen button up decorating his shoulder.

andrei shoots you a curious yet amused look. clearly he knows what you're trying to do, because he doesn't bring attention to your sudden affection. instead, he plays into it, large hand coming over your knee like this is something you two do all the time.

it must look natural enough because no one around the two of you bat an eye.

"we met at a bar." andrei says, "around the time I was drafted to the NHL."

"we've been friends for years." you add on without thinking.

a bridesmaid next to the couple nods, "and when did you realize you were in love?"

andrei laughs softly, rubbing that spot on his chest with his free hand. he swallows gently before answering the loaded question. "her laugh. that night at the bar, she was laughing at something one of her friends had said. I was naturally attracted to the sound. it was loud and real- it matched her perfectly."

andrei pauses, thumb twitching over the material of your blue dress. "and then when we started to chat, she was so patient with my broken english and bad flirting that I just..." he trails off, meeting your eyes from where you're softly peering up at him. "I fell for her that very same night."

you're pretty sure you stop breathing, and if you weren't surrounded by a bunch of strangers, you probably would've audibly gasped at that.

andrei blinks sheepishly, like he's only just taking account of what he's actually just said. he looks away form your gentle gaze and back towards the member of his cousins wedding party—who is staring at the two of you with a look he can't decipher.

andrei forces a chuckle and it's like a cold water bucket over your head. "only took me 7 years to admit it." he squeezes your knee in a way that feels like an apology mixed with truth. "but we're here now. right baby?"

"yeah," you clear your throat, his words and admission laying heavy on your heart. "we are."

—day 3 THE WEDDING

okay so you've kind of been avoiding andrei since the rehearsal dinner. and that was yesterday. it's just—you don't really know where to go from that.

even if andrei was trying to play into the whole fake relationship scheme, he literally admitted that he's been into since the night you met in that dingy raleigh bar almost 8 years ago. even if he didn't actually mean it, hearing him say those words cracked open the locked box in your chest.

when you met andrei many moons ago, you were quickly drawn to his dorky smile and shy persona. it was almost instantly that you developed some form of infatuation. and back then—drunk of course. you were in college. in a bar after all—you were much more confident.

you weren't going to let the russian slip away. not when the guy had you flustered and dipping your chin after two minutes of a half strung together conversation.

so you made sure to stay in touch. texting and calling and making andrei download snapchat so he could see how dolled up you'd get. for him.

you went out for drive thru dinners before andrei’s athletic trainer cared too much about the food he was consuming, and you watched movies with your legs tangled together in his apartment. fuck you even helped him learn english outside of his lessons.

but nothing ever happened. no moves were made because frankly, you weren't sure if he possessed the same kind of romantic interest in you.

so you pushed those feeling away. deep, deep, deep down into the spot in your heart you keep concealed to everyone, even to yourself. and you threw that damn metaphorical key in the toilet it and flushed it. twice.

friendship was good. and easy. and you could accept a friendship with him. because you still had him, regardless of your hidden feelings.

and you thought your feelings for your best friend had completely vanished in the last 8 years. until last night. when andrei and his sweet words and large mitt on your leg—stroking you and squeezing your flesh—started taking about falling for you the same night you fell for him.

surprise! feelings are coming back up the drain and soaking you.

and, oh god, the wedding. the venue which was stupidly packed and even more beautiful, decorated in lavender and baby pink, only made your feelings amplify.

because your avoidance for andrei didn't stop him from being the most patient and sweetest guy. he could tell you needed space as soon as you woke up this morning, and he walked into the bathroom to find you angrily brushing your teeth—and when you didn't send him a foamy smile from around the handle, andrei just knew something was up.

so he just sat beside you silently during the ceremony, wordlessly handing you a few tissues from his suit jacket when you began to cry during the vows. even when he didn't know your tears had nothing to do with the happy couple up at the altar, but instead the guy you've been in love with since before you knew the difference between tequila and vodka.

"you okay?" andrei asks during the journey to the ceremony outside, to the reception inside, words hushed against your ear while his hand hovers your lower back.

you nod, too quick and ridged. "just need a drink."

and drink did you ever. because two hours later once the sun has long set, and your shoes have been abandoned under the dinner table in favour of dancing, you can barley contain your drunken laughter and poorly timed singing.

you've probably had two bottles of wine to yourself.

and andrei can tell because your skin has changed shades and you no longer seem upset. which andrei knows is only because the liquor has coated your bloodstream, allowing you to forget whatever—or whoever—had upset you.

even though andrei is 99.9% positive that the reason for your cold shoulder is him. that, or the oyster joke evgeny made yesterday afternoon, but that was a long shot. it was most certainly him.

andrei watches with what he doesn't realize is a full blown pout on his face—like glistening, down turned lips, chin resting on his knuckles pouting—as you spin around with his sister in law.

not even the sound of your previous seat scraping against the floor pulls andrei out of his sad stare. it’s only when his brother nudges him that andrei blinks.

“so,” evgeny starts, voice low enough to keep the conversation between them, but still loud enough to be heard over the music. “y/n, huh?

“yeah,” andrei breathes, “y/n.” your name taste like sugar on his tongue.

evgeny nods in approval, but his lips are pursed in thought. a beat passes between them, nothing but the laughter of guests and synth pop song playing from the dj booth to be heard.

“can't say I'm suprised,” his brother eventually settles on, making andrei’s brows turn upwards in question while a rush of ice shoots through his veins. the inquiry and tone of evgeny’s statement has andrei feeling weary.

simply due to the fact that his older brother has always known andrei better than andrei knows himself.

he’s scratching at his chest again, but evgeny notices the nervous tic before andrei notices it himself. once andrei sees his brothers knowing glance though, andrei pulls his hand away so fast it’s like he’s been burnt, choosing to rap his knuckles against the table cloth instead.

andrei lick his lower lip before speaking. lis that a bad thing?”

“absolutely not,” evgeny reassures at the speed of light, voice steady. “it's just...I could tell that you loved her. always have.”

andrei laughs once—low and breathy—despite the way the words weigh on his chest. “I haven't always loved her. you're making me sound like a sad puppy or something equally as...” andrei trails off, but his brother is quick to fill the silence.

“pathetic?”

“yeah.”

“well, you are pathetic.” evgeny snorts, a playful edge to his voice that makes andrei sweaty. nervous. “when it came to her. always watching her, not subtly at all. and the flowers, and the birthdays, and that one year you couldn’t come home for christmas because y/n had the flu and you wanted to make sure she was okay.”

andrei shrugs causally, all while the weight of the truth sits like thick fog in the air. suffocating him. andrei doesn’t dare look over at you. not now. not when it will make him crumble and spill everything. “well i'm a good friend-and boyfriend.”

his brother doesn’t comment on the slip up. “I know that. but when it came to taking care of y/n and just being with her, it wasn't just about you being a good friend. it was about you loving her.”

fuck.

evgeny watches his brother carefully. he can see the way his words are affecting andrei, and the emotion pricking the heart on his sleeve.

it’s only then, when the conversation comes to another brief pause, does evgeny see the way andrei’s eyes flicker back towards your dancing, carefree frame. and instantly, he watches his younger brothers face changes.

it’s hurt.

it’s longing.

it’s unspoken love.

“it's okay to be in love andrei.” evgeny breathes slowly as if not to startle. “you've got a good one.”

a rough swallow and then andrei nods. “yeah. I do.”

“and mom loves her.”

that seems to do the trick, and it illicit a rough chuckle from andrei’s chest. “you don't say.”

“definitely more than you.”

andrei looks back at his brother, the start of an amused smile beginning to pull at his lips. “thanks dick.”

“you're welcome. and hey—now that you finally have her, never let her go.”

andrei isn’t oblivious to the underlying meaning of evgeny’s words. like he’s said, his older brother knows him well. but it doesn’t stop the panic creeping up andrei’s sternum, and the urge to deflect and deny is uncanny.

just as andrei goes to respond, you stumble into his eyesight, tripping over the air like it was a curb, and completely stealing andrei’s attention. thankfully you catch yourself before falling to the ground, but it still sends andrei’s heart into over drive.

"you okay?" evgeny asks you, his amusement clear. almost as clear as your level of intoxication.

andrei is on his feet before he even realizes that he’s stood up from the upholstered chair, standing next to you with his hand hovering over your back.

you nod with a lazy smile on your face, and your eyes completely glossed over. slowly, because you’re not completely all there, your eyes trail towards andrei. your smile grows tenfold while you grab onto his hips. “hey there. come dance with me?"

"I don't know," he breathes softly, eyes moving over your body as if he’s trying to assess you. regardless, he can’t stop the smile that blossoms across his lips. “I think it’s probably time we go? no?”

you frown playfully, swaying until your chest is pushed against his. "please? just one dance. please, I love this song."

andrei doesn’t recognize the song, and considering you play him every single song you like at least 20 times in a row, he knows you’re lying, and this is just an excuse to get him on the dance floor.

because you have seemingly pushed away your vendetta with him for the moment, andrei decides that he’s taking this opportunity to be with you while things are normal. andrei sighs reluctantly, yet with a hint of enjoyment, and that has your face lighting up—because you can see the answer before he says it.

andrei lets you lead him into the middle of the crowded dance floor and to a spot you seem acceptable before turning in his arms, wrapping your own around his shoulders while his find your waist, completely enveloping you.

the music has slowed down, casting the room with a slow, romantic haze that makes your limbs tingle.

"if you're sick of me after this week and never want to see me again, I understand." andrei mutters after a minute, thick fingers flexing around your body, like he’s fighting an internal battle. one that he seems to win, because he then is pulling you flush against him.

your eyebrows pull towards your nose. "what? no. nothing could make me never want to see you again."

“I hope this weekend hasn’t been too overwhelming,” andrei starts, voice no higher than a whisper due to your proximity. “and i’m sorry again for…springing all this on you—quite literally last minute.”

you shake your head. “i’m not upset, andrei. i’m fine, you really don’t have to worry about me.”

this time, it’s andrei’s brows that turn down. “i’m always going to worry about you, y/n,” he swallows thickly, knees bending ever so slightly so he can better peer into your drunken eyes. “you’re my best friend.”

maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s pure exhaustion of fighting your feelings off for 8 years, but your bold question comes before you can deflect it. “and?”

your prompt makes andrei halt.

a beat passes and then andrei’s hand is running down the back of your head, smoothing your hair and you heart. “and.”

and right now—that unspoken knowing—is enough.

—

andrei brings you up the stairs of his childhood home two hours—and two chugged bottles of water—later. he gently guides you up the walkway, slowly and with his hand on your hip, guiding you and keeping somewhat of your stability in tact—your heels dangling from his index finger of his opposite hand.

he sits you on the edge of his navy bed once you’re back in the comfort of his old bedroom, ensuring that you’re okay before turning and shutting the bedroom door. your heels thump to the floor as he drops them next to the dresser.

andrei pulls his tie loose while spinning back on his heels. instead of the upright position he left you in, you’re now flat on your back, limbs all spread out and starfish like.

you’re not asleep. not yet. but rather grinning like a naughty child at andrei. your hair is fanned out against the covers, and there’s still some sweat lingering on your hair line from all the dancing and alcohol.

you’re quite literally glistening and andrei feels light headed.

"you can't fall asleep yet," he tells you, walking over to stand above you. with a delicate touch, he traces a finger over your thigh, and even through the material of your pale lemon dress, andrei can feel your body heat. "you have to change out of your dress, or else you’ll be mad at me when you wake up because it’s wrinkled."

you whine, "can you do it for me?”

your words are nothing but innocent, but his sex deprived brain doesn’t think the same way, and your whiny tone shoots right down to his dick. andrei swallows roughly, scratching at his chest twice before running his hand through his tousled hair.

you shift, the strapless hem of your dress slipping down just enough that it’s dangerous. andrei’s eyes instinctively dart away—just like the time they did three years ago when you’d been swimming at his place and your nipples got all pebbled under your bikini.

andrei curses under his breath.

you call his name and like the hopeless man he is, looks back at you. "please, i'm tired."

so, so hopeless.

andrei nods, grabbing ahold of your outstretched hands before pulling you back into your previous sitting position. your smile thickens and it has him feeling incredibly nervous.

"stand up for me." andrei requests quietly, and thankfully you agree with a simple nod, moving to stand on unsteady feet at the foit of the bed.

andrei doesn’t dare break eye contact. not when you’re so close that your scent is intoxicating and your bulging breasts are practically calling his name. without blinking or tearing his gaze from yours, his shaky hands reach around your body, blindly finding the clasp of your gown.

the clasp pops open, and you almost don’t catch the dress in time before it falls away to reveal your chest.

but andrei doesn’t stop there, his breathing heavy against you as he begins pulling down the small, yellow zipper. as andrei slowly begins tugging the zipper, revealing more and more of your bare skin, the more your breathing catches.

his knuckles graze against your skin, ilicting a hitched sigh from your plump, wine stained lips.

this exchange is quite possibly the hottest and most intimate thing either of you have every experienced, and nothing really has even happened. perhaps it the hesitant yet eager brushing touches that are making you light head. or perhaps it’s the eye contact between you.

it’s definitely the way your nipples have turned to diamonds, and andrei’s dick is sitting hot and heavy beneath his slacks though.

the zipper hits the end of the track with a soft clinking sound. andrei slowly lets the tag go, his hand smoothing over your hip as he begins to retract his touch.

you can feel his restraint. you can feel his desire.

"andrei," you whisper his name like a prayer. like a mantra. like it’s the password to the 8 year long puzzle between you. “i’m going to let the dress fall now.”

his gaze flickers. just far enough down to see the start of your dress and your barley concealed breasts. then, like gravity, andrei’s eyes find yours again.

“okay.” his voice is hoarse in a way that’s undeniable.

and then the dress hits the floor, the smell of your perfume puffing around you like a cloud as the material falls away. not even the smell of wine could over power your fruity scent.

he doesn’t look. he can’t. not when you’re still a little tipsy and he’s barley holding onto himself. instead, andrei brushes your hair away from your face, lingering on your cheek.

you swallow, “what are you thinking about?”

his answer comes like clockwork. “you.” andrei’s voice falters as you reach out, your much smaller fingers clumsily pulling at the buttons of his dress shirt. like your bodies know what happening before your heads do. as his summer skin becomes exposed, your hands find new home against his flesh.

andrei lick his lower lip and tilts your face up, towards his. "i'm always thinking about you."

and then, without hesitation or reluctance or anything else he’s been fronting since that night in that bar years ago, andrei slots his mouth against yours.

pushing up onto your toes, your grasp at his sides under his unbuttoned shirt, sighing against andrei’s mouth just as he does yours.

with his free hand, andrei grabs your hip, pulling your naked body flush against his, all while he expertly kisses and licks into your awaiting mouth.

after what feels like an eternity of switching between languid, slow kisses and heated hands and desperate kisses, andrei slowly guides you back down to his childhood bed, slotting between your open legs like it’s where he’s meant to be.

and perhaps, it is.

— day 4 THE MORNING AFTER

the sun beating on your back is what wakes you up the next morning. its bright and hot and too much for just opening your eyes. you groan out like a baby, pulling the covers up and over your head to further bury yourself in the cocoon of andrei’s bedding.

andrei.

your eyes snap open at a comical pace, and you sit up even quicker if that’s somehow possible. your eyes flicker towards the right side of the bed where just hours ago, andrei was curled against you. skin warm and bare against yours.

the spot is now empty.

the night comes back to you in movie like flashes. the drinking and the dancing. andrei’s calloused hands on your zipper and even more so on your skin. you sit there, still as a statue, as you remember how andrei kissed you—all over—and how his body rutted into yours like second nature.

the whispered praises and pleasure filled moans.

you remember it all.

and you remember, most of all, that you love him.

you don’t know if you should puke, cry, scream or just jump out the window. maybe all four.

you slip on the housecoat hung over the bed post, tying the string uncomfortably tight, just before slipping out of the bedroom. with last night still fresh, and your feelings practically drowning you, you know you need to find andrei—like yesterday—and tell him.

well, tell him as much as you can without choking on your own tears.

the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits your nostrils before anything else. you round into the kitchen and see elena and igor. they both grin politely, one of them offering you a drink—you’re not sure who because you’re too busy wondering where the hell andrei is to notice anything else.

the words tumble from you without a second thought, interrupting the dogs happy hopping at your ankles. “where's andrei?” and of course the cherry on top is your voice wavering.

elena’s eyes draw in confusion, her lips parting in wordless question.

“i'm here,” andrei’s familiar voice sounds from behind you. and instantly you feel like crying. he rounds to your front, looking freshly showered and clean in his shirt and athletic shorts. “you okay?”

“I just, I thought you left.” you admit, wrapping your arms around yourself as embarrassment washes over you.

“no moya lyubov,” andrei coos with his native tongue, brows pulled tight in concern. he brings you into his arms despite the way your self hug makes it a little awkward. “just putting our bags in the car so it’s all ready to go for tonight.”

“oh right,” you nod, a little dumb. you lower your voice even more before continuing. “we should talk, right?”

“yeah, we should.”

you nod again, manoeuvring in andrei’s arms until you’re able to grasp at his fingers. “come upstairs with me? please.”

he hums. “of course.”

as soon as you’re back in his navy bedroom, and the door is heard softly shutting behind you, you’re nervously wringing your hands out. “you're my best friend.” you blurt out, robe slipping off your shoulder as it is inevitably, too big. as it is obviously andrei’s robe.

he fixes the shoulder so you’re covered again. “I know.”

you continue, heart racing and voice cracking despite andrei’s calm demeanour. “and I thought that these feelings I was pushing down were unreciprocated.”

“I know,” he mumbles, pushing your hair away from your neck. “me too.”

its something in the way he’s touching you—looking at you—that has you faltering. it’s like you’re his. like he’s in—oh.

“and now.” andrei continues.

“and now,” you breathe, “and now I want to kiss you again.”

andrei legs out a laugh. “you can.”

“but not just today,” you interrupt, “I want to kiss you everyday and wake up next to you everyday because I really fucking like you.”

“well,” andrei breathes, chest puffing as he takes an impossible step closer to you. he gently but confidently takes ahold of your face in his hands. caressing you like a porcelain toy. like a prized possession. like the greatest trophy in sports. “I really fucking like you too.”

you exhale.

but he’s not quite done with his love confession. after all, he has been thinking about it since 2018. “and I always have.”

your breath catches, curiously and hope gnawing at you like a moth to a flame. “since the bar?”

“since the second you stepped foot into that bar, y/n.”

a beat passes.

“this is kind of crazy, right? is this crazy?” you laugh in disbelief, continuing to look up at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky.

“absolutely,” andrei nods, thumbs brushing over your cheek bones. “but it's a good crazy. don't you think?”

“definitely.” you mumble through the beginning stages of a sheepish smile. your fingers itch to reach out and touch andrei, and unlike everyday before this one, you allow them to.

“okay then let’s bask in the crazy, yeah?”

A/N: okay. so! this definitely got a little rushed and I can only hopes this flows well enough to follow along with. and hopefully it makes sense and you catch the drift! I went through a writers block through this fic so a lot of the parts were spaced out (writing wise.

on another note—the rom com series is still happening. i’m just not sure when it will be out. i’m hoping for at least one before the summer ends, along with a few other goodies.

jo will girls and wyjo girls, get excited.

anyways this is just to say thank you for your patience and support like always.

[wannabehockeygf]

Puppy Love - C. Keller

Request: Too long to put here but I followed it to key, I hope you see it. Summary: When Clayton's dog meets his Lucky match Lady & The Tramp style, so does he. Word Count: 4.2k Pairing: Clayton Keller x fem!reader Warnings: slight mention of alcohol, themes of a missing dog. Notes:

reader is described as being 24 but really anything age appropriate would be fine

also idk what the name of clayton's current chef is i used the name of old

this is fluffy greatness so enjoy!

but also not very emotionally deep

Clayton's knee bounced under the table in the hotel conference room, his fingers curled tight around his phone as he scrolled through old photos of Lucky. The grainy ones from when he was just a puppy, all floppy paws and uncoordinated jumps, then the more recent shots—Lucky sprawled across his bed, Lucky with a stick twice the size of his body, Lucky sitting pretty with his head tilted, that mess of gray and black and brown fur half-covering his eyes. Clayton had been trying to soothe himself ever since he got the call yesterday, telling him that Lucky had slipped through a gap in the fence back home in Salt Lake. He should’ve been there. If he’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened. But he wasn’t, and now he had to sit here in a city that wasn’t home, trying to push the panic down far enough to focus on the game.

The next day, by the time the first period ended, he wasn’t thinking about anything but hockey. It was muscle memory, all instinct, chasing pucks and lining up plays, pressing his weight into every stride. It wasn’t until he was back in his hotel room, freshly showered and exhausted, that he finally checked his phone. His stomach sank when he saw a missed call from an unknown number, the tiny red dot of a voicemail sitting there like a weight on his chest. He swallowed hard and pressed play, barely breathing as he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hey, um—I think I found your dog? His tag said Lucky, and I called the number, but you didn’t pick up, so I’m leaving this. My dog, Lady, sniffed him out in a little wooded area near my place, and he looked pretty rough. I’ve got him inside now—fed him, gave him some water, he’s okay. Just call me back whenever you can.”

Clayton exhaled, his shoulders slumping as relief crashed over him, mixing with something almost like dizziness. Lucky was okay. He was inside, safe, being taken care of. He checked the time—past midnight in New York, a little earlier in Salt Lake. It was a gamble if this person was still awake, but he couldn’t wait until morning to call. He took a quick breath, pressed the number, and listened to the line ring, counting each tone as his heartbeat slowed to something almost normal.

When you picked up, your voice was thick with sleep. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Clayton said, raking a hand through his damp hair. “Uh, sorry for calling so late. My name’s Clayton. I just got your message—I was… unavailable. You have Lucky?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, your voice softening a little, more awake now. “He’s right here. Passed out on my couch like he owns the place.”

Clayton laughed under his breath, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Sounds about right. I—God, thank you. Seriously. I’ve been losing my mind since I found out he was gone.”

“No problem. He’s a sweet dog,” you said. “Very dirty, though. I don’t think he’s ever had this much fun in his life.”

Clayton smiled, closing his eyes for a second, picturing Lucky bounding through mud, tongue lolling. “I owe you big time.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m actually in New York for the next five days. Would you be okay keeping him until I get back? I can send money for food or anything else he needs.”

“That’s fine,” you said easily. “He and Lady get along. And don’t worry about the money—he’s no trouble.”

Clayton exhaled again, the last bit of tension draining from his body. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Well,” you said, amused, “Lady technically is.”

He laughed, real and warm this time, shaking his head. “Guess I owe both of you.”

“Guess so.”

There was a quiet pause, not uncomfortable, just the kind of silence that stretched out between two people who had only just started talking but weren’t in any hurry to stop. Clayton rubbed at his jaw, glancing at the clock again, then back at the phone. Five more days until he could get home. 

Five more days until he met the person who had found his dog.

The day Clayton was set to pick up Lucky, he texted you in the morning, confirming the time. You told him to swing by around five, right when you’d be back from work, and when he responded with a simple "Perfect. See you then," you tried not to read too much into it. But something about the fact that he didn’t use an emoji or add anything extra made it feel almost... deliberate. Like he was the kind of guy who didn’t say more than he needed to, who let his presence do the talking. You spent the day feeling oddly nervous, which was ridiculous. You were just giving a guy his dog back.

Lucky and Lady, on the other hand, were completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. They had been inseparable since the moment Lucky stepped into your house, forming an immediate, almost cinematic bond. They ate together, curled up in the same oversized dog bed even though Lady, the oversized St. Bernard she is, could easily take up the whole thing on her own. They genuinely followed each other around the house like a couple of lovesick fools. Every time you took them on a walk, Lucky trotted proudly beside Lady, ears perked up like he was the king of the neighborhood, even though she could bowl him over with one well-placed paw. You sent Clayton a picture of them tangled up on the couch, Lady’s massive head resting protectively over Lucky’s back, and he replied almost instantly: "Lmao. This is some Lady and the Tramp shit."

When five rolled around, you heard the rumble of a car outside, followed by the soft click of a shutting door. You wiped your hands on your pants, heart thumping a little too fast, and opened the door before he even had a chance to knock. And—Jesus. There he was. Lean, a little tired-looking, a dusting of stubble shadowing his sharp jaw, but still dressed in designer clothes that somehow made the exhaustion look good. His Rolex caught the last glint of sunlight, and his cap was on backwards, letting his longish brown hair stick out in messy tufts around his ears.

You barely had time to register how ridiculously good-looking he was before Lucky spotted him. The dog let out an excited bark and launched himself forward, nearly knocking you off balance as he sprinted straight for Clayton. And just like that, any aloof, polished exterior the man had completely shattered.

“Oh my god, there’s my little man!” Clayton cooed, dropping to his knees as Lucky jumped all over him. “Did you miss Daddy? Huh? You having fun with your big ol’ girlfriend?” His voice had gone all soft and ridiculous, the way grown men talked to their dogs when they thought no one was listening, and you had to bite back a laugh. It was so absurdly endearing that it made your chest squeeze.

Before Clayton could get too lost in his reunion, Lady lumbered up behind Lucky, letting out a deep, affectionate whine as she pushed her massive head against Clayton’s chest. He blinked, leaning back slightly as if caught off guard. “Whoa, big girl,” he said, laughing as he adjusted to accommodate her sheer size. “You want some love too?” He reached up to scratch behind her ears the way dogs like, grinning as she practically melted under his touch.

For a second, you just stood there, watching this gorgeous man get absolutely smothered by two over-affectionate dogs, and it was... a lot. His head was tilted back, eyes crinkled in pure, unadulterated joy, hands buried in soft fur, and when he finally looked back up at you, it happened. He froze. Like he was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you, and you felt like the only thing in the room worth looking at.

The silence stretched just a little too long, his gaze warm and fixed on you in a way that made your stomach flip. It was getting to the point where you were starting to feel self-conscious, so you cleared your throat and blurted, “New York, huh?”

He blinked, then smiled, like he knew he got caught staring but wasn’t embarrassed about it. “Yeah.”

“What were you doing there?”

His expression neutralized, hand falling to scratch at the back of his neck, and that’s when you noticed the Rolex again, gleaming against his tanned skin. “Playing.”

It took you a second. “Like... a game?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging a little, as if it were no big deal. “I play hockey.”

You stared at him for a second, processing. He was watching you closely, waiting for a reaction, something flickering behind those ridiculously blue eyes—like he was used to people making a big deal out of what he did, like he was bracing himself for it.

“Hockey,” you said slowly, folding your arms as you leaned against the doorframe. “Like…professionally?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to size him up. “You any good?”

That made him laugh, low and amused, as he finally pushed himself up off the ground, dusting off his pants. “I get by.”

The way he said it—so casual, so unbothered—told you everything you needed to know. He wasn’t just some guy who played hockey. He was someone in hockey. You glanced at Lucky, who had parked himself at Clayton’s feet, staring up at him like he’d hung the moon, then back at Clayton, who still looked like he was fighting a smirk.

“Should I know who you are?” you asked.

He exhaled a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Only if you watch hockey.”

“Well, I don’t,” you admitted. “So. Who are you?”

His lips twitched. “Clayton.”

“I got that part.”

“Clayton Keller.”

Something about the way he said it—like he wasn’t sure if it would mean anything to you, but he was giving you the option—made you like him more. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Now he was full-on smiling, shaking his head as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Good.”

That caught you off guard. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He shifted his weight, studying you. “I like that.”

The way he was looking at you made your skin heat up, made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t used to. He was a quiet kind of confident—not the loud, showy kind, but the kind that settled deep in his bones, like he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to prove it. It was…unfair, honestly. The longish brown hair that was just messy enough to be attractive, the dimple that flashed when he smiled, the studded watch on his wrist reminding you that, yeah, this guy probably made an obscene amount of money doing whatever it was he did on the ice.

Before you could say anything else, Lady made her move. She let out a satisfied grunt and flopped down beside Lucky, wrapping her giant paws around him and tucking her head over his back. The exact same position you’d sent Clayton a picture of a few days ago.

He glanced down at them, then back at you, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

You laughed. “Guess they’re in love.”

He hummed in agreement, then flicked his gaze back to you, sharp and assessing. Up close, his blue eyes were striking—like sunlit ocean water, a little muddled, but impossibly bright. You felt yourself straighten under the weight of his stare, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his attention was entirely on you, like he was taking you in piece by piece. It should’ve been more unnerving this time, but it wasn’t. It was... exhilarating.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh. Twenty-four. Why?”

Clayton nodded like he was considering that, then lifted one broad shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. “Just making sure this won’t be weird when I ask if you want to go out sometime.”

For a second, you weren’t sure you heard him right. Then the words fully registered, and your stomach did something stupid. “Oh,” you said, because your brain wasn’t caught up yet. “Um. Wow.”

He smirked. “That a yes?”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling heat rise to your face. “That’s a ‘I didn’t expect you to say that.’”

“Well,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “I figured if I just started texting you sad pictures of Lucky, it might seem like I was making an excuse.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fighting back a grin. “And this isn’t?”

“Less of one,” he admitted, then tilted his head. “So?”

You hesitated, glancing down at Lady and Lucky, still snoozing together like nothing else in the world mattered. Then you looked back up at Clayton, at the easy confidence in his stance, the way he watched you like he was already picturing what it’d be like to sit across from you at dinner, maybe lean in a little too close, test the waters. And, well. He was gorgeous. And charming. And definitely interested.

So you smiled. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Clayton’s smirk deepened, like he’d already known your answer before you did. “Good,” he said, eyes glinting. “I’ll text you.”

It had been a long time since you'd felt this particular type of nervous energy. The kind that made your stomach feel too light, like you were on the way up a rollercoaster, knowing the drop was coming but not knowing exactly when. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Clayton before—hell, you’d watched him get tackled by two overly affectionate dogs—but this was different. This was a date. A planned, deliberate, he-asked-you-out date. And not just any date—dinner at his house, cooked by his personal chef, because apparently, Clayton lived a life where that was a normal thing to say.

Lady sat beside you in the car, completely oblivious to your internal panic, her tongue hanging out as she watched the houses pass by. Clayton only lived a few blocks away, but his place was noticeably bigger, tucked behind a sleek black gate that slid open as soon as you pulled up. You tried not to overthink that, but it was hard to ignore the difference. Your house was cozy, lived-in, slightly chaotic. His looked like it had been pulled from the pages of some high-end home magazine, all clean lines and big windows, perfectly designed to impress. You barely had time to take it all in before the front door swung open, and there he was.

Clayton looked—God, he looked good. No hat this time, his hair still slightly damp like he’d just showered, tousled but not messy. He was wearing a cozy white long-sleeve shirt, one button undone at the collar, soft fabric clinging in all the right places, and simple black pants that somehow still managed to look expensive. And then, to top it all off, Ugg slippers. He was a walking contradiction—casual and cozy, but undeniably hot, like he wasn’t even trying. And he was smiling, full and bright, dimpling so deep you could probably measure the depth of it.

"Hey," he said, already stepping forward, already leaning in, and before you could fully process it, he pressed a warm kiss to your cheek. It was quick, barely there, but it sent a rush of warmth down your spine, the kind that made your brain short-circuit. Before you could even think of something to say, Lady bolted past him, all muscle and excitement, and the moment shattered into something else entirely.

Lucky let out a high-pitched bark from inside, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled, and Lady practically tackled him in greeting. They rolled across the entryway floor in a mess of fur and paws, whining and snorting and licking at each other like they’d been separated for years instead of a single day. Clayton let out a laugh, stepping back to let them have their moment. "Jesus, you’d think we were the ones keeping them apart."

You grinned, watching as Lady finally settled, draping a paw protectively over Lucky like she had at your place. "Aw, we don’t get a reunion that dramatic?"

Clayton tilted his head, considering that. Then, with a smirk, he spread his arms wide. "I mean, we could. You just have to throw yourself at me."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did a stupid little flip anyway. "I think I’ll pass."

"Your loss," he teased, stepping aside to gesture you in. "Come on, dinner’s almost ready."

The inside of his house was just as sleek as the outside, but somehow, it still felt warm. The lighting was soft, golden, highlighting the dark wood floors and the plush couch that looked like it could swallow a person whole. It smelled incredible—something rich and buttery in the air, making your stomach growl embarrassingly loud. Clayton grinned, leading you toward the open-concept kitchen, where a man in a crisp black apron was plating food with the kind of precision you’d only seen on cooking shows.

"This is Chris," Clayton said, gesturing toward him. "He’s been making sure I don’t live off takeout since I got to Utah."

Chris glanced up, giving you a polite, knowing smile. "You must be the date? The reason for the expensive wine?"

You blinked, glancing at Clayton, who was suddenly very interested in scratching at his jaw. "Expensive wine?"

"Not that expensive" he defended. "Just, you know, nice wine."

"He means multiple thousand dollar wine he’s been saving for a special ocassion," Chris added dryly.

You bit back a laugh. "Well, I feel honored."

Clayton rolled his eyes but nudged you toward the dining table, pulling out a chair for you before sitting down himself. The food looked almost too pretty to eat—perfectly seared steak, roasted potatoes glistening with butter, something green that made the whole plate look balanced. It was, without a doubt, the nicest meal you’d had in a long time, and the fact that it had been made specifically for you made it even better.

"So," Clayton said, once Chris had disappeared back into the kitchen, "are you impressed yet?"

You smirked, cutting into your steak. "Is this a test?"

"Maybe." He leaned back in his chair, watching you with those impossibly blue eyes. "If I’m going to woo you, I need to know what works."

Your stomach flipped again—definitely not because of the food. "Woo me?"

"Yeah." He popped a piece of potato into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "I’m old-fashioned like that."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I don’t think anyone who owns a Rolex and has a personal chef gets to call themselves old-fashioned."

"Touché," he admitted, grinning. "But it’s working, right?"

You wanted to be coy, to play it cool, but the way he was looking at you—relaxed, sure of himself, but still a little hopeful—it made you want to be honest. So you set your fork down, met his gaze head-on, and said, "Yeah. It’s working."

Clayton smirked at your answer, pleased in a way that was obvious but not over the top. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the edge of the table, and tilted his head. "So what you’re saying is, I should keep doing what I’m doing."

You speared a piece of steak, chewing slowly, letting the moment stretch just enough to make him wait. He watched you, patient, not the type to fill silence just to fill it. Some people babbled, but not him. "I’d say that’s a safe bet."

His grin deepened, dimple flashing, and it did something stupid to your chest. He looked so damn pleased with himself, and the worst part was, he deserved to be. Here you were, in his ridiculously nice house, eating a chef-prepared meal, while two overly affectionate dogs dozed by the fireplace like a scene from a cozy movie. The whole thing was almost surreal. But it was nice. Really nice.

You tried to focus on your food, but it was impossible to ignore the way Clayton moved, the way he talked, the way he leaned into the conversation with genuine interest. He was sharp, funny, full of dry humor that made you snort into your wine glass at least twice. He called Lucky a traitor for immediately curling up at Lady’s side again after his grand reunion, and then got all mock-wounded when Lady let out a deep sigh and smushed her face further into Lucky’s fur. "They’re embarrassing," he said, shaking his head. "It’s like watching teenagers in love. I don’t think Lucky’s looked at me like that once."

"Maybe if you were fluffier," you teased, taking another sip of wine. "The man has a type."

Clayton snorted. "And here I was thinking I’d be the most impressive thing in this house tonight. Guess I should’ve known I’d be playing backup to the dogs."

You grinned, tilting your head slightly. "Well, you’re a close second."

His brows lifted slightly, and his expression shifted. A flicker of interest, amusement, something else just beneath the surface. Your stomach felt funny, and you set your glass down, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers brushed the stem. "So," you said, clearing your throat slightly, "Do you do this often?"

Clayton blinked, leaning back slightly. "What, have dinner with women who find my lost dog?"

You smiled. "Take people on dates."

His lips parted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the question, and then he tilted his head, considering it. "Not really. I mean, sometimes, but not like this."

That answer sent a little thrill up your spine. It wasn’t overly smooth or flirty—it was just honest. And somehow, that made it even better.

The rest of dinner passed in an easy rhythm. The conversation was still warm, full of teasing and playful digs, but there was a new layer to it now, Clayton kept watching you, gaze lingering a little longer each time, like he was memorizing details. The way you cut your food, the way you licked a crumb from the corner of your mouth, the way you glanced at him through your lashes when he said something particularly cocky. It wasn’t one-sided, either. You found yourself stealing glances, tracking the way he moved, the way his fingers tapped idly against the rim of his glass, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. It was ridiculous. It was intoxicating.

When the plates were cleared and Chris had excused himself for the night, Clayton stretched, his shirt lifting just slightly at the hem. You looked away before you could linger, but not fast enough to miss him noticing. "You wanna stay for a movie?" he asked, casual, like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just asked you to extend the date.

You hesitated, just for a second. Not because you didn’t want to—God, you did—but because you could already tell how easy it would be to get lost in this. And you weren’t sure how quickly you wanted to fall. "I should probably head out," you said, standing. "It’s getting late."

Something flickered across his face, but he covered it quickly, nodding once. He wasn’t bothered, and that was refreshing. "Alright. Let me walk you out."

You both moved toward the door, and the dogs followed, ever-loyal shadows. Lucky flopped against Clayton’s feet, belly-up, as if sensing that he needed to pull one last cute stunt before you left, and Lady pressed herself against your side. Clayton sighed dramatically, bending down to rub Lucky’s stomach. "Alright, little man. Say goodbye to your cool new life."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You act like I’m sending him to dog prison."

"Well," Clayton said, straightening, "He did have a girlfriend here. Long-distance relationships are hard."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "I’ll bring him over to visit. If Lady can stand to part with him."

Clayton smirked, but it softened as his gaze settled on you. The air between you stretched, and you suddenly felt hyper-aware of how close he was, of the warmth radiating from him. He exhaled, glanced at your lips, then back to your eyes. "Can I kiss you?"

Your breath caught. The way he asked—low, quiet, not hesitant, just making sure you had the choice—sent a shiver through you. You let the moment linger, let the anticipation settle in your stomach, warm and steady. Then, finally, you nodded. "Yeah."

Clayton didn’t waste time. He stepped in, closing the last of the space, his hand cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. The first brush of his lips was soft, testing, and when you didn’t pull away, he deepened it slightly. His other hand found your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to send warmth racing through you. He kissed like he did everything else—with intention, with confidence, but not in a way that felt overwhelming. Just in a way that made it impossible to think about anything else.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek. His eyes searched yours, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Goodnight, then."

You exhaled, feeling slightly dazed, and let out a soft laugh. "Yeah. Goodnight."

As you walked to your car, Lady trotting beside you, you could still feel the press of his lips, the warmth of his hands. And when you glanced back, just before getting in, he was still standing there, watching you with that same easy, knowing smile. Like he already knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

[rumandwhine]

Read an article about someone who was trying to be cute and using AI (gag me) to see if it would help them pick an NHL team to root for (spolier alert: it did not. who would've guessed). To combat this techbro thinking, I have complied an incomplete list of acceptable ways to pick an NHL team to root for:

Generational Trauma (i.e. your parent(s) infected you with this team)

That one friend (or mutual) who believes misery loves company and you were the one who caved (no suing them isn't possible)

Geography fucked you over

You think you'd look cute in the team colors

The social media team is on point

Living the Hater life (i.e. the enemy of my enemy is my friend, etc.)

You put pictures of all the team's logos on a wall and threw a dart

They have the exact right amount of Drama to Skill ratio to keep you hooked

You imprinted on one of these losers accidentally and now you care about the whole circus

Gritty

[myteamofmonsterfuckers]

How Did You Pick Your Team? (or how did your team pick YOU?)

Generational trauma

That One Friend

Geography

Team colors!

Socmed *chefskiss*

Hater McHaterson

Fate. or a dart. Not a fart.

Drama : Skill ratio

Imprinted like a duckling, dammit

Gritty.

Voting ended onApr 19, 2025

[residenthughes]

coming home - connor dewar

pairing: connor dewar x fem! reader

word count: 11k

tags/warning: friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, slight angst?, mentions of alcohol/drinking, minor swearing

summary: your entire life has entailed having connor by your side, no matter where the universe carves your paths. back home for the summer leading up to your final year of university, there's much to ponder - even your own feelings about your best friend.

notes: this is genuinely a labour of love, the longest fic i've written in a long time 😭 i wanted this to be short and sweet, but it's long and sweet and i don't know how to feel about that lmao. but (!!!) i am really proud/happy about how this has come together and i hope you all enjoy this fic just as much as i loved writing it 😇 this is mostly proofread, but it is 5 in the morning, so I'll return to this soon! (apologizes for any errors towards the end!) more dewey content shall be coming soon, hehe! much love! <333

(also! this is very much in celebration of dewey's first goal as a leaf, teehee! 😁💗⭐️)

Summer’s always your favourite time of the year. Tan lines, midnight drives, fireworks, the beach. So much sweetness is in the breezy summer air and you simply can’t get enough. You wouldn’t admit it, but your favourite part of the season is when one of your closest friends, Connor, comes up from his gruelling hockey season and returns to the slow and laid-back lifestyle of your small town. Having grown up next door neighbours the majority of your lives, you quickly became two peas in a pod, always together with laughter following closeby.

Your friendship is something you’ve always treasured, held in some reclusive and special part of your heart that only houses your fated connection. No matter how mundane your time together may be - Connor strumming his acoustic guitar and you reading as the citrus sunset dips into the horizon - it's all so memorable to you and nothing, as you’ve come to experience, can ever replace his place in your life. However, life is a constant cycle of change and that first dose came when you two were fourteen, too awkward for your own good and growing out of your bodies. Connor was selected to play in a high-level hockey league hours away from your hometown and as your fingertips buried themselves into his tear-soaked t-shirt, you swore nothing could compare to this pain. The absolute tear of your beating heart out of your raw chest that ached with every gasp. You were a mess, undeterred by your futile attempt to appear as nonchalant at your silly age, but the second Connor stood on your porch, luggage in hand and the sadest tinge in his sage eyes, you fell apart.

Despite the sheer anguish you experienced that crisp autumn day, you adjusted. Stayed in contact with your best friend and continued to build up your life in his absence. Completed all your teenage rites of passage - took some extracurriculars, went to prom (you wanted to ask Connor, but ultimately decided against it), graduated high school and started attending university in Calgary - nine hours away from home. So many things changed and some still stayed the same. Connor was still as hockey obsessed and through his diligent efforts, he’s achieved his dreams of playing in the NHL night after night. You were there for draft day and there for his first game, university be damned. As was Connor, in the stands during your high school graduation and any time you needed him, whether that was him sitting on the phone with you until four in the morning or meeting up with you halfway across two countries because he felt like it. There was always something so spectacular about you two, your stories detailed by destiny and hung amongst the stars. A divine creation that despite the odds, of paths that have taken you two elsewhere, always merged because that is simply how it’s meant to be.

And, so it is, your last summer before your final year and here you are, fingertips tapping against the wooden bar as your leg jerks in anticipation of a figure that will come through your hometown bar, Punch & Judy’s doors any minute now.

Your best friend, Charlotte, manages to interweave your antsy fingers in between hers, a nurturing smile across her smooth face. “He’ll get here, don’t worry.”

Your eyebrows quirk, your legs stopping all motion. “Who said anything about worrying?”

She rolls her eyes, unamused. “You know what I mean,”

Then, she goes on to untangle your fingers, leaning her crossed arms against the bar occupied by the usual mellow group of regulars, including your own bunch of friends. “Besides, you know him. Knowing you’re here, he’s tryna get here quicker than a New York minute.”

A funny feeling flips in the pits of your stomach, an immediate flush coating the apples of your cheeks as you clumsily grab at your cider bottle. Connor always poked fun at your inability to enjoy a cold one, resorting to fruity flavours of cider. “He’s a law-abiding citizen, he’ll wait for the greenlight even if it kills him.”

“If you say so,” Charlotte casts you a glance out of the corner of her eye, smugness tugging at the corners of her lips as she takes another swig of her beer. The bell signifying the main door opening sounds in the background. “Oh, look. Speak of the devil and he shall appear! Hey there, stranger!”

Suddenly, your attention is elsewhere, eyes pinned to the tall silhouette that struts through the doorway of the LED ridden bar, kind eyes and a kinder smile with his tousled hickory hair and hushed voice finding its way to your eardrums again after so long. It’s like coming home again, watching from afar as close friends fall into endless hugs, your reunion saved for last as you beam a closed mouthed smile, reproduced by your best friend who opens his arms for a hug that solely belongs to you. You fall into him instinctively, inhaling his soft woody scent as you bury yourself in his embrace, the pendulum of your life coming to a pause as your universe centres.

“Get a room, you two!” Connor’s brother, Quinn taunts from over your shoulder, eliciting an exaggerated sigh from you as you’re reluctantly reminded of the lame chirps he seems to be full of whenever you and Connor are together.

You ignore him, savouring the moment for what its momentarily worth before Connor’s pulling away, arms loosely wrapped around the circumference of your waist as he peers down at you with those same green eyes you’ve known your entire life.

“Hi.” you breathe, short and sweet.

He simpers, something coy in the lines of his smile as he replies back, “hi.”

It’s a simple greeting, but there’s so much more in those few syllables - the endless gravity of your shared experiences and fondest memories making their way back to each other. Your eyes linger for a minute longer, taking in each other’s presence that’s long been missed due to your busy schedules leading up to your summer break. You part ways and despite how fulfilled you are to have him here and see him after some time, there’s a small knack that nags at you - hollow and wanting as you venture to a booth nearby, squishing up in between Charlotte and another one of your guy friends, Owen Power, who like Connor has been busting his ass in the NHL and friends with you all for longer than you can remember. You all chatter amongst yourselves with Connor’s brother sitting across from you, a discussion brewing as Connor returns shortly after getting a drink at the bar, sliding beside his brother with a beer in hand.

“Come on, Connie. Help me out here, these guys have lost the plot.” His brother argues, an eye roll your response.

Connor looks between your group, a knit in his eyebrows. “What’s the deal?”

“They’re tryna say, get this - that dolphins are more dangerous than damn orcas. Can you believe that?” Quinn attests, expression pinched as he ruffles the curls of his bleached hair sticking out his snapback.

“Hey! We’re well within reason to be arguing with you. You on the other hand? I don’t think so.” Charlotte proclaims, an accusatory finger directed towards Quinn.

“Yeah, not gonna lie, Quinn. You’re severely underestimating how evil dolphins are,” concludes Owen, his hand raised as he pushes up his glasses on the bridge of his sunkissed nose.

Quinn guffaws, jaw slack as his eyes flicker between everyone’s faces in quick succession, clearly in disbelief. “Are you hearing this right now?”

“Look, Q - we’ve been over this,” you start, hands extending as if to make sense of your proposed point. “You’ve been fed dolphin propaganda. We’ve literally shown you so many resources about their heinous crimes. Take it or leave it.”

Quinn groans, elbowing his older brother who wordlessly listens to the ongoing conversation. “Bro! A little help would be nice.”

A brief pause follows his younger brother’s melodrama, Connor weighing out the arguments of a conversation he hadn’t been here for, his eyes flickering over towards yours fleetingly. An unexplained shiver runs down your spine, the action camouflaged poorly as you appear to distract yourself from the sensation, fingernails scratching against the lines of your neck as you look up at the ceiling.

“Hello?!” hollers Quinn.

You swear he loves to hear himself talk.

“They’re right,” Connor concludes, eyes set on you as he speaks before he takes a swig of his beer, focusing back onto his brother. “Personally, I think you’ve been taking one too many trips to Sea World.”

“The promised land of dolphin propaganda.” mentions Charlotte.

“This is ridiculous!” Quinn exclaims, sending a heavy elbow into his older brother’s arm, all of which barely gains any sort of response from him. “What happened to honour amongst bros, huh? They don’t have that in Minnesota or what?”

Connor scoffs lightly, his smile reading amused as his head turns towards his brother. “That doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything you say.”

Quinn mumbles something under his breath, clearly displeased. “I forget you’re my harshest critic.”

Their double act entices the crowd, your circle of friends laughing amongst yourselves as Quinn folds his shoulders with his usual theatrics. No one buys into it, much less Connor who drapes his arm loosely around his brother’s squared shoulders, leaning in with a tickled pink smile that reflects within your own expression.

“You’re just mad I won’t kiss your ass.”

That earns him a shove off Quinn’s shoulders, sending him into a fit of laughter. Everyone chortles along, basking in the merriment of the moment before you’re delving into other non-controversial topics, indulging everyone in the bits and pieces of your lives they’ve missed and just like that, you're four drinks in and so sentimental it hurts. Owen suggests a walk around the town centre, a tradition you cannot help but all agree to as you all shimmy out of your respective booth, bidding Judy at the bar farewell as you file out of the establishment.

The cobalt sky dazzles with stars you’ve forgotten shine so bright here, the midday heat nowhere in sight as a cool breeze pushes you forwards. You linger behind Quinn as he impulsively hops onto Owen’s back, who stumbles at the sudden weight whilst Charlotte laughs at the unfolding scene. Nostalgia warms your heart at the sight, eyes half-closed and posture relaxing as the warm summer night holds you close and kisses your worries goodbye.

An arm drapes over your shoulders, your slow strides matching up with Connor’s as he looks to you, smile small and earnest as he playfully challenges, “Since when did you know about dolphin propaganda?”

You gasp, humour shaping your lips. “Well, you’ve been in my ear most of my life yapping about it, so…”

“Hey, I’m just saying - was I wrong?” the smirk on his face attests to his unwavering confidence and as you catch a whiff of his woody cologne, you roll your eyes in defeat, smile still on your lips.

“Considering you wore a shark tooth to school, I didn’t think so.”

You have to bite back the wide smile that fights to spread across your face, a few snickers here and there escaping before the loose ring around your shoulders closes in, Connor smushing your face inwards against the strength of his bicep. You can’t help but laugh throughout, swatting away his pesky grip that lasts no longer than a few seconds before all you hear is the echoes of your winded chuckles. In an effort to stabilise yourself from the momentary loss of oxygen, your hand seeks Connor’s, holding onto his larger and warmer as your feet hit the pavement in unison.

“Feels good to be back, doesn’t it?”

You let your head fall to Connor’s shoulder, arm wrapping around his lower back as your steps sync with such ease. A lightness in your limbs and how perceptive you can be to the sounds of downtown - car horns, hushed chatter and the like - let you know there’s nowhere you’d rather be right now than here. Back at home, with your best friends and your partner in crime who you answer in the form of a hum.

-

Your first few days back in the Pas are slow and uneventful, most of your time spent decompressing from the taxing semester and unpacking your items, all of which you didn’t know just how much you possessed. In an effort to make the most of the sunshine and get out the house for reasons other than your part time job at the local diner, you sign up for community gardening activities and ask the groupchat if anyone wants to come along. Everyone appears to have plans, except for Connor, who in the early hours of the next morning, picks you up from your childhood home and drives into town where for the next few hours, you’re knee deep in dirt under the blaring sun as you plant various kinds of greenery to spotlight the natural beauty of your rustic town.

What is certain, when early afternoon pours in, painting the sky in shades of honey and tangerine, you’re exhausted beyond belief. You have no idea how Connor makes the drive home, yet he does and when you two collapse into the hammock in your family’s backyard, your lips are slack and echoing more yawns than you can contain.

“That was great and all, but that’s knocked me out,” Connor groans, limp body shuffling in the confinements of the cotton hammock hanging off one of the trees in your backyard. The same tree which holds the treehouse you and Connor partially lived in throughout your youth. “That was more tiring than hockey practice.”

You’re tired and easily distracted, your head perched up in a way that puts the treehouse in your direct eye-line. “Remember when we’d watch movies in that treehouse?”

A brief pause follows, occupied by the tranquil chirps and running water from the nearby bird bath. “Yeah, I’d always wanna watch Jaws but you wanted to watch Disney movies.”

You give him a laugh, shuffling yourself in order to get comfortable in the small space. Why did you two think this would work like it did ten years ago? The thought occurs to you, but you brush it off to save yourself additional mental load, making the adjustments to cater to some form of comfortability in the tiny space. Even if that means sacrificing your shared personal space as your body overlaps onto Connor’s strong and firm one.

“Says the guy who knows the all the songs in Lemonande Mouth,” you counter, “And, Let it Shine.”

Without missing a beat, in his sleepy voice, Connor replies with, “kissy kissy, Roxanne, did you miss me?”

Groaning despite the snickers slipping past your lips, you bury your head into Connor’s chest, refusing to hear the rest of his ramblings. “My girl is hotter than your girl, you know it! You know it.”

To get your point across, you unbury your head, wide eyes peering up at your best friend who’s so amused by this all, hair messy and smile stretching from ear to ear. A bright sight. “Can you not?”

“You’re just hating 'cause I sing better than you.” He follows that by sticking his tongue out at you, so mature for his age that you grant him the response of a heavy sigh and an averted gaze, settling back into the peace and serenity of your backyard.

However, the silence doesn’t last long before you’re speaking again.

“Your hair’s getting long,” you observe, fingertips dancing along Connor’s nape as you absently fiddle with the long strands of his hair, silky between your fingers. “You should let me cut it.”

“Name a time and place, and I’ll be there,” he mumbles sleepily against the crown of your head, soothing you further towards a serene sleep. “Unless you fuck it up. Then, I won’t forgive you.”

You give him the satisfaction of a laugh tucked away in your chest, the ghost of a smile dissipating as the aches of a hard work’s start to plunge their teeth into your flesh and bones, body like cement as you sink further into the comfort of the hammock, into the comfort of your calm summer afternoon.

“One of my friends from my team’s supposed to be coming up for a night or two,” Connor croaks, voice hoarse and the gentle breeze of the summer’s day pecking your skin in an act of love. “Think…you’ll all get along with him quite well.”

His point is punctuated by a tired yawn that proves to be contagious as you mirror the action moments after, eyes unbearably heavy as time moves slow like molasses, body further sinking against Connor’s. You don’t even stop yourself from falling asleep, only blinking away the exhausted sting in your eyes to answer your best friend.

“Can’t wait,” you mumble, adjusting your body against Connor as your limbs slot together like puzzle pieces, matched at every curve as slumber envelopes you two in a kind embrace. “It’ll be good - the visit…and the rest of summer.”

Your words trail in a drowsy daze, tone doused in sleepiness as your eyes can no longer keep themselves open, glimpses of hickory branches and pear leaves wishing you peace and serenity as you finally fall asleep.

-

Your shift at the local diner passes without as much traffic as expected, local patrons ordering their usual with a few tourists dropping by to try the culinary experience of your average but nostalgic diner food. Due to how quiet the establishment is - Mabel, your boss and long-time owner of the diner - lets you off early and with a hug, you scurry back to your family house to get ready for the night's events. After dozing off with Connor in the hammock out back, your mother softly awoke to you with a holler she’s used since the dawn of time.

“Up and at ‘em, kids. Dinner’s ready!” in the distance of your dreams, you hear your mother yell.

With drowsy film still coating your eyes, you and Connor manage to dislodge your limbs from one another, sleepy smiles and croaky chuckles exchanged as you amble inside your house and Connor stays for a filling homemade meal that everyone at the dining table fawns over. Connor hangs back as you venture into the kitchen to wash up, a tradition you two have forged, him washing the dishes and you drying them. Not much dialogue takes place between the two of you and there is no need. For all the instances where you believed the need for conversation, you appreciate this silence so much more - how there’s no urge to talk for the sake of talking and how much comfort there is with simply just being with Connor. After you’ve done the washing up and Connor’s hugged your mother goodbye, fist bumping your father hilariously enough, he’s climbing into his car and wishing you well.

“You sure you don’t need me to pick you up from Mabel’s?” coaxes Connor, the wiggle of his eyebrows offsetting the echoes of titters that leave your lips.

“I’m good, thanks. Need to shower and get ready, anyways,” a gentle gust of wind blows, fallen leaves scraping against the cement of your driveway. “We all know how long that takes.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” Connor simpers, says like it’s the easiest thing in the world and like it doesn’t demand for the city of butterflies within you to soar beyond their ability.

You flash a strained smile, giving the top of Connor’s car a pat as your posture straightens and you step away from the vehicle. “Goodbye, Connor.”

“See you soon.” and just like that, he’s gone with the wind, taking a little piece of you with him.

It’s when you’re strolling your way back inside the house, halfway up the stairs to your bedroom that your mom gives you a gentle call, beckoning you back down the stairs to find her in the dimly lit living room, mahogany reading glasses hanging low on the bridge of her nose whilst the quiet snores of your father and his baseball game fill in the background noise.

She folds her newspaper, crinkles running up your spine as she addresses you. “So good to have Connie over, makes me miss him more when he’s away.”

Connor is like a son to her, the better part of your childhood glued at the hip whilst your parents cooed and awed at your loyalty to one another. He helps around the house with no complaint nor expectation of compensation, buys her favourite flowers every Mother’s day with an additional heartfelt gift come her birthday. He listens, he jokes and he cares. What more could she ask for?

“Can’t imagine how much more you miss him whilst you’re away.” she comments, throwing her denim clad leg over the other, directing all her attention to you, swaying between two feet with your hands behind your back, sceptical.

“Well, we try to meet up when we can, so it’s not too bad,” your hand goes to scratch the back of your neck, chin jutted as your head leans to the side. “…Is that why you called me down?”

Awkwardness rarely rears its head in your household built upon openness and unconditional love, which is why the unspoken truth your mother struggles to vocalise raises a red flag, your skin prickling as you fiddle with your hands behind your back.

She’s looking at you now, a maternal love in her eyes as she speaks up. “Maybe, I can’t really put my finger on it, really. I did, however, want to say that I hope you guys keep each other in your lives, however that may pan out in the future. There’s a special happiness in your eyes I want you two to be selfish with.”

It’s a small thing, she says. A snowflake amongst the pile of snow in the realms of your mind, but as you lay in bed later on that late afternoon, staring at the gold stars Connor helped hang up in your room, your mind wanders places it never conceptualised. Inserts Connor in places in your life where he hadn’t been previously - opposite you illuminated by a candle-lit dinner, dancing in a kitchen as you prepare breakfast and kiss each other in between, above your bare body as he holds you in the palm of his hand like you are the most precious thing the universe has gifted him. It’s a point in time that despite busying yourself with dipping your toes back into your hobbies - heck, even walking your next door neighbour’s golden retriever to clear your head - it never quite leaves you, awakening something deep and dormant in you that never goes away.

Snapping out of your syrupy daze, you adorn yourself in your finest line dance clothing, slipping on your gingerbread cowboy boots before you’re tying bows in the pigtails of your hair. Your mother yells down the stairs for you and you leave in a flash, kissing her goodbye as she drops you off at Punch and Judy’s, your jewellery clinking together as you walk through the main entrance.

Much like your first night back, the bar is illuminated in dim light and sharp LED lights of varying colours. Cowboy hats dominate the sea of customers, the building crowd of the bar dressed in shades of denim and tired leather cowboy boots. Knowing the others have already arrived, saving a spot at a nearby booth, you decide to make your way to the bar first, ordering your signature berries-flavoured cider, to which Punch (co-owner) makes quick work of, the cold beverage in your hands before you can blink.

“Beer not to your liking, sugar?” A smoky, mellow voice grabs your attention.

You spare a glance at the source of the gravel voice, eyes long lingering as they capture the image of a face that stirs a flip in the pits of your stomach. The man stood beside you braces his muscular arms against the hickory brown of the wooden bar, his sleepy chocolate eyes trained on yours as he takes a swig of his tequila flavoured Desperado beer. Locks of umber messily cascade along his face, unless tucked away in his vintage black cowboy hat that ties together the rugged cowboy look he presents with the sweet addition of his light stubble. To make things worse, he’s stupidly fit, his black t-shirt clinging to the curves of his muscles like second skin. If it were up to you, you’d-

“Like what you see?”

The smug comment snaps you out of your hazy olge, a pout forming upon your lips with an accompanying knit in your eyebrows. You make a point to angrily grab at your pint glass, ingesting a big gulp of the sugary alcohol whilst the rugged cowboy laughs to himself.

Even his laugh is attractive. Sick bastard.

“Coming from a man drinking a Desperado? Funny,” you have to laugh at whatever lame attempt of making conversation this man is pulling, Punch masking his misplaced laughter behind a cough as he polishes a pint glass. “How flirtatious you are.”

You admit, your latter remark is more bark than bite, a quick chirp that refuses to feed his ego yet grab his interest all at the same time. The ruse proves to work in your favour as the sexy cowboy gives another one of his huffed laughs, his body turned towards yours.

“Give me a chance, sugar. Just tryna start the night off right,” he counters, so brazenly confident in himself that you don’t know whether to laugh or shy away from his prying eyes. “Tequila beer and beautiful company - sounds about perfect to me.”

You react in a juxtaposition, eyes rolling and cheeks flushing as you divert your line of sight away from the handsome man flirting with you at your hometown bar. Perhaps, he’s some city folk travelling through the town, fancying himself a good time at Punch & Judy’s weekly hoedown Fridays, a little bit of flirting on the side to inflate his ego and keep his blood pumping. Whatever reason explains his presence, you are not one to complain. Your love life isn't very entertaining to put it mildly, so you're willing yourself not to get swept up in his caramel eyes.

Against the wishes of your quickening heart, you decide to give Mr. Handsome Traveller the time of day, body shifting as you face each other finally. “You don’t quit, don’t you?”

He cocks an eyebrow your way, something sneaky and sugary in the lines of his smile. A brief pause follows his actions, the soft rustic sounds of old town country murmuring from the jukebox nearby filling up in the space between your figures. It’s when he’s about to make yet another cocky comment that your conversation is put on pause.

Connor’s voice calls your name, head turning to find your best friend standing in between you and the Punch & Judy’s cowboy of the night, eyes wide and expectant as they shift back and forth in the middle of your standing figures.

“Dew, forget about Desperados tonight. The lady in bows will have your head otherwise.” Handsome Traveller nods his chin towards you, humour dancing in his smile as he snickers into his half-full glass.

Then, it dawns on you. Dew? One of the handful of nicknames Connor’s adopted over the course of his livelihood. So, they’re acquaintances? Or closer? Your eyes frantically search for social clues to point you in the right direction.

“The lady in bows is my best friend,” Connor explains, a bite to his words as his eyes glare a knowing look at Sexy Cowboy. He then goes on to face you, gaze softening almost immediately as his head tilts in his friends (?) direction. “This is Brandon, or Dewey One.”

Oh. Makes sense, you rationalise. This is Brandon, Connor’s close friend and teammate on his current team out in Minnesota, the one who gets into fights he can’t win on the ice whilst Connor trails nearby picking up his fallen gear. The one he told you a couple of days ago that was coming up to visit. And, of course you were flirting with him.

Of. Course.

“Dewey One?” you ask, minorly deflecting from your embarrassment and still genuinely curious.

Connor inhales, as if to speak but Brandon beats him to it.

“Brandon’s just fine,” he interjects, expression unassuming as Connor’s eyes put his visiting friend underneath a microscope. “Nice to meet you, darling.”

Normally, you’d wrinkle your nose at the sometimes sleazy pet name Brandon casually calls you, except this time round you find it more amusing than cringe-worthy, which is how you find yourself grinning as you two exchange a handshake that testifies to how strong Brandon is. You clear your throat to stop the circus unfolding within you.

“Come on,” Connor gestures over to you to follow suit. “Can’t keep ‘em waiting.”

You call out an agreement over your shoulder as you go to grab your drink, the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention as a close whisper brushes past your ears.

“I ain’t no quitter, sugar.”

-

The next couple of hours are spent packed into a crimson leather booth that peels at the ends, going from topic to topic over many a pints. Brandon fits so easily into your group, his infectious energy illuminating as he takes up space without regard, his confidence more enticing than suffocating. Everyone seems to be in good spirits as the alcohol keeps flowing and as you sit back, careful eyes watching your friends engage in conversation, you wish for this to be your forever for as long as you'd like for it to be.

A nudge against your shoulder turns your head, greeted by Connor’s sage eyes. “You ready for Judy’s Line Dance?”

His rhetorical question draws a laugh from you. “You say that like I don’t do this every time I come back.”

“Yeah, but if you were ready then, you would’ve brought your cowboy hat,” comments Connor, his veiny hands grasping gently at the ends of your braided pigtails accented with a bow. “What? Wanted to show off your pretty bows?”

He thumbs the ends of your hair, engrossed in the strands and its feel and for some reason, the casual intimacy of the moment inflates something in your chest, a balloon about to burst as you forcibly breathe in and out, clearing your throat afterwards. “They're my favourite accessories.”

Connor huffs, corners of his lips lifting gingerly as he continues his motions with his hands whilst your body remains rigid with the exception of your racing heart and crimsoning cheeks.

Your mother has definitely planted a seed you cannot unroot.

“Yeah, you’re almost always wearing them in your BeReal. posts. They’re real cute.”

For a fact you know so well, Connor’s confession comes as a pleasant surprise, one that shallows your breaths and quickens your pulse. It makes you reflect back on before, when all was platonic and the comment wouldn’t have made you bat an eyelash. Now, your skin tingles and you’re struggling to find the words to encapsulate your affection past your dry mouth. So, like many others in your position, you settle for a safe reply.

“Aren’t you a charmer?” you roll your eyes, brushing off his grasp because you might combat otherwise, projecting your attention ahead of you to come face-to-face with Brandon, who despite the engaging conversation he shares with Owen, his eyes skirt over to you.

You look away, even more flustered than before.

It’s just your luck when you hear Judy’s tap incessantly against an old microphone that you have something else to hold your focus, eyes brimming with glee as she announces the dances for the night and their updated partner songs. Last time you were here, they were still playing their beloved country hits and you danced along thanks to the amounts of alcohol you consumed, but their new playlist of pop hits within the past decade or so, you’re more motivated than ever to tear apart the dance floor.

“If you ain’t shy to do a little two step, please make your way to the dancefloor please.” Judy grins into her mic, tipping her cowboy hat as patrons make their way over to the illuminated space.

Connor makes way for you to exit the booth, your boots hitting the ground as you iron out any kinks in your outfit. Amidst your actions, you catch other movements out of the corner of your eyes, to which you find Connor playing with the ends of your bow this time round. There’s always been something so sweet and tender about him - in the way clouds are amongst a blue sky, in the way laughter spills over so easily in the presence of a found family and in how harmonies make you feel as if you're floating. But, it’s never been like this before, this intense and vivd. In a way that rids you of all thought and scares you beyond your deepest fears all at once. You’re still finding your footing in this new territory, a plain that speaks to the existence of your feelings but has no road nor destination. It’s a simple plain you seek to find some end to, picking up clues along the way that predetermine what the future holds. At the beginning, the animosity scared you pale and grey. Now, the end is what grasps your fear in a fierce chokehold. To pry yourself from the jaws of unhinged anxiety, you allow yourself to relax, to seep into the present and take it for what it's worth because the end is unknown and you’re not there yet. Not by any measure of time, you hope.

“Kick butt out there, rockstar.” His big smile deepens the soft lines of his face, a pure display of pride in his features as he gives you a pat on the back and gives way for you to shine.

It’s small, insignificant in the grand scale of things, but your smile deepens too and you nearly float to the dancefloor, adrenaline rushing through your body as the DJ prepares the upcoming music.

As you settle in line, you feel a light pressure lay upon the crown of your head, eyes darting to find Charlotte in the line next to you, giving you a wink before she faces forwards, thumbs slotted through the loops of her flare jeans. Her straw cowboy hat no longer, you reach up to find said object upon your head and with a chuckle behind your hand, your thumbs hang on your belt loops and let the music guide you.

It’s only when you’ve done your first turn that you realise that Brandon has also decided to join the line dance, huffs of amusement sounding from you as he glides and slides with a confidence dusted with his normal dash of comedy.

When Judy announces it's time for the partner dance, it’s your cue to catch your breath as you plan to evacuate the dancefloor. As mentioned earlier by Charlotte, the pretty sandy brown haired man who’d bought her a drink earlier in the night circles his arms around her waist as she gives him a smitten grin. You beam at the endearing sight, about to make your way towards your booth but are stopped in your tracks as a calloused hand clasps around your wrist.

Brandon’s expression is more sheepish than you’ve ever seen, his eyes distracted as they wander away from you. You raise an eyebrow.

“Who says the night has to end here, sugar?” His voice trembles partially, its edge lost in the coyness lining his smile as he finally looks at you with a dazzle of hope in his eyes.

A momentary pause delays your response, the moment used to turn the cogs in your head and sneak a glance back at your booth, where Connor was last you saw him, eyes trained on you as he simply watches the interaction. Under the weight of his gaze, a creeping sense of embarrassment climbs up your back, scolding the skin. You’re about to give your reply when the music starts up and Brandon speaks again.

“Put this desperado out of his misery and allow me this one dance?”

It’s so cheesy, maybe even idiotic - the words he proposes to you but he’s trying and that’s what appeals to you most, warms your heart and sways your response as you send him a nod that has Brandon cheesing ear to ear, his hand leading the way as you two fall in line.

You haven’t had much experience line dancing with a partner, the closest experience to this being a night you barely remember, happily back sliding with a fifty year old local in your college town bar who wanted to feel young again. Regardless of the fact, there’s no time to mull it over as the music already starts and your fingers are interlocking, matching up with the rest of the duos as you dance, cowboy boots stomping as you make a scene.

In all the commotion of heavy stops and ongoing thumps of Rihanna’s ‘S&M’, Brandon manages to catch your attention, mirroring your movements to a tee.

“You and Connor don’t do this much, do you?” he queries.

“You kidding me? Connie has two left feet, I’d be left for dead if it wasn’t for Charlotte.” You yell over the blaring upbeat country music, arms extended as Brandon glides you further away from his figure.

“Good thing I’m here tonight.” jesters Brandon, and you laugh along because you’re tipsy and having a lot more fun than you imagined.

Despite your familiarity with the dance routine you two execute to a tee, you’re caught off guard when Brandon brings you inwards, bracing you against his hard chest before his arm circles around the circumference of your lower back, holding you steady as he dips your body slightly. Your foot is kicked out, your (Charlotte’s) straw hat’s fallen to the scuffed dancefloor and you’ve just had the wind knocked straight out of you, eyes feverishly searching for answers as the bar falls to a hush.

You’re looking in each other’s eyes now, chest heaving and high off the adrenaline pumping through your veins from all that dancing. All time ceases to exist and it’s just two of you, sharing laboured breaths and looking for any cues for how this will end. It appears as if you’re in your own head at this point, combing through a thousand possibilities all at once to respond however you see fit. Thankfully for you, Brandon breaks the silence.

“One night and one night only.”

The sentence sends shivers down your spine and you’re pretty sure Brandon feels you quiver in his arms as he gives a brief chuckle, hauling you up onto your two feet and bringing you back to reality. You don’t really find their footing after that.

The rest of your time at Punch & Judy’s passes by in a flash, more pints being consumed over your group’s loud chatter as the night stretches on. Charlotte and her blue eyed companion indulge in another dance before he’s whisking her back to the bar and paying for everyone’s next set of drinks - bless his heart. He introduces himself as Jack, a new face in town and as he and the boys exchange pleasantries, the wild eyed non-verbal dialogue you engage in pieces together Charlotte’s sentiment and if it isn’t enough, when Jack makes his departure, she gives him a kiss on the cheek and bides him a coy farewell, a promise to meet in the next coming days on her tongue. One thing is certain, when Jack makes his exit from the bar, the door shutting behind him, you’re yelling and shaking each other’s shoulders in glee, stupidly happy and sharing that with one another.

Your table has their last drinks and before you know it, you’re being squeezed into the back of Owen’s pickup truck, sandwiched between Charlotte and Connor whilst Owen and Brandon sit up front. Over the murmured sounds of slow alternative music, you get bits and pieces of their conversation, the two excitedly talking about their shared love for Legos and the most they’ve splurged on one set. You shake your head with a laugh, going to share your merriment with Charlotte, only to find her soundly asleep, a light snore bypassing her punch pink lips.

“How you holdin’ up, champ?” Connor’s low voice draws you in, a slight head turn in his direction. “Don’t think I’ve seen you dance like that since we were ten and begging our parents to have a sleepover.”

The image is so vivid in your brain, two wide eyed kids that held hands as they begged and pleaded to have a sleepover, only for their polite request to be refused. Taking matters into your own hands, you dragged your parents’ big hands into the living room, where in front of them and an oblivious Connor, turned on MTV and danced to some popular song of the time. Lucky for you, it worked. Unluckily, Connor would hold that over your head forever onwards.

You’re cringing into your hand, face mangled in discomfort as you wish away the reality of you doing that away. “One of us had to convince them. Plus, it worked, didn’t it?”

“I can’t argue with that,” Connor laughs behind a fist before his hand falls to his side, a moment of quiet between you two. “You and Brandon seem to be hitting it off.”

A single eyebrow raises to express your confusion, perplexed frown prominent not because of his statement which is completely true, but because there’s an edge to his voice - something unfamiliar and cold in the way he says his words - a tone you’ve yet to hear, even after all these years. Uncertain how to proceed, you choose to be cautious about the matter, selecting your words carefully.

“He’s nice,” you state, because Brandon is but something in you twists uncomfortably, feels the recognizable pangs of embarrassment as you’re subjected to uttering this out loud. Or rather, in front of Connor. A betrayal of some sorts. “You were right about him fitting right in with us.”

There’s a strange shift in the air in the backseat of the car, the once peaceful quiet now becoming increasingly heavy and awkward as your words hang in the air like knives. Connor absorbs your words, stare averted as he watches his fingers fiddle with the lock of the door on the windowsill. You run your palms against the material of your denim shorts because you don’t know what to do with them otherwise.

It’s only when you’ve scratched the back of your neck, eyes stiffly roaming the interior of the car that Connor replies. “Yeah..I guess I just didn’t know how well.”

You’re about to ask him what he means by that, going to press him but Owen’s suddenly shut off the truck, his blinding interior lights turning on and him killing the ignition, alerting you of your arrival. Connor climbs out before your vision reverts back to normal, so you put the matter on pause and softly wake up Charlotte who sheepishly wipes away dried drool at the corner of her lips and climbs out the pick-up with you. You’re about to shut the door behind you, though someone beats you to it.

“I got it.” Brandon’s husky voice sounds from behind you, the slam of the door following.

You send an appreciative smile his way, perhaps a bit of timidity mixed in there too, turning to include Charlotte in any possible conversation to come, only to find her halfway up the porch stairs of Connor’s house.

How is it always the two of you left alone?

“Let’s head in, it’s chilly out here.” suggests Brandon, you falling in line with his request as the beginnings of goosebump dot your arms, the roughness of your skin hitting an all time high as Brandon’s large hand falls to the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs into the cosy and quaint house.

Hums of conversation lead from the back porch of Connor’s house, the presence of your friends known as you wordlessly navigate your way through the halls of Connor’s house, hallways and framed pictures you’ve committed to memory. When you’ve made your way to the kitchen, you find Owen nursing a cool bottled water, hair tousled and cheeks dusted in pink.

“There you two are,” announces Owen, fingers threading through the waves of his brown hair. “Everyone’s out back - apparently, Quinn’s out back too.”

You waste no time beelining for the backyard, the sudden weight of your reality dawning on you the second you stepped through Connor’s doorway, a cold shower of water easing you out of the mirage you’ve impulsively floated in. Once you’re outside, the cool air sinking into your skin, you spying the usual suspects - Quinn, Charlotte and Connor gathered together around a fire Quinn boasts about making. His glee is short lived.

“That boy scouts training finally coming in handy, huh?” Charlotte banters, a suppressed smirk sneaking amongst her features as she takes a seat in one of the camping chairs surrounding the fire.

“You laugh now but when you need someone to tie an impossible knot and survive off the land, don’t come running to me.” responds Quinn, taking a swig of his beer as Charlotte holds her hands up in surrender, laughing regardless.

You’re about to turn on your heels to head back inside, retrieving a beverage of your own, but a familiar call of your name is stopping you in your tracks.

“I’ve got your cider here,” alerts Connor, expression indifferent as he approaches you to hand off a can of your favourite berry cider and a bottle of water. “Blankets are on the chairs too.”

It’s embarrassing how much you want to melt into this man’s arms right now. Nonetheless, for reasons you know all too well, you express your gratitude in a toothy grin that he mirrors with a closed mouth, pulling you down into the camping chair beside his.

Soon enough, Brandon and Owen are sitting round the fire too and your night ends like this, light-hearted discussions under the stars as the heat from the open flame soothes your heavy eyelids closed. Whilst you’re mildly awake, you don’t miss the glances you and Bradon trade over the sandstone fire, loaded questions in his eyes. Had this been any other occasion, any other person not linked to Connor, any other reality where your current feelings didn’t exist for Connor, then there would be no questions asked, blossoms of wine doting both your necks come tomorrow morning. Alias, these were not the conditions and simply lounged in your camping chair, hoping Brandon didn’t look your way every time Connor’s hand would play with the bows in your hair.

-

Arm hanging out of his shiny porcelain white pick-up truck, Brandon squints as the rays from the blistering sun reflect into his eyes. Having said their goodbyes earlier, Connor and Brandon dab each other up with good-natured smiles before Brandon throws his focus over to you, standing with a bit more awkwardness than you’d like.

“Take care, Lady in bows,” Brandon says, a well-mannered nod sent your way with a closed mouth smile. “Don’t give Dewey a hard time. He’ll come round.”

For a split second, you’re eyeing him as if his face contains all the answers, but when he gives you that knowing look, the same one Charlotte and your mother give you any time Connor’s name is mentioned - you know. Know all too well and blush as a result, head snapping behind you to see if Connor’s within earshot. Thankfully, he’s in the middle of chatting with his brother, hands in his pocket as Quinn points off into the distance. You circle back to Brandon, the apples of his cheeks clear as day as he snickers like he’s been told a secret.

It’s as if this best kept secret brings you infinitely closer, your walls falling as you begin to bare the depth of your sentiment surrounding Connor. There’s no more beating around the bush, so you lower your head as you kick at the rocks at your feet. “You think so?”

You hate how small your voice comes out, meek and questioning everything known to man. It’s unfamiliar and not to mention, uncomfortable in every aspect of the word. Alias, Brandon sees you - catches the vulnerability you’ve shared with him and embraces you with a kindness that ushers a relieved sigh from you as he responds back.

“I’d bet my NASA Space Shuttle lego set on it.” Brandon banters, smirk soft and small.

So, he’s serious. Very serious, it seems because you know how treasured the item is to him. You exhale a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

“Thanks, Brandon,” you breath, coyness coating your cheeks as your hands fall behind your back, your fingers tangling. “Don’t go fighting no alligators.”

“We can only hope,” Brandon gives his side-door a smack, rounding up everyone’s attention. “I’m hitting the road, fellas. Enjoy the fair for me, yeah?”

A chorus of agreements go off from behind you before Brandon gives one more salute, speeding off into the canary yellow sun. The small crowd outside Connor’s house disperses and regroups again later on that day, refreshed and ready to attend the local fair held every summer and the highlight of the year.

The fair lives up to its expectations, grand and joyful with a variety of rides ranging from teacups to a catapult-like ride that swings back and forth and then upside down. You’re distracted by all the colours, the sights and sounds that you’re so oblivious to what goes on right before you, until your vision is shrouded in black and your face is submerged in fluff.

Retracting, you blink your eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, lips parting as you stare at the massive latte-coloured teddy bear that Connor presents to you, the rest of your friends nearby taking their turns at the darts board way ahead of them.

He must see you struggle to find the words, his grin infectious as he jests, “I think I’ve finally out-conned the concessionaires.”

You must look like an idiot, or a deer in the headlights as Charlotte jokes, disbelief strikingly apparent on your face as you reach for the souvenirs, the fluffy animal so cosy in your arms and melting your heart into a big puddle of goo. “Thank you, Con.”

“Don’t mention it.” a smile plays tenderly on his lips, the sheer kindness he captures in his sage eyes enough to make your pulse race and head spin.

After the thoughtful gesture, your high spirits cannot be tamed as you indulge in every little thing your heart desires - laughing a little harder, smiling a little wider and stuffing your cheeks full of hearty food that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. Charlotte basks in your glee, speaking of a glow you radiate as she snaps photos of your stuffed cheeks, a knowing smirk on her lips as she hands you your teddy bear once your food is finished. You don’t reply, exchanging words through your glances as you make your way towards the second bit of rides the boys want to try.

“Wait, isn’t that…?”

As Quinn’s voice trails off into the distance, you find yourself turning in the exact direction where he directs your view, eyes landing on a pair of figures - one being Connor and the other being, Amelia, Connor’s ex-girlfriend from high school and most notably, his last girlfriend. Her waves of blond hair glisten in the sunshine, something like a Renaissance painting. Her smile bright and wide as she greets Connor with an enthusiastic hug, a hug you feel lasts longer than necessary.

They then go on to immerse themselves in conversation, and for the life of you, you can’t look away - pry your jealous eyes away nor dry swallow this bitter pill because she’s still so into him. Hands familiar and all over him, leaning in when she gets the chance and beaming like she’s won the lottery. In all fairness, her life’s been such a tale - excelling academically, incredibly driven in all sports and other extracurricular activities that garnered her attention. And such a kind spirit too, always there to help no questions asked that it made you physically sick that you could foster any ill feelings towards her, because she’s such a light and maybe Connor would see that too. As he did when they were together.

You’re too busy losing yourself in a sea of self pity that you don’t notice Charlotte's attempts to snag your attention nor other things at first, your illegitimate fears getting the best of you but as your posture stoops, your eyes floating everywhere around the busy fair that it pauses on Connor’s figure. Once immersed in conversation, he appears distracted, indifferent somehow as his attention wanders, wanders over to you as his line of sight floats over to you from time to time as the conversation stretches on. At first, you think it’s your mind playing tricks on you, feeding into delusions that’ll soothe your pity party, but at some point, he holds your gaze, giving Amelia a pat on the back before he’s jogging over to where your friendship group is, not even uttering a word as he slots himself between you and Owen.

“What was that about?” Quinn just has to ask.

“Oh, Amelia just wanted to catch up,” he sounds distracted, his mind elsewhere but you don’t dare to indulge, your sight directed elsewhere as you grip onto the plush teddy bear as if it were a lifeline. “She says hi, by the way.”

You don’t do much listening after that, tuning out all the colours and sounds of the fair as you ride the highs and lows of what your life has become.

-

A sense of urgency plagues you from that day forth, a hurriedness in your actions as your anxieties get the better of you, going from lounging around in day old pyjamas covered in crumbs and mystery stains to getting a head start on your master’s personal statement and running every errand you’ve been procrastinating. Your parents swear you’ve become a different person - venturing outside the house before noon to visit the bank to change your address or go get your car serviced. Perhaps seeing Connor with Amelia was the jump start you needed to stop relishing in instant gratification, distracting yourself from facing any sort of music that pertained to the future and all its question marks. You still hang out with the others, more so Charlotte as you spend a few afternoons at the lake with one another, feet dangling into the water as she updates you on her adventures with Jack.

It’s the first time someone’s pursued her with such sincerity and charm that she’s hesitant about his authenticity. And yet from the sounds of it, Jack doesn’t mind one bit and shows his patience as they get to know each other, the smitten man taking your best friend on dates that further solidify their connection. You couldn’t be any happier for your best friend, this kind of treatment a long time coming, all of which you express just to see her blush and dive into the cold lake water to avoid further talks. You chase after her, teasing her mercilessly as the thoughts still linger at the back of your mind - your own sentiment with regards to Connor and what has come from the change of heart.

Emotional anguish and so much fear you’re not sure what to do with yourself. It takes a week of mulling things over, his missing presence due to off-season hockey training for you to make up your mind, peeling into his driveway and hiding your apprehension behind a strained smile as he greets you at the door. You preoccupy every bit of silence with running chatter, because you don’t want to hear yourself think, a multitude of topics discussed over vodka pasta you make together before you’re finding your way into his bedroom, the early evening sky greeting you as he flicks on his buttermilk bedside lamp.

He brings out his guitar, the same one you gifted Connor two years ago at the height of his newly-found hobby and plucks the strings, creating a melody you compel yourself to relax into, somehow ending up sandwiched in between him and the guitar as he directs your fingers to play one of your favourite songs, just because.

Apparently, your shaky hands don’t make for good playing material.

“You’re shaking like a leaf, you cold or something?” notes Connor, his looming presence over your body sending you into overdrive, your skin feverish and mind imploding from overwork.

“This is different.” you annouce, because it is. Unlike times before, it didn’t mean as much to be alone in his bedroom with him, getting glimpses into the life he’s lived and who he is as a person through all his possessions. You could handle the casual intimacy - the soft spoken whispers, the unprovoked kindness, the skin to skin contact that didn’t send your heart into a series of flutters. Now, all you can do is bat an eyelash, many at that, and this you must make known. For the selfish reasons you can think of.

“What d’ya mean?” he mumbles, clearly distracted and known the wiser to his breath fanning over your neck, goosebumps rising against your skin as your body grows rigid against his.

So acutely aware of your proximity, of the bursting feelings that thud at the confinement of your chest, your thoughts scatter like glass. “This, Connor. Being like this…with you.”

That strikes a chord with Connor, his motions ceasing altogether as his hands drop from the guitar and you’re forced to face the music. Sink your teeth into this undeniable truth that’s followed you all these years and you’ve been too blind to see. Confront the holy truth that maybe there was more divine work intertwined in your story with Connor, that maybe the universe wrote you two as one heart as opposed to two. That, as the summer days ticked by, the sun seeping into your skin, your love grew for Connor like molasse - slow and thick and palpable that once you were aware of its existence, that’s all that consumed you. Coated in his syrupy love, an endless desire.

You’re facing your best friend in spite of the hellish screams in your mind to play this off as some random mood swing, a joke even, because laughter follows you two everywhere, right? But, you know. Know better than anybody else that Connor knows you, like the back of his hand. Sees right through any charade you may jester him with, so any attempts to divert the conversation are as pointless as anything. Your confession starts and ends here.

A flicker of concern mixes in the dark of his eyes, hands clasped together with a crease in between his eyebrows. “I don’t follow.”

A full body sigh draws out of you, shoulders sagging and back curving, your hands casting aside the acoustic guitar with caution. You’re back to staring at each other, in the silence of the night, caged in between four walls that burn your eyes white as you once again grapple with your innumerable feelings and the finality of it all - this longing.

“Don’t you think,” you croak, question in your eyes as you look up at Connor, stifling any rise in emotion within you. “-this summer has been different?”

His sage eyes cast away, pink lips settling into a pout as he racks his brain for whatever answer you may be looking for. “No? Maybe? I don’t know.”

He adds on, looking back at you as he leans closer without fault. “Is this because it’s your last summer before you graduate?”

Connor’s got a point. When you’re trying to kid yourself into not having romantic feelings for your childhood best friend, your mind wanders to places where it has more control. Plans for after college, what modules you’ll be taking, what societies you want to join, what last things you’d like to cross off your list before you’re forced into full fledged adulthood. It’s a thought that lingers ever so presently at the back of your mind, like background music stuck on loop, but ultimately, Connor has missed his mark and you tell him so.

“Partially, but,” you wet your lips, struggling to find the words again as the burn against your cheeks proves to be insufferable. “This is what’s been on my mind more than anything else.”

Your point is accentuated by your single finger gesturing between the two of you, a poor attempt at best to foster some sort of confession of your romantic feelings. Because it's so scary, lending these thoughts your voice because they become much more real, spoken aloud for his ears to hear and his heart to see. For his heart to feel and what then? What awaits you once your confession reaches his ears? The unknown is scary, chilling to the bone and you wish to shroud yourself from it as long as there’s daylight.

There’s a beat before you hear Connor’s voice again. “What about us?”

Hearing him vocalise those three words makes the moment so real, so vividly intense that it sends chills down your spine and slows your laboured breath, the thump of your heart all you can hear aside from the ticking clock against Connor’s bedside table. It ticks and ticks, signifying the curtain call to your summer long charade.

“Connor, I..” It’s as if the magnitude of your feelings have manifested into some beast, with razor-like fangs and sharp claws that slash at the confinements of your chest, the words of love dying on the tip of your tongue as the moments hangs over your head like a gauntlet. You’ve never been so scared before, driven nearly to tears as your desperate hands grip at the material of your hoodie to ground yourself in some sort of way whilst you try to push yourself. To see this through until the very end and leave the destination unknown.

“We’ve been friends our entire lives. I don’t know anything beyond being with you and I never wanted to, and I feel like that means so much more than it did years ago,” his eyes are on you, undivided attention served on a silver platter that you turn away from, for its sincerity and shine. “Maybe, I did know deep down inside what I know now all those years ago. Like when I cried and begged for you not to leave the Pas. Or when you held my hand any chance you got when we were kids, or anytime you smiled at me really that let me know I always liked you. Maybe, even love you - I don’t know. But, what I do know is that I just couldn’t leave for Calgary without letting you know. Even if that means…”

You don’t have the heart to utter your next words, a dagger to the heart at even the possibility of losing your best friend and partner in crime. Perhaps, it isn’t worth saying - this whole grand love confession because this is a risk you’re not ready to face. However, despite your thundering heart against your bruised chest and however many times you’re second guessing yourself here, the weight lifted from your words is undeniable. An unspoken truth that had been set free, that needed to be set free - whatever the fallout may be.

A snicker snaps you out of your deep seated fears, your scattered daze settling on the view before you, one you had least expected. Connor, eyes cast away from yours as he huffs into his hands, a laugh you’re undecided where it derives from.

“…Are you laughing at me right now?” You feel awful for even asking such a ridiculous question. At the same time, you’ve just been as vulnerable as you’ve ever been in your entire life - some hesitancy is to be expected.

At your question, Connor’s huffs of delight cease and stares at you at alarm, realising his mistake. “God, no. Fuck, I’m so sorry, I just-”

“You used to rub dirt on me, and now you're proclaiming your love for me,” an airy laugh puffs out of his moving chest, a mixture of disbelief and amusement painted amongst his chiselled features. “It’s a bit of an adjustment.”

He seems…happy? Relieved? You’re not really sure, but what you at least find peace in is that there’s no sunken look about him, no expression worn that conveys disappointment and hurt because that’s all you’d have to see to know where his heart lies.

“Good or bad?” you ask.

His eyes bounce back to yours, those same olive eyes you’ve spent years looking into, glimmer with a sparkle that you’ve yet to see and robs you of rational thinking as your heartbeat picks up the pace.

“Good,” he whispers, like it’s a secret for just the two of you - one that is small and fragile, but so special and cherished that it makes your heart squeeze. “Because, there’s no one else I’d rather be with. Not by a long shot.”

You swear you could cry, burst like a dam and drown in your tears that overflow with such joy and relief because this is it for you. So right and settled, being where you’ve always meant to be - so loved and treasured by the one person who knows you better than yourself, someone who’s seen you at your most awkward and at your worst, and loves you because he has. Because he’s seen it all and wants to spend the remainder of his life doing so, a conscious choice he makes everyday because he loves you and you love him.

You’re unsure how you’ve ended up like this, limbs curled up in your lover’s lap as he cups your cheeks, rough thumb caressing the skin as his love shines through his gaze that blows his iris’ out of view. He looks so beautiful like this, unabashed and vulnerable, secure in love and what destiny holds for you. He looks at you as if you colour his skies and spin his world round and just like that, you lose yourself in him. Thread your fingers through his strands of umber brown and kiss him like you mean it. Kiss him long and hard, and with everything you have because it’s long overdue, so needed that you melt into him, lips overlapping as you taste destiny on his tongue.

The story of you and him, a tale as old as time.

[highdefinitions]

the idiots list was severely outdated so here is what else i’ve collected over time

the matt boldy cannot swim propaganda lives on..

[husshow]

the russian five - keith gave

lites // getty // guralnick // guralnick // gonzalez // khl media

[genoisscore71]

Cross posting my 'The Russian Five as Kpop Group Tropes' here bc I'm proud of it but I have no following on twt (or on here either but... we love tags!) but also bc I need to know if someone sees my vision (begging)

https://x.com/genoisscore71/status/1881385609283183084?t=u_CdYjlgdHBeAG3tXDaRfQ&s=19

If you enjoyed and have twt, pls consider following bc I am always looking for new friends 🫶🫶

[wannabehockeygf]

Capital Hearts | B. Duhaime

Part of City Lights, Hockey Nights

"The real rulers in Washington are invisible, and exercise power from behind the scenes." -> Felix Frankfurter

***

Request: "Hey!! I saw that u wanted to write for dewey(1) and I was wondering if you could do something like forced proximity for him and city lights hockey nights? Ty!!" Summary: Guys in suits are boring until you get stuck with a man you just met, who somehow already infuriates you. Word Count: 6.3k Pairing: Brandon Duhaime x fem!reader Warnings: alcohol, Brandon being an idiot Notes: - using the Minnesota tag to get more engagement sorry for ur loss of the deweys:( - I re wrote this 3 times each with a new plot - Third and final attempt came out pretty good - I need more brandon love on this app pls he's so big and stupid - I tried so hard to research stuff to do in Washington but it was all like museums so I didn't rlly know where to set this... sorry to my dc folk. ***

You don’t want to be here.

 If the tight set of your jaw and the tension radiating down your spine didn’t already spell it out, then the way you keep tugging at the white corset your sister insisted you wear probably does. It’s way too tight, way too revealing for a night like this—or for a party you didn’t even agree to, for that matter. But that’s your sister for you: filthy rich (through marriage, of course), with a hyperactive streak that could put a Chihuahua to shame.

You, on the other hand, are her undeniable opposite. Quiet, reserved, and barely holding it together as you juggle your shaky job and a Dupont Circle studio apartment that’s one leaky faucet away from complete collapse. Your kitten heels click softly on the glossy marble floor of her mansion as you make your way to the bar, the only thing that could make this night slightly more tolerable. You pass clusters of people who look like they belong in an episode of Suits: men in expensive suits, women with expertly manicured nails and engagement rings the size of ping pong balls. Their wives hang on their arms like prized trophies, each one eyeing you suspiciously as you pass. Not that you blame them; they’re draped in silk and diamonds, and you’re just… well, here, silently begging for the night to end. First, you note that your sister is nowhere to be found, probably lost in the crowd or holding court in some overly decorated lounge in a far wing of the mansion. And second, you’re the only single woman here. Fantastic.

Resigned, you steer yourself towards the bar. Maybe you can knock back one or two drinks, loosen up a bit, then duck out early. A bartender is stationed behind it, crafting some glittering cocktail for a guy in loafers who probably has “CEO” in his Instagram bio. Ignoring him, you give the bartender a tight smile. “Whiskey sour, please.”

You take the drink the second it’s handed over and cling to it like a lifeline. You take one sip, then another, wishing it would magically speed up time. The whiskey burns just enough to distract you from the corset, the music, the fact that your sister is mysteriously absent, and especially from the nagging feeling that everyone here knows you don’t belong.

And then, out of nowhere, a hand slides to the small of your back, lingering just a second too long. A smooth voice follows, practically dripping with charm: “Didn’t mean to startle you, sweetheart.”

Your grip on the glass tightens. “No problem.” You force a polite smile and shift your weight, inching away from the warmth of his hand still pressed against your lower back. He’s tall, wearing that slick, half-buttoned-down shirt that guys who think they’re God’s gift to women love so much. A self-satisfied grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you can already tell he thinks he’s smooth.

Just your luck.

The guy flashes an infuriatingly perfect smile at the bartender, raising two fingers. “Vodka cranberry, extra lime.”

You swallow down a groan and take another sip, praying he’ll get his drink and go. But before you even have the chance to move, someone shoves him from behind. And, as if the universe had it out for you tonight, his drink goes flying—all over your white corset top.

You stare down at the cold, sticky mess on your chest, disbelief simmering into something dangerously close to rage.

“Oh, come on—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You absolute creep,” you snap, finally unleashing everything you’ve been bottling up all night. “First of all, maybe consider asking before you just shove your hand on someone’s back, alright? And—sweetheart? Really? Am I supposed to be charmed by that?” Your voice is rising now, each word coming out sharper than the last. “And now, thanks to you, I look like I’ve been doused in whatever you just had to order. If you knew what it took to even get into this corset—”

He opens his mouth, probably to offer some half-baked apology, but you’re nowhere near done. “Do you know what this is made of? I don’t even want to think about the dry cleaning cost, and I sure as hell won’t be the one paying it, that’s for damn sure.”

The people around you have stopped to watch, wide-eyed and thoroughly entertained, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything, really—except getting out of here and leaving this whole mess behind.

“Forget it,” you huff, turning on your heel. “Stay out of my way, or you’re next in line to buy me a new corset.”

With every determined step, you push your way past gawking onlookers and eventually slip into a hallway that’s thankfully free of the high-society crowd. You finally locate a guest bathroom, quickly sliding in and closing the door behind you. When you catch your reflection, you feel like a walking horror story. A sticky, cranberry-stained horror story.

“Oh, perfect,” you mutter to yourself, turning on the sink and patting at the red blotches that now mar the crisp white of your corset with a towel. You grimace, rubbing at the mess, but the juice only seems to bleed deeper into the fabric. “Could this night get any worse?”

Just as the words leave your mouth, the door swings open, and he steps in. Again.

You freeze mid-rub, turning to face him. “Are you kidding me? Are you following me now?”

“Following you?” He raises an eyebrow, holding up his hands. “The door was unlocked. I just need to wash my hands.”

“Really?” you snap. “You decided to barge in here while I’m busy scrubbing your drink off my shirt because you need to wash your hands?”

“Look,” he says, his calmness somehow grating on your nerves even more, “I’m not here to apologize, okay? Every other bathroom is locked, and I thought I’d—”

“Thought you’d what?” You’re half-yelling again, voice bouncing off the tiled walls. “Thought you’d saunter into the bathroom I’m clearly using?”

His jaw tenses, but he manages a calm reply. “Can we take it down a notch, sweetheart?”

You feel a new wave of indignation. “Don’t call me that.”

He tilts his head, looking almost amused again. “Fine. I don’t even know your name, so I’ll call you whatever I want. Now, I’ll wash my hands and get out of your hair.” He steps toward the sink beside you, reaching for the tap—and when he’s done, just as he makes a move to leave, he tugs at the door handle, and it comes clean off in his hand.

For a beat, you both just stare at the detached handle, suspended in his grip as the realization dawns on you both. You meet his gaze, hoping he has some genius idea to fix this, but he just raises his brows, an “oops” written all over his face.

You let out an incredulous laugh, more like a wheeze, because of course this would happen tonight—of all nights, in your sister’s over-the-top mansion, complete with designer doorknobs that apparently cost a fortune but couldn’t be bothered to work. “Wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you try to swallow down the panic, “My sister marries into obscene wealth, but can she afford a door that doesn’t trap people in bathrooms? Apparently not.”

His eyebrows lift as he tries to follow your rant. “Look, it’s just a handle. Let’s not blow this out of proportion.”

Your eyes snap to his, heat flashing behind them. “Excuse me? You break the doorknob, I’m the one covered in vodka, and I’m supposed to ‘not blow it out of proportion’?”

He leans back slightly, hands raised as if he’s handling an untamed animal, and says, “Okay, I’m sorry. Really. Let’s just…think about this.” He pauses, probably gauging how likely you are to throw a punch. “Look, just breathe, alright?”

You take a sharp inhale, determined to hold on to your indignation. But when he reaches out, settling his hands on your shoulders to steady you, it jolts you from your thoughts. For a second, you consider chewing him out again for the contact, but the weight of his hands and his calm gaze are surprisingly grounding.

You stare up at him, chest heaving, but instead of firing off another biting comment, your mind goes curiously blank. Up close, his face is a mosaic of little details you hadn’t noticed before: a light dusting of freckles along his nose bridge, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and hooded brown eyes that are… softer than they have any right to be. His mouth quirks just slightly, the hint of a dimple on one cheek. Damn it. He’s attractive. Very attractive.

He’s watching you with that same calm expression, waiting for you to snap out of whatever spiral he must think you’re in. “You good now?”

With an annoyed huff, you jerk out of his grip, crossing your arms tighter around yourself. “You broke the handle. Fix it.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes but still looking a bit amused, and gestures to your sister’s obviously high-end bathroom. “Right. So, call your sister and get us out of here?”

You scoff, letting out a dry laugh. “Sure, I’ll just reach right into my magically invisible pockets and—oh wait.” You point at the wall, to what you hope is the purse you left at the bar, then your outfit. “I don’t have my phone.”

He winces, looking slightly sheepish now. “Ah. That…is inconvenient.”

“You think?”

For a beat, he glances around, like maybe there’s a secret door out of here. Finally, he pulls his own phone from his pocket. “Fine. I’ll call someone.”

Before he even has the chance to dial, you decide he deserves at least a little payback. Without giving it a second thought, you shove him. Not hard—more of a frustrated, I’ll-show-you push. He doesn’t budge much, but it’s just enough that his phone slips out of his hand, sailing right into the toilet with a splash.

His mouth falls open, his gaze swinging from the toilet back to you, stunned silence hanging between you both. You feel a twisted sense of satisfaction—and then horror, because, okay, maybe that was a bit much.

You both stand there for a second in absolute silence. Then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he looks at you, genuinely impressed. “Alright. That, you can’t blame me for, sweetheart.” Your chest tightens, anger mixing with a fresh wave of embarrassment as you process what just happened. You stare at his drenched phone in the toilet, a silent moment of mutual disbelief hanging in the air. He’s looking at you with a blend of shock and something that might almost be… amusement? But there’s no way you’re going to let him see how mortified you are.

“Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed tonight,” you snap, your voice trembling more with frustration than anything else. You take a step back, clutching your soaked corset, which is becoming colder and stickier by the second. “Now we’re trapped in a bathroom with no working phone, no handle, and… no sense of personal boundaries, apparently.”

He chuckles, a low, maddening sound that only fuels the fire simmering in your veins. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I get it. But yelling isn’t going to change anything. With the music blasting and us being this far from the main crowd, no one’s going to hear you.”

You whip your head toward him, a surge of determination rising. “Oh, believe me, they’re going to hear me.”

You turn to the door and start pounding, your fist making a satisfying thud against the wood. “Help!” you yell, leaning into each desperate, furious knock. “Hey! Anyone out there? I need to get out of here!”

For a moment, you pause, hoping you’ll hear footsteps, voices—anything. But nothing. Just the muffled thump of bass that drowns out any sound of your pleas for help. You cast a scathing look over your shoulder at him, your jaw set, and nod toward his broad shoulders and impressively muscular frame. “Well, if we’re so far away, why don’t you try breaking it down?”

He blinks, taken aback, and glances down at his own physique as if he’s only just realized he could, in theory, be of some use. “Oh, so now you’re okay with me helping?” he drawls, but there’s a hint of a smirk beneath his words.

You glare at him, crossing your arms as your anger and frustration continue to simmer. “I didn’t ask for your company, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for your ‘help,’ but if you’re going to be here, you may as well make yourself useful.”

A little laugh escapes him, and he runs a hand through his hair, glancing from you to the door. “Alright, but I’m telling you, these doors are practically steel. This house is built like a fortress.”

“Then use those muscles for something other than looking pretty,” you snap, giving him an unamused, expectant look. You motion toward the door. “Go on. You’re not scared of a little bruise, are you?”

For a second, he only stares at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t realize you’d be so feisty,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

The comment makes you bristle, and you don’t miss a beat. “Just break the damn door already.”

With a sigh, he steps back, rolls his shoulders, and sizes up the door, as though weighing his options. Then he plants his feet, braces himself, and slams a shoulder into the wood. The door doesn’t budge. He frowns, readjusts, and tries again, harder this time. There’s a faint creak, but it’s clear this isn’t going to be an easy fix.

He pulls back, panting just slightly. “Alright, your sister might’ve cheaped out on the doorknob, but she sure didn’t on the door.”

You’re so close to snapping. “Seriously? You’re not even trying! Are you really telling me you can’t break a single door?”

“Hey, it’s not like they’re easy to break,” he snaps back, irritation finally flashing in his eyes. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”

You stare at him, caught between exasperation and sheer, unfiltered fury. “If I had a sledgehammer, I would.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, glaring each other down, your breathing shallow as you try to keep the rage under control. He lets out a long, low sigh, shaking his head, and for a moment, you think he’s about to try again, but instead, he outreaches his hand. “I’m Brandon, by the way.”

You stare at his outstretched hand as if it’s some kind of personal insult, narrowing your eyes. “Good for you, Brandon,” you snap, crossing your arms again and turning away, leaving him hanging. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—annoyance, maybe? Or maybe amusement, like he’s found this little spat between you far too entertaining. Either way, he lets his hand drop and shrugs, sinking down to sit against the vanity across from you.

Silence settles over the room, thick and heavy, and you feel the urge to fidget as you sit down, leaning back against the marble back wall. The cranberry juice is starting to feel tacky on your skin, and the corset is becoming more constricting by the second. You glance over at him—Brandon—just to see what he’s doing, but he’s absorbed in his own world.

He’s got his head tilted back while sitting, legs stretched out as he drums his fingers on his knee. Every now and then, he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, which is already sticking up in a dozen different directions from all the tugging. You find yourself studying him intently, and it’s infuriatingly distracting. The way he rolls his shoulders, almost like he’s trying to get comfortable but can’t, or the way his eyes dart around the room as if he’s looking for something to amuse himself. Anything, it seems, except looking at you.

Minutes crawl by. The silence digs under your skin, irritating you in a way you can’t ignore. Your mind whirls with a thousand things you want to say but don’t dare to. You try your best to hold on to that simmering anger, but the longer you sit in silence, the more it starts to fade, replaced with an almost embarrassing sense of curiosity.

Finally, it gets to be too much.

“Alright, fine,” you burst out, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You nearly cringe at your own voice, already regretting breaking the quiet. But now, he’s looking at you, brow raised, a hint of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Thought you’d never say something,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. He shifts slightly, turning to face you. “I was starting to wonder if you’d rather sit here all night sulking in silence.”

You scoff, crossing your arms tighter. “If the alternative is talking to you, maybe I would,” you mutter, half to yourself.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Ouch.” He tilts his head, eyeing you with that same teasing glint in his eyes. “What, you wanna play 20 questions? Like we’re in high school?” He asks it with a smirk, clearly expecting you to shut him down.

But, surprising even yourself, you shrug, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Sure. Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow, and you catch the brief flicker of surprise on his face before he turns it back into that easy confidence. “Wow, okay. Didn’t think you’d actually go for it,” he says, settling in a little more as he runs a hand through his hair again, which by now looks thoroughly disheveled. “Alright, I’ll go first. What’s your favorite color?”

You glance at him, mildly horrified. “Are you serious? Is that really your first question?”

He grins, looking far too pleased with himself. “Hey, I thought we were playing the high school version. That’s a classic.”

With a reluctant sigh, you roll your eyes. “Fine. Blue.” You pause, but curiosity gets the best of you, and you add, “Like, actual blue, not some fancy ‘cerulean’ or whatever my sister would call it.” He snorts at that, and you almost smile—almost.

“Alright, your turn,” he prompts, leaning forward with genuine interest.

“Alright… let’s see.” You tap your finger against your arm, thinking, before deciding to go for it. “Why did you even come to this party? Don’t tell me it’s because you actually enjoy mingling with these people.”

He laughs, leaning back again, looking vaguely sheepish. “Truth? I was told it was like a ‘team event’, but when I got here, it was just all rich guys in suits, investors or something, and most of my teammates are here with their girlfriends so I don’t really have anyone to talk to,” He probes your expression of confusion for a moment before continuing, “I play hockey for the Capitals. Here, in D.C.”

Your brain nearly short-circuits at his words. He’s a professional athlete? Of course, he is. It would explain the confidence, the sharp cheekbones, the way he fills out that half-unbuttoned shirt. You blink a few times, trying to process this new information, but all you can manage is a half-disbelieving laugh.

“Hockey? Really?” you ask, doing your best to sound unimpressed, even though the revelation has definitely thrown you off guard.

He chuckles, seemingly amused by your reaction. “Yep. Right wing for the Capitals. Not your type, huh?”

You try to keep your face neutral, but your curiosity gets the better of you. “So what, you’re one of those guys who gets in fights on the ice and spends a third of the game in the penalty box?”

He grins, the kind that lights up his whole face, and you hate how it makes something flutter in your chest. “Well, I prefer ‘enforcer,’ but yeah, something like that. It’s not all fights, though. Sometimes we actually play hockey.”

You scoff, feeling a little more at ease now. “Right. Sure. I bet you’re a real gentleman on the ice.”

“Always,” he says with mock sincerity, holding a hand to his chest. “I even help people up after I knock them down. Very polite.”

“Uh-huh.” You cross your arms again, trying to hide the smile threatening to break free. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you realize it’s your turn to ask a question. You quickly scramble for something lighthearted, but somehow, the first thing that comes out is more personal than you intended. “Do you even like it?”

His brow furrows, and he tilts his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Hockey,” you clarify. “Do you like playing, or is it just… you know, something you do because you’re good at it?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. For a moment, he just stares at you, his playful demeanor fading a little. “I do like it,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before. “It’s… complicated, though. There’s a lot of pressure. A lot of people counting on you, and sometimes it’s hard to separate what you want from what’s expected of you.”

You nod, feeling a strange sense of understanding. It’s not like you’re an NHL player or anything, but you know a thing or two about pressure—trying to make it in this city, keeping up appearances, pretending like you have it all together when in reality, you’re barely scraping by. “Yeah, I get that,” you say softly.

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—something that feels almost like recognition. “What about you?” he asks, his tone gentler now. “What do you do?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “I work in marketing. It’s not exactly my dream job, but it pays the bills—well, most of the time.”

He studies you for a moment, and you can feel his gaze lingering on your face. “Is that what you wanted to do? Marketing?”

You shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed by how small your voice sounds when you answer. “Not really. I wanted to do something more creative—writing, maybe—but, you know… life happens.” You shrug, trying to brush it off, but the admission makes you feel more vulnerable than you’re comfortable with.

Brandon leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you. “So why don’t you?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Why don’t I what?”

“Write,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You said that’s what you wanted to do, right?”

You stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s serious. “It’s not that easy,” you mutter, suddenly feeling defensive. “I can’t just drop everything and—”

“Why not?” he cuts in, his tone casual but curious. “I mean, you’re obviously smart. You’ve got opinions. Seems like you’d have a lot to say.”

Your cheeks flush, both from the unexpected compliment and the realization that he’s actually paying attention. “It’s complicated,” you mumble, looking away. “I have bills, rent, responsibilities…”

“Yeah, but…” He pauses, leaning back against the vanity again. “It’s your life. Shouldn’t you at least try?”

You open your mouth to argue, but no words come out. The truth is, no one’s really asked you that before. Everyone’s always focused on what you should do, what’s practical, what’s safe. But here’s this guy, who barely knows you, asking why you’re not doing what you actually want.

A tense silence settles between you, and for a moment, you just sit there, grappling with the weight of his question.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Alright, your turn,” he says, his tone lighter again, clearly sensing the need for a change in mood.

You’re grateful for the shift and decide to steer the conversation back to something safer, something playful. “Okay. What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in public?”

He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, man, where do I even start?”

“You better have a good one,” you warn, narrowing your eyes at him. “I need something juicy after the night I’ve had.”

He grins, clearly enjoying the challenge. “Alright, alright. So, a few years ago, we’re playing a game in Minnesota, where I was playing before I signed here, and I get into a fight. Dude pummels me, as always, but I don’t really care because it was for a good cause. Turns out one of my teammates was behind me, already ready to pick up my gear because he knew I’d drop the gloves eventually.”

You burst out laughing, picturing the scene in your head. “Oh my god, that’s incredible. Please tell me there’s video of this.”

“Oh, there is,” he says, his voice dripping with mock bitterness. “And my mom makes sure to remind me of it every chance she gets.”

You’re still laughing when you realize how much lighter the room feels now. The tension from earlier has all but disappeared, replaced by an easy banter that surprises you. It’s strange, how quickly the mood shifted—from anger and frustration to… this. Whatever this is.

“Okay, your turn,” Brandon says, grinning at you. “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”

You groan, already regretting giving him the chance to ask. “Ugh, fine. So, when I first moved to D.C., I got super lost on the Metro. Like, I ended up on the complete opposite side of the city. And instead of just admitting I was lost, I pretended I knew what I was doing and rode the train for two hours before I finally asked for directions.”

Brandon laughs, a deep, genuine sound that makes your stomach flip. “Two hours? That’s impressive. You must’ve been determined.”

“More like stubborn,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t want to look like a clueless tourist.”

He’s still chuckling when he leans in a little closer, his eyes catching yours. “I like that about you,” he says softly, and for a second, his gaze feels… different. Warmer. “You’re tough. Stubborn, maybe, but tough.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. His words disarm you, cutting through the defenses you’ve been holding onto all night. You feel the blush creeping up your neck again, and you quickly look away, trying to play it off with a shrug.

“Well, someone’s got to be,” you mumble, but your voice lacks the usual bite.

Brandon just watches you, his smile softening as the playful air between you shifts again. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you—something you’re not entirely sure you’re ready to acknowledge. You clear your throat, hoping to break the spell.

"Alright," you say, trying to keep the mood light, "what's your go-to karaoke song?"

He chuckles, leaning back against the wall again. "Karaoke, huh? Well, if you must know, I’ve been known to absolutely crush 'Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey. But only after a couple of beers."

You laugh, picturing it in your head. "Of course you would pick something like that. Classic crowd-pleaser. But can you actually sing, or do you just shout the lyrics like everyone else?"

He gives you a mock-offended look. "Are you doubting my singing abilities? I’m offended."

"Oh, I’m doubting everything," you tease, leaning into the banter. "I can’t imagine you hitting those high notes."

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a playful spark behind them. "Challenge accepted. I’ll prove it next time we’re at a shitty suits party with a karaoke machine. Prepare to be amazed."

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. "I’ll believe it when I hear it."

The conversation flows easily after that, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. You bounce between serious questions and silly ones, finding a rhythm that feels natural, even as the flirting starts to pick up. Each answer he gives you—whether it’s about his favorite movie ("Die Hard"—because of course, it is) or what he would do if he weren’t playing hockey (he’s always wanted to own a coffee shop, of all things)—makes you feel like you’re peeling back layers of him, piece by piece. And you get the sense that he's enjoying learning about you too, asking about your family, your favorite books, even what food you could eat for the rest of your life. It’s disarming how comfortable it all feels.

At some point, the air in the room chills noticeably, and you instinctively rub your arms, trying to fight off the goosebumps spreading across your skin. You glance toward the window, wondering if it’s cracked open, letting in the draft from outside. But before you can even get up to check, Brandon catches the movement. "Are you cold?"

You shake your head quickly, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. "I’m fine," you lie, tucking your arms around yourself a little tighter.

But Brandon isn’t buying it. He gives you a slow, skeptical look before standing up from his spot across the room and walking toward you. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, like he’s giving you a chance to tell him to back off if you want.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly, a lopsided grin creeping onto his face. "Are you going to yell at me if I touch you again?" His tone is light, almost sarcastic, but there’s something underneath it, something more.

You roll your eyes, trying not to look as flustered as you feel. “Depends. Are you going to give me a reason to?”

He chuckles softly, his eyes not leaving yours as he sits down beside you against the wall, slowly draping an arm around your shoulders. The warmth of his body is immediate and strangely reassuring, and you try to ignore the way your heart seems to speed up at the simple contact. This time, his touch doesn’t feel predatory, but comforting. Something about this feels… different. Less out of frustration and more out of something else—something you don’t entirely want to name just yet.

“You’re warm,” you mutter, feeling awkwardly aware of how lame that sounds, but you need to say something to break the silence.

“That’s usually the goal,” he replies, voice low and amused. His fingers brush against your shoulder as he adjusts, and you have to fight the urge to shiver again—not from the cold, but from the unexpected intimacy of it.

You sit there for a moment, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that you’re letting him this close. You’re not sure why, but it feels like admitting defeat to acknowledge the comfort in this simple gesture. As if letting him know would give him power you’re not ready to hand over.

You tell yourself this is just a game. A stupid game with high stakes and confusing rules, but still… just a game. And yet, despite your best efforts, you can’t deny the unexpected way he’s gotten under your skin. His casual confidence, his jokes, the way he listens—not just hears, but really listens. It’s disarming. Frustrating.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his voice softer now, more serious. The teasing edge is still there, but it’s muted, replaced by a curiosity that makes your chest tighten.

You blink, trying to snap out of the internal spiral. “Nothing,” you lie, because you can’t quite put your thoughts into words. “Just… thinking.”

He hums, his fingers lightly tracing a line along your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. “Thinking about how… cool and handsome I am?” he teases.

“Maybe,” you shoot back, but the playful tone comes out quieter than you intend, more breathless than you’d like.

Brandon’s eyes darken, and you can feel the air shift between you, the flirtation from earlier giving way to something heavier, something more intense. He’s still watching you, his gaze dipping down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “You’re blushing,” he says softly, and there’s a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Your cheeks flush even more, and you mentally curse him for pointing it out. “Am not,” you mumble, but your voice betrays you, and you know he’s caught on.

“You totally are,” he whispers, leaning just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your skin. “It’s cute.”

The word cute hangs in the air between you, and you’re not sure why, but it sends your heart racing in a way that feels both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Before you can think of a witty comeback—or any comeback, really—his hand moves from your shoulder, his fingers brushing your neck, tilting your chin up ever so slightly.

You freeze for a moment, caught between the instinct to pull back and the urge to lean in. The room feels smaller now, like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, and all you can hear is the rapid thudding of your heartbeat in your ears.

He doesn’t rush. Instead, he gives you a moment—a moment to decide, a moment to stop him if you want to.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let out a shaky breath, and that’s all it takes. He closes the gap, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s surprisingly soft, almost tentative at first. It’s as if he’s testing the waters, seeing if you’ll pull away, but when you don’t, he deepens the kiss, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

Your mind goes blank, and for a few blissful seconds, all you can focus on is the feel of his lips against yours, the heat of his body, the way his fingers seem to know exactly where to touch to make your skin tingle. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating all at once.

Then, just as quickly as the kiss started, it escalates. His other hand finds its way to your thigh, sliding up your skirt with an ease that sends a thrill through you. His fingers brush the bare skin of your leg, and you feel his palm settle against your ass, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens.

A quiet moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and that seems to spur him on. His hand grips you tighter, his touch more possessive now, and your body responds instantly, your own hands moving to his head, tugging at his hair as every single inch of his body presses against yours, letting you feel the hard muscle beneath his shirt as you lose yourself in the moment.

You’re so caught up in the kiss, in the way his touch is igniting something inside you, that you almost don’t hear the sound at first.

The door swings open with a loud thud, slamming against the wall with a force that startles both of you. Brandon’s hand freezes on your ass, and you pull back just in time to see your sister standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and amusement.

“Oh, my god,” she exclaims, throwing her hands up dramatically. “Are you serious right now?”

You feel the blood drain from your face as the reality of the situation sets in. Your sister is standing there, slightly flushed(because let’s be real, she’s probably wine-drunk,) witnessing you—her responsible, always-in-control sibling—basically about to get handsy with a guy you just met at her house party who you got trapped in a bathroom with.

Brandon blinks, his hand still awkwardly frozen on your ass for a split second before he quickly pulls it away, sitting up straight. “Uh, hey,” he says, clearly trying to recover some semblance of composure, but failing miserably.

You, on the other hand, are mortified. “Oh my god, get out!” you shriek, your voice a mix of embarrassment and disbelief as you shove Brandon’s shoulder, trying to put some distance between the two of you.

Your sister cackles, clearly relishing the moment. “I can’t believe I walked in on this,” she says, shaking her head as she backs out of the room, a grin plastered across her face. “This is amazing. I’m never letting you live this down.”

She doesn’t bother closing the door as she scurries off, and the room is suddenly silent again.

For a moment, neither you nor Brandon says anything. You’re both too stunned to speak, the reality of what just happened sinking in. Then, slowly, you turn to look at him, your face burning with embarrassment.

He’s staring at you, wide-eyed, his lips twitching as if he’s trying not to laugh.

And then he does laugh—a loud, full-of-heart laugh that breaks the tension. “Well,” he says, his voice still laced with amusement, “That was… something.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I cannot believe that just happened.”

“Hey, on the bright side,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall, “At least we gave her a good story.”

You peek through your fingers, glaring at him, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Probably not,” he admits with a smirk. “But hey, if it’s any consolation, I think we were winning that game.”

You roll your eyes, “You can’t win twenty questions,” you snap back, but there’s no denying the warmth spreading through your chest. Despite the utter mortification of being caught mid-makeout by your sister, there’s something undeniably thrilling about the way Brandon is looking at you now—with your lipstick smeared across his face and his hair disheveled like he’s not even a little bit sorry for what just happened.

And maybe, just maybe, neither are you.

[nol-pat]

good luck, babe / nico hischier

they said, "babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it," and i did.

/ or, the one where you and nico are unlucky in love.

word count: 23K pairing: nico hischier x fem!reader warnings: mild suggestive language, alcohol; some angst over mentions of ex-boyfriends, but mostly just tooth-rotting fluff.

i'm back!!! 👋 this is my entry for @wyattjohnston's the summer fic exchange 2k24, written for bre @fallinallincurls.

this is my first fic exchange, and my first time writing a reader insert, so i'm very nervous, but i hope you love this. sorry it's so long — i maaay have gotten a little carried away and written you an actual novel, but i had the best time writing this.

inspired by your spotify on repeat playlist (and the new gracie abrams album because it screams summertime to me, and i felt like it fit this vibe), a few of your favourite tropes, and a little nod to f1 if you squint.

xoxo, katie ❤️

he said he'd love me for all time, but that time was quite short

When it came to romance and finding true love, you were cursed.

Looking back now, maybe you shouldn't have ignored those email chains that threatened 50 years of bad luck and failed relationships if you didn't forward them to 10 other people. You knew they were likely all hoaxes, but you needed something to blame your bad luck on.

Whether it was the result of an email chain you broke or a century-old spell cast upon your family for generations to come, you were absolutely doomed when it came to love.

No amount of cupcakes or buttercream frosting would change your relationship status, but it definitely didn't hurt the heartache.

Using your index finger, you swiped some of the vanilla bourbon frosting off of the latest tray of cupcakes that had been placed in the center of the table, taking your time to suck the sweet frosting from your finger. You let the sugary icing sit on your tongue momentarily before scrunching your nose in thought.

Your best friend, Gianna Carvelli, sat across the small cafe table, wearing a nearly identical expression as she ate her cupcake.

"That one's a three," Gianna finally spoke, placing the half-eaten cupcake back onto the tray between you. "Way too plain."

"I was going to give it an eight," you shrugged, watching Gianna furiously scribble her tasting scores into her notebook.

"They're good," Gianna agreed, eyes still focused on the notebook as she continued to write. "But if we're paying this much money, I don't want a vanilla wedding cake."

At this point, you had tasted nearly a dozen different icing and cupcake flavor combinations, and the plain vanilla felt like a welcome break. But you understood where Gianna was coming from, so you didn't push.

She had been kind enough to ask you to join her today, sampling every cake this small Newark bakery offered. It was a quiet and unassuming storefront, but Gianna had insisted they had the best baked goods in all of New Jersey, and she wasn't going to get married unless they supplied the cake. The plan was that you and Gianna would pick the perfect cake, and they would prepare it in New Jersey and then send it to her wedding venue… in Italy.

Gianna was not a dramatic or difficult bride-to-be, so when she mentioned this as her only wedding dealbreaker, her fiance, Nate Bastian, quickly agreed. You were sure it was probably a shipping logistics nightmare, but when you arrived at the bakery today, the older woman behind the counter insisted they did this kind of thing all the time. Nate's NHL player salary helping to fund the wedding probably didn't hurt, either.

You weren't sure how Gianna had even found this place, but after biting into the first cupcake, you knew why she had to have this one.

"Sorry," Gianna squeaked, her phone loudly ringing from where it rested on the tabletop.

You both glanced down to see Nate's name lit up across the screen. You gave her a slight nod to let her know it was okay, moving on to bite into the next cupcake flavor while Gianna answered the phone.

You took a moment to catch your breath, letting all of the sugary desserts have a second to digest while you listened to Gianna catch Nate up on the most recent flavor rankings. His phone call signaled that you two had been here nearly all afternoon, as he always called whenever he was on his way home from the rink.

Although, you were pretty sure his hours must have been shorter this week as the season was now over. Gianna had said something about physio at the rink before the final media interviews and locker cleanouts taking place this week. The pair would stay behind for a few more weeks in Newark before heading to Nate's hometown in Canada, where they usually spent their summers.

This was the last thing on the wedding checklist, and then your best friend could relax stress-free (or as stress-free as a bride can manage) before the big affair in August at her great-grandparents' vineyard in Italy. You had been there to help through every step of the process, taking on the role of co-planner when Nate's hockey schedule had him on the road and unavailable to pick out napkin colors or choose which candle height to include in the table centerpieces.

Planning Nate and Gianna's Tuscan nuptials over the last six months had been a welcome distraction, though. It couldn't have come at a better time for you.

And weirdly, Gianna and Nate owed this wedding to you. You were the entire reason they were together, after all.

You were the reason a lot of people had finally found their happily ever after.

You weren't a matchmaker by trade, but everyone you had ever dated, no matter how seriously or how long, always went on to find the one immediately after you broke up. Like clockwork, they would be engaged or married within six months of your break-up.

You couldn't deny the pattern, dating all the way back to middle school. You had your first kiss with Johnny Murphy, only for him to tell Cora Garcia that he liked her the next day. They were now happily married with three children.

Gianna, your closest confidant and best friend, felt otherwise. She was the most superstitious person you knew. She refused to wear mismatched socks on Devils' game days because Nate had taken a dirty hit and was injured the last time she did. Yet somehow, she refused to believe your curse was real.

Even though the entire reason this wedding was happening was because of your curse.

You had bought a ticket to a charity speed dating event from a girl in your college art history class two years ago. You didn't know her very well, but she had mentioned she had an extra ticket and was too scared to go alone. You were single and thought it wouldn't hurt to go, so you had agreed.

When you came down with the flu the morning of, Gianna was nice enough to take the ticket so it wouldn't go to waste and your classmate wouldn't have to go by herself. Gianna had ended up being paired with Nate as the very first match of the night. When she came home a few hours later, she was practically glowing.

You knew she was going to marry him right away.

You also knew your curse was stronger than ever.

It became a running joke with your friends. After a few too many glasses of wine one night, you posted a sarcastic Instagram story about everyone you've ever dated finding their soulmate right after. Since then, your DMs were full of people you hadn't spoken to since high school begging for a date. Half of them were offering to be the ones to break the curse, and the other was hoping to cash in on finding their true love right after you.

The only real exception to the curse had been Liam.

You two had been together for almost a year, your longest relationship in recent memory. Everything felt perfect about Liam, and you were convinced the curse was finally lifted.

You felt like you two worked. Liam was going to be your happily ever after, and you would be the one dragging Gianna around the city to sample wedding cakes and pick out floral arrangements before you and Liam spent the rest of your lives together. 

Until six months ago, when he abruptly dumped you the day after your birthday through a text message about how you wanted different things in life. Apparently, he never saw himself settling down to get married or have kids despite telling you that was what he had wanted every day for the last year.

He had been the one to bring it up in every conversation. You didn't think you had ever pressured him into thinking you wanted all that now, but he still panicked and ran. And he couldn't give you the decency of doing it face to face.

The thought of that text still made your stomach hurt.

Or maybe all of the lemon meringue cupcakes caught up to you.

You pulled out your phone to distract yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied from wandering down that dangerous rabbit hole as Gianna continued to chat animatedly with Nate. If there was one thing your best friend was good at, it was yapping. She'd probably be on the phone with Nate for a while, so you turned to Instagram to try and find a better distraction while you waited.

You posted a couple of photos from the day to your story before scrolling through the posts on your homepage. The Instagram algorithm must have picked up on all of your wedding and honeymoon searches for Monaco that you had done with Gianna when helping her plan her European getaway. Your entire Explore page was filled with photos and reels of the city, including highlights of last year's Formula 1 race through the streets of Monaco. You scrolled through the posts, stopping to like the occasional photo.

Maybe you'd stop in Monaco on your way to Gianna's wedding and find a wealthy bachelor to make the whole trip worth it.

Wouldn't that be the best revenge—living happily ever after?

With a Monte Carlo love affair on your mind, you were probably six months deep in Charles Leclerc's Instagram feed when Gianna finally hung up the phone, placing it back onto the table as she turned her attention toward you.

"Sorry," she rushed out. "Nate's just finished with locker clear out and is heading uptown to his final suit fitting. Wait, what are you doing?" she asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow arched in curiosity as she watched you focus all your attention on your phone screen.

"Finding my next boyfriend," you answered, pausing briefly only to double-tap a photo of the F1 driver cuddling a puppy. "Do you think the curse will still apply if I date a celebrity?"

"There is no curse."

"I think I could be okay with inevitably having my heartbroken if I at least get to jetset around the world in the meantime," you continued, ignoring her reply. "Get to be a multi-millionaire for a moment, you know?"

"You're ridiculous," Gianna groaned, rolling her eyes.

"Why do you say that?" you faked confusion, locking your phone and placing it facedown on the table.

"You're not cursed," Gianna deadpanned.

"Then how do you explain—"

"Enough with all of this melodramatic curse shit," she warned, shaking her head as she spoke. Her voice was firm, but you knew her well enough to know she wasn't actually upset with you. "I don't want to hear about the curse anymore. You're as bad as Nico."

"Oh, God," you groaned, slumping in your seat in defeat.

You had met Nico Hischier, Nate's captain, a few times at team events and parties Gianna had brought you to. He was always friendly and seemed to go out of his way to say hi whenever you were out together. You had assumed all was well between you, but did this mean Nico was ranting about you to Gianna, too?

"Nico barely knows me, and he thinks I'm cursed, too? I really am hopeless," you whined.

"No," Gianna laughed, reaching for the final cupcake you two had left to taste—a raspberry and champagne flavor combination. "He's convinced he's cursed, not you."

"Actually?" you leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as you anxiously waited for Gianna to swallow her bite of cake. You scowled as she took her time, purposely making you wait.

Nico being cursed was news to you. Was he suffering from the same affliction or something else entirely? You figured it was probably hockey-related, especially since the Devils' season had ended on a disappointing note.

"Apparently, he's just as unlucky in love," Gianna finally answered. "Nate told him to start selling dates on Facebook Marketplace or something. Advertise that meeting your soulmate only takes one date with him."

"Wait—"

"No," Gianna abruptly shook her head before you could finish your thought. "I don't like where this is going. You are not selling yourself on Facebook."

"If we're both cursed," you continued anyway, "wouldn't that mean it would cancel each other out, and when we broke up, we'd both find our real person?"

Gianna took her last bite of the cupcake, glaring at you as she chewed. She let your words process for a moment, taking her time to finish the cupcake and write down her final score for the flavor.

"I mean, hypothetically, yes," Gianna reluctantly agreed. But when she watched your face light up, she quickly shook her head to shut you down. "If the curse was real. Which it's not."

You rolled your eyes to dismiss her, sliding the torn piece of notebook paper Gianna had lent you for your cupcake scores across the table. She grabbed the paper, holding it up next to her notes, eyes skimming back and forth as she compared your favorites.

When she seemed distracted enough, you leaned forward with a sweet smile. "Can you set us up?" you asked.

"No. Absolutely not," Gianna replied without even looking up from the scorecards.

"What?" you gasped. You reached across the table to place your hand over the notebook Gianna was preoccupied with, forcing her to look back up at you. "Why?"

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise as if she wasn't sure if your question was serious.

"Nico's one of Nate's best friends. I won't let you use him for your insane conspiracy theory. That's embarrassing."

As Gianna watched your face fall, confirming you were actually serious in your suggestion, she let out a small sigh before continuing.

"You're not going to pretend to date Nate's captain, who you didn't know was cursed five minutes ago, because you're now convinced he's the solution to your dating woes."

Okay, so it did sound a bit crazy when you heard it out loud.

"I love you way too much to ever let you do that," Gianna reiterated. She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before batting it out of the way so she could focus on the notebook again. "Now, help me pick a final flavor, please."

With the brief moment of insanity passing, you let out a light laugh. At least you were embarrassing yourself in front of Gianna, not Nate or Nico. As blunt as she was being, your best friend had your best interests in mind and was doing you a favor.

After eating a lifetime's worth of cake that afternoon, only to land on double chocolate as the winning flavor, you had opted to walk back to your apartment rather than carpool with Gianna. She had insisted she didn't mind dropping you off, but you knew she was heading in the opposite direction to meet Nate at the tailor for his suit fitting.

Walking also offered you some time to mull over everything Gianna had said.

She had warned you at the very beginning that Liam seemed to have commitment issues. She had nothing against him; she was just looking out for you and wanted to ensure you weren't hurt.

Naturally, you had ignored her and let yourself fall head over heels for Liam by your third date.

And like any best friend would, she was still by your side, supporting you and your relationship every step of the way, even if it meant having to bite her tongue occasionally—something Gianna had always found incredibly difficult.

She was no-nonsense and always called it like it was. Realistically, you should have listened to her more often. Maybe you'd end up with better luck. It certainly felt like it couldn't get any worse.

If you told yourself enough times that this entire curse was made up and all in your head, you'd start to believe it. You probably were melodramatic about everything, but you'd never openly admit that to Gianna. After what you had gone through over the last year and a half, it more than warranted a little dramatics.

You thought you had found the one, and just as quickly, it ended without any real reason as to what had gone wrong. If the two of you fought all the time or someone had cheated, it would have made it hurt less that it was over. At least then, you could pinpoint why Liam didn't want to be together anymore. Instead, you had yet to find answers despite constantly mulling over every tiny detail for the last six months.

Arriving at your apartment building, you made a slight detour to the mailroom to check for a package you had been waiting for. You had ordered a couple of dress options for the weddings you had coming up that summer, including Gianna's.

It felt like everyone you knew was getting married this summer.

And once upon a time, you thought you might have been, too.

Not that Liam had ever proposed. Or bought a ring. Or even hinted at anything related to a proposal.

In fact, when you unwrapped a small jewelry box on your birthday last year, you thought that was the moment. Only to discover Liam had bought you an anklet, not an engagement ring.

That was worse than getting nothing at all.

But a small part of you always thought it felt right, and he was about to ask at any moment. It was probably because he talked about wedding plans constantly. You two had practically planned your wedding day—with only your closest family and friends at a beautiful garden estate outside Paris, France.

But that had been nearly six months ago, and he had texted you the following day to say it was over. According to your standard curse timeline, he should have already moved on to find his soulmate and be engaged.

He had yet to even post a girl on Instagram, something you checked frequently, so you figured the chances he was secretly engaged or married felt slim to none. Always the exception, Liam seemed to be the first ex that didn't fall into the standard timeline. Part of you hoped that meant you were supposed to get back together after all.

Your cousin, Clara, lived in the same apartment building as Liam in Brooklyn. She had been the one to introduce you two initially. You had asked a few times right after the break-up if she ever saw him anymore—and she always said no. You eventually felt awkward and stopped asking.

Clara had been your best friend growing up, practically sisters. Naturally, as you got older and life got in the way, you started to drift a bit, but when you and Liam broke up, she had been a shoulder to cry on throughout the entire thing.

She supported you the best she could, but she was also a flight attendant with a demanding work schedule that required her to spend extended stretches in Europe, so you had admittedly not seen her very much in the last few months. She had called out of the blue a few weeks ago, mentioning she had met someone new, but you were on the subway at the time, and the connection was spotty at best. You'd have to make a mental note to call her back soon.

No packages were waiting in your mail slot; only a small stack of envelopes from the mail you had failed to collect throughout the week. You shuffled through the stack to see if there was anything of interest. They were mostly junk mail, except for one obnoxious blue envelope with your name scribbled across it in loopy silver handwriting.

You tore into the envelope, fishing out the card inside, only for your heart to stop. You nearly dropped the card as your brain finally registered what you were looking at.

It was a wedding invitation.

A wedding invitation to Liam's wedding.

A wedding invitation to Liam's wedding to Clara.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

Of course, it was in Paris, too. At Chateau de Villette—the exact wedding venue you had picked. The city you had always dreamed of visiting.

You glanced around the mailroom to check if someone was hiding with a camera. This had to be a prank. There was no way Liam was getting married. Or that Clara would date your ex-boyfriend without ever telling you. Had you somehow missed every sign along the way?

The more you flipped the invitation over in your hand, the more real it became.

Because somehow, six months after he had abruptly dumped you through a text message about how he never saw himself settling down to get married or have kids, he was suddenly ready to do just that. But it was with Clara.

Clara, who was the closest thing to a sister that you had and had been the shoulder you cried on through the break-up. Clara, who had continued to call and check in on you every day throughout those six months, always conveniently leaving out that she was helping Liam through the break-up, too.

This wasn't all in your head.

You were cursed.

i cry a lot, but i am so productive

All of your progress over the last six months in getting over Liam had been completely destroyed.

You probably would have never opened it if you knew what awaited you inside that envelope. Or, at the very least, you would have taken a few seconds to savor what life was like before you found out about Liam and Clara.

Now, you were right back to square one, heartbreak as fresh as the day he had first left.

After a week of sulking on your couch, surviving off of delivery food and a bag of chocolate chips you had found in your cupboard, you decided it was time to get some fresh air. Well, Gianna had decided for you when she had shown up unannounced, cleaned up your takeout container graveyard, and shoved you into the shower.

A bit of tough love was what your best friend was always good for. She let you rant and cry, then put you back together like she had done six months ago.

You were starting to feel a bit lighter, almost like your usual self again, after an afternoon of Gianna helping you back onto your feet. She had dinner plans that night with Nate that she offered for you to join, but you insisted that she go and you'd be fine. Your big plan for the evening was to venture to the grocery store and pick up something to cook for yourself for dinner.

It wasn't a lofty goal, but considering that even opening your fridge to look for ingredients felt like too much to bear yesterday, you needed to start challenging yourself if you were ever going to move on.

As luck would have it, it started raining when you were about a block from the store. So there you were, soaking wet from your walk, shivering and miserable as the supermarket blasted their air conditioning. You could vaguely feel your teeth chattering from the cold air, your once warm hoodie dripping raindrops onto the floor of whatever aisle you were standing in.

Whenever you thought you had no tears left, something would click, and you'd be sniffling again. Right now, staring at breakfast cereal, you were about to cry over the stupid leprechaun on the box of Lucky Charms. You didn't even like Lucky Charms, but Liam sometimes ate it, and you remember always seeing a box of them on top of his fridge.

You weren't sure how long you had been standing here at this point. Your eyes glazed over as you stared blankly at the shelf of boxes before you. When you finally blinked, the sounds of footsteps and voices of other shoppers floating around the aisles came back into focus. Realizing you probably looked crazy, you hastily grabbed the first cereal box at eye level and shoved it into your basket.

You should have planned something more cohesively meal-wise. Your basket was a catch-all of snacks at the moment, plus a bottle of wine you had grabbed when you first entered the store. The box you had grabbed turned out to be Rice Crispies. If you picked up a bag of marshmallows, you could be eating Rice Crispie squares for dinner tonight.

You spun around to leave, desperate to get out of this aisle before anyone else noticed how you had been crying over kid's cereal. Except as you abruptly turned, with your head down and eyes fixed on the speckled tile floor below you, you slammed directly into another body. You were so focused on your escape that you didn't notice anyone standing that close to you until you heard their basket tumble to the ground.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," you stammered, bending down to frantically help pick up the items that had scattered everywhere. A box of Cheerios you assumed the older woman had been holding when you bumped into her had burst on impact and was now everywhere.

"You really need to watch where you're going," the woman snapped, making no motion to help you. She scowled down at you, watching you pick up her things. "Kids these days are too focused on their phones to pay attention to the world around them."

You wanted to snap back that you weren't even on your phone. It had been safely tucked in your pocket, but you bit your tongue.

"I know, I'm really sorry," you repeated. You grabbed the final pack of cookies that had fallen to the floor and placed it into the basket the woman expectantly held toward you.

You thought she would at least thank you or acknowledge your apologies, but instead, she scoffed. "Next time, watch where you're going."

You flinched at her words, unsure what about this interaction warranted this much anger. It had been an accident, and you had apologized; you weren't sure what else to do. But she showed no signs of letting you get away, continuing to lecture you as if you didn't already feel like shit. You wanted nothing more than for the floor to cave in and swallow you up.

"I know," you sighed. You pulled the sleeves of your wet hoodie over your hands, trying to shrink yourself away. "Again, it was an accident, and I'm—"

The sound of your name being called cut you off.

You glanced to your left in the direction it had come from just as Nico appeared at your side. He was easily recognizable as, despite it being the off-season now, he was wearing a pair of New Jersey Devils shorts and a matching hoodie. His shaggy brown hair was tucked under a black beanie, which you assumed he probably was given free from the team as well.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," he said, shooting you a quick wink before he turned to face the older woman. He gave her a big smile, perfectly carved dimples on each cheek on display as he turned on the charm.

"Sorry, this is my fault," he explained to the woman, putting a hand on your back to pull you into his side as he spoke. "We're running late for dinner with my parents, so I asked her to rush."

He effortlessly reached behind him to grab a new box of Cheerios from off the shelf. As he placed it into her basket to replace the one now scattered across the floor, you could see the woman visibly melting under his attention.

"It's okay," she smiled at Nico, "accidents happen."

You scowled at this interaction but continued to bite your tongue. As annoying as this sudden switch was, it would hopefully mean she was done lecturing you, and you could finally escape while she was distracted, drooling over Nico.

When the woman looked back at you, you forced out the fakest smile you could muster. "Accidents happen," you agreed, giving her a grin that was all teeth.

She gave you a short nod to acknowledge your comment before thanking Nico and turning to leave. As she moved past you, her basket hit your arm, no doubt an intentional final dig at you.

"Thank you," you sighed, turning to face Nico.

"No problem," he laughed. He was still smiling, his big brown eyes filled with amusement. "As fun as that was to watch, it didn't look like she would let you leave until you had paid for all her groceries as punishment or something."

"That would be just my luck."

You stepped to the side as a man with a cart came down the aisle to pass between you. You cringed at the sound of the wheels crunching over the rogue Cheerios on the ground.

"Well, thanks for rescuing me," you said once the man had passed. "I don't want to make you late for dinner with your parents."

"Oh, uh, there's no dinner," he chuckled, scratching nervously at the stubble on his jaw. "I was just on the phone with my mom, so it was the first thing that came to mind. I'm not a great liar, so I panicked a little."

You smiled at the admission, watching as he adjusted the beanie on his head. You hadn't spent enough time with Nico to notice if he was usually someone to nervously fidget, but you were a bit caught off guard by his sudden demeanor. You had always seen him in a team setting as their brave and confident captain.

And he had surely been bold and charming when rescuing you moments before.

"You seemed like a natural to me," you assured him. You hoped he picked up on the sarcasm to see if it would ease some of his sudden nerves.

"I don't know if that's a good thing," he chuckled quietly.

Nico looked down at the shopping basket in your hand, his lips curling up into a smirk as he surveyed the cereal, assortment of chocolates, and wine you were holding.

"Date tonight?" he asked.

"Nah, more like a pity party," you answered with a small laugh. Nico raised his eyebrows at your answer, unsure he understood what you meant. "Just sulking over a break-up," you clarified.

"Oh shit," he muttered, feeling guilty over his joke. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was—"

You paused. How did you tell Nico the break-up was six months ago, but you were still moping?

According to Gianna, he'd probably know your pain if you told him you had already grieved the relationship and were now mourning all over again because he was once again getting married, and you were completely alone.

Instead, you settled for, "It's a long story."

He looked you over briefly, his expression unreadable as he stayed quiet. "Did you walk here?" he eventually asked.

"Yeah, I only live a few blocks away." You shivered as another wave of cold air hit your still-wet sweater. You glanced down at your outfit, realizing you were still soaked from the rainstorm outside. It was probably why he was asking, but it still made you self-conscious about how this must make you look to him. "In my defense, it wasn't raining when I left."

He laughed, shaking his head as his eyes raked over you. "Do you want a ride back?" he asked, scratching at his neck again as he brought his gaze up to meet yours. "It's still pouring outside, so you probably shouldn't be walking."

"Yeah," you nodded, "that would be great."

"I need to grab a couple more things, but I'll meet you out front?"

Waiting for Nico at the front entrance, you couldn't resist picking up one of the fresh bouquets of flowers they kept at the check-out counters. You balanced your paper bag of groceries on your hip, flowers held firmly in your other hand, as you watched the rain steadily fall through the glass entrance doors.

Nico was holding a small bag when he joined you. His eyes immediately fell to the flowers in your hand.

"What's on the menu tonight?" you asked before he could comment about the flowers. You figured you already had looked like enough of a sob story to him so far today; the last thing you were going to do was admit that these flowers were a last-ditch attempt to turn your day around.

"Honestly, just trying to use up the leftovers in my apartment before I leave so I don't come back in the Fall to something growing in my fridge," he answered. "I'm heading back to Switzerland on Monday."

"Ah, we're both cooking gourmet tonight," you teased, earning an eye roll from Nico.

He held the door open as you exited the store before urging you to wait there for a moment while he got his car. You watched him pull the hood of his sweater up before jogging off into the rain where his car was parked. When he pulled up to the curb, he reached across the passenger seat to open the door, allowing you to quickly dash from the store to his car.

He had the heat on in the car, and the seat warmer was waiting for you. Despite it being late spring in New Jersey, it had been cold and rainy all week, the type of chill you could feel in your bones. But his car was warm, and you were thankful for the offer. There was no way you could walk home in this weather; you would have been stuck wandering the store's aisles until the rain let up if Nico hadn't shown up.

"Do you want to come to mine for dinner?" Nico asked as you buckled your seatbelt.

He wasn't sure what prompted him to invite you, but the words were already out there.

Most of his teammates had begun to head home for the summer, and those still around were booked with family or girlfriends they had neglected all season. He didn't have anyone else to hang out with, and anytime you tagged along with Nate and Gianna to a Devils event, he enjoyed your company. You fit in easily with the team dynamic, so he thought you two were allowed to be friendly despite not knowing each other that well.

"I've got plenty of food," he continued when you didn't answer right away, "and I don't love the idea of you going home to have cereal and wine for dinner."

"That's actually a classic break-up meal, thank you very much," you countered, trying to ignore the blush you could feel growing hot on your cheeks.

As if sensing your unease, Nico's reassuring smile only grew. "I always preferred strawberry ice cream, but that's just me."

You mulled over the offer, chewing on your bottom lip as you thought. While you appreciated the invitation, being caught in your current state was embarrassing. You didn't want to burden Nico with having to hang out with you because he was pitying you. You could go home and be fine. But he also seemed genuine in his offer.

It was as though he wanted to ensure you were taking care of yourself tonight, not just because he felt bad for you.

"Do you have strawberry ice cream at your apartment?" you asked.

His smile grew as if your question confirmed he had won you over. You were momentarily distracted by how adorable his dimples looked as he smiled, so you almost didn't hear his response.

"Always."

"Then yes," you answered.

You weren't quite sure why you were so quick to agree when, moments before, all you had been fixated on was going home. But your cheap grocery store wine and Netflix rom coms would still be waiting for you when you returned. It wouldn't hurt to hang out with Nico for a few hours.

You hoped it wouldn't be awkward. You had never spent time one-on-one with Nico before, but there was something oddly comforting about him. Gianna only ever had nice things to say about him, and it was obvious from every team event you had been to how much the guys adored and respected Nico as their captain.

He was a natural leader. You were simply following his lead.

As Nico let you into his apartment, you kicked off your wet shoes before following him into the kitchen. You put your bag of groceries down on the island counter before asking Nico for a vase for the flowers. You weren't looking for anything fancy; they just needed to be in some water so they wouldn't dry out before you could bring them home.

"What are the flowers for?" he asked. The question had been nagging at him since he had noticed you holding them at the store.

"I thought they might cheer me up a bit," you replied, keeping your answer as light and vague as possible. "Doesn't everyone like coming home to fresh flowers?"

"Never thought about it like that, honestly," he said. Nico's apartment was clean and looked relatively well-kept but very much like a bachelor's apartment. There was no sign of fresh flowers, throw pillows, or any decoration to make the home feel more loved and lived in. "I thought flowers were more of a birthday or anniversary thing."

"And that's where you'd be wrong," you laughed, rolling your eyes at his typical response. "Sure, birthday flowers are nice, but it's the just because flowers that make someone fall in love with you."

"Just because?" he repeated, confusion evident on his face.

"Flowers you bought just because you wanted to. Not because they asked for them or you felt obligated to give them. You did it to surprise them and do something meaningful."

"Oh," he nodded. "I'll try to remember that."

You searched his face for a sign of sarcasm, not sure if he was taking you seriously. And why would he? He had found you looking like a drowned rat in the junk food aisle of his local grocery store. You weren't exactly the poster child for relationship advice right now.

He had a shy smile on his face as he turned toward the kitchen cabinets, rummaging through the one above the sink. He made a small noise, almost a grunt of victory, before he turned around with a jar in his hands. It was obviously an old pasta sauce or pickle jar that had been cleaned out and removed of its label. It wasn't a traditional flower vase, but it was probably the closest you would find in a bachelor hockey player's apartment.

"That'll work," you smiled, taking the jar from him.

You placed the flowers inside before carrying them to the sink and filling them with water. It was a bit unsteady since the flowers were too tall for the jar. You placed it on the counter beside the fridge, delicately leaning the flowers against the side of the refrigerator for support so the whole thing wouldn't topple over.

"Ice cream is in the freezer," Nico offered, pulling off the black beanie he had been wearing and raking his hands through his staticky hair.

Satisfied that the flowers weren't going anywhere, you turned your attention toward the fridge. You paused as you grabbed the handle, distracted by the cards stuck all over the stainless steel fridge. Your eyes scanned over the colorful array of cardstock, all containing different combinations of names and addresses in loopy calligraphy.

"I don't mean to alarm you," you spoke carefully, "but I think someone's given your address out."

You slipped one of the cards out from the magnet that held it up so you could inspect it further, reading the details on the invitation. You didn't recognize the names, so they weren't teammates. And it was in New York, so it didn't seem like a friend from home.

"You've been sent an invitation to every wedding in the tri-state area this summer," you joked.

Nico laughed, a loud, boisterous laugh that you couldn't help but smile at the sound of. It was infectious. He joined you at the fridge, looking over your shoulder to see which card you were holding.

"Ah, Paige," he muttered, reading the names on the invite. "She lives across the hall."

"And this one?" you asked, pointing to a bold red invitation that stood out from the rest of the bunch. The June date and the couple's name were written in elegant gold ink that sparkled under the overhead lights.

"That's Sunny," he answered. "My sister's best friend."

"Oh, so they're not from the curse, then," you blurted out. As soon as you realized what you had done, you clapped your hand over your mouth, mortified by what you had said.

Nico's face went beet red. "You know about that?"

"Gianna told me," you answered, carefully replacing the invitation to its original spot on Nico's fridge door. "But only because I have the same problem. She mentioned it more in passing when I was complaining. She said I sounded just like you."

"Most of them are from the curse," he said, stepping closer behind you to point to another invitation. "Ex-girlfriend from high school, one-night stand, Tinder date," he rattled off, pointing to each invitation as he went.

You followed his finger as he moved through them all. You thought of the handful of cards of your own stacked on your kitchen counter with the rest of your junk mail. You declined most of the invitations you received these days. Liam thought it was weird to attend a wedding with you for someone you had known romantically before him.

The irony that he still thought of inviting you to his wedding was not lost on you.

"Oh, this one's good," he laughed, pulling one of the smaller cards off the fridge. "Marissa. Dated her for a week before her cat climbed the tree outside my apartment. She's now marrying the firefighter who came to rescue it."

"Seriously?" you gawked, trying not to laugh too hard at his apparent misfortune. "I thought they only did that in movies."

"Just my luck," Nico shrugged, putting the card back on the fridge.

Once it was back in place, he opened the freezer, handing you the small pint of strawberry ice cream he kept in case of emergencies. Sweet treat in hand, you went to sit at one of the bar stools tucked under the kitchen island. You pried the lid off the top while Nico brought a few of the Tupperware containers of leftovers over to the counter for plating.

"You may be even more cursed than me," you told him, watching as he arranged a plate of what looked to be leftover pasta.

Gianna constantly complained that the only meal Nate ever seemed to eat during the season was pasta. She was Italian, and yet his carb-heavy diet was too much chicken and pasta even for her. Nico was apparently part of that hockey player stereotype, too. You tried to hide your grin by taking another spoonful of ice cream.

"So I take it you don't have a fridge covered in invitations?" he asked.

"No, there haven't been too many this year." You shrugged as he slid the smaller of the two plates across the island to you. "I usually decline most of them, so I think I stopped getting invited. Do you actually go to all these weddings?"

"Some of them," he replied. "They're usually not too bad. Sometimes, a bridesmaid or something will hear I'm coming, and suddenly, I'm the most popular guy at the wedding. Everyone wants to try their luck."

"Oh, you poor thing," you mocked. "Beautiful bridesmaids throwing themselves at you to be the next one to sleep with you."

"You're laughing, but it's not all it's cracked up to be," he muttered. You watched the crimson blush creeping up his neck as he kept his eyes focused on the Tupperware containers he was replacing the lids on. "I feel a bit like a zoo exhibit sometimes."

You knew exactly what he meant. Every time someone offered to be the one to break the curse or asked you out, hoping to cash in on your misfortune, they never stopped to consider what that did to you. It was emotionally draining to always feel like you were fighting a losing battle.

You could tell from Nico's body language that this whole thing had taken a toll on him over time. The novelty and excitement eventually wears off. And then suddenly, you're facing a summer of weddings for people you had once deeply cared for, who had moved on and found the happiness you were looking for in someone else.

After putting the containers back into the fridge, he carried his plate around the island to take the seat next to you. Scooping up another mouthful of the strawberry ice cream, you suddenly had an idea.

"I can come with you," you offered. It was a bold suggestion, and you were a bit too fragile to be able to watch Nico outright reject you, so you kept your eyes focused on the ice cream as you spoke. "If you're there with someone else, it might spare you from being hunted for sport at these things."

"Actually?"

You nodded, bravely turning on the stool so you could face him. "I come with you to yours, and you come with me to mine."

His brows knit together as if he were thinking through the proposal. "But I'm already going to Nate and Gianna's wedding."

"My, uh, my ex-boyfriend sent me an invitation," you admitted. "He's getting married six months after we broke up."

"Right on schedule," Nico agreed, the corners of his mouth turning downward.

"Hence the pity party," you nervously laughed, gesturing to the pint of ice cream.

Nico was quiet for a moment too long. You regretted opening your mouth now. You were about to ramble on about how you were only kidding and didn't mean it when Nico finally spoke up again. "Would that count as a date?"

"I mean, I guess?" you tried to downplay your answer, nervously playing with the spoon in your hands. "You don't have to be introducing me as a girlfriend or anything. We can go as friends."

"If I introduced you as my girlfriend, wouldn't that cancel out the bad luck?" You could practically see the gears turning in Nico's head. "We'd both be cursed and then have to find the one after the summer is over."

You choked on your breath for a moment, coughing to try and compose yourself. This was exactly what you had suggested to Gianna last week, and she had shut you down. You felt oddly vindicated that Nico's mind immediately went to the same idea.

"Shit, sorry, that sounded crazy," he rushed out. "I didn't mean—"

"No, I know exactly what you mean," you cut him off. "It is crazy. But at this point, I'm willing to try anything."

i just need a little lovin', i just need a little air

You had never been so hungover in your entire life.

Unsurprisingly, Nico was an incredible wedding date. He was charming and the life of the party, lighting up nearly every room he walked into. This made showing up to complete strangers' weddings a lot easier. Selfishly, it felt nice not to be alone for an evening, even if you weren't really together.

But Nico could drink like a fish and wake up completely fine the following day.

You were not as lucky.

Last night, you had joined Nico at your third wedding of the summer. Celebrating Marissa and Griffin, Nico's girlfriend of a week and the firefighter who had swept her (and her cat) right out from under him, who were married at a lavish affair at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan.

You had lost track of how many glasses of champagne you had by the time the dancefloor opened. When Marissa insisted that everyone join her for shots, you couldn't exactly say no to the bride.

You didn't remember much else from the wedding, but you knew you at least had fun. And you had two weeks to recover before you had to do this all over again at your next wedding.

Gary and Indigo were getting married at a rustic old barn outside of Princeton, New Jersey. Hopefully, it would be a much tamer party—if your hangover had ended by then.

Was it a consequence of last night's choices or the idea of going to the wedding of the guy you had gone on exactly three dates with before he abruptly left you for the barista you had befriended at your favorite cafe? That was the worst part of the curse for you. Not only were your former dates and past loves finding their soulmates, but it almost felt like you were the one directly introducing them every time.

Not that Gary and you would have worked out in the long run. You had nothing in common, and he was actually pretty boring to talk to, but Indigo remained a friend because you refused to let the curse take your favorite coffee place from you, too.

Nico was in disbelief when you told him about that upcoming wedding.

"You thought your soulmate was a guy named Gary?" he had snorted. "Come on."

After your chance run-in with Nico at the grocery store last month, you half-expected him to be joking when he agreed to your offer to accompany him to all his weddings. But he texted you a complete list of dates and locations the next day. Consulting the invitation graveyard growing on your kitchen counter, you sent back a list of all the weddings you had been invited to.

The next thing you knew, Nico was booking plane tickets and hotels, and you were digging through the back of your closet to find an acceptable dress. The offer to pretend to be together for the summer was in full effect, and you two had RSVPed as a couple to a total of eight weddings over the next few months.

There had been more, but with Nico spending most of his summer in Switzerland and you in New Jersey with limited vacation time from work, you were a bit restricted. You had to make some compromises and decline a few invitations, but you had circled the two most significant events on your calendar.

June was the busiest month in the schedule, but all of the weddings were in New Jersey or New York, so Nico was flying back every other weekend to meet you. In July, you were meeting him in London for a weekend. Then, the season ended with Clara and Liam's wedding in Paris, followed by Gianna and Nate's wedding in Tuscany.

The first wedding had been fine. The bride was a mutual friend of yours and Nico's, and apparently, also one of his past one-night stands. You knew a few people there, so it wasn't too awkward, but Nico was a bit low-energy.

He was fresh from a red-eye flight from Prague, having just lost to Czechia in the gold medal game of the World Championship. You had no idea how or why he still came to the wedding, but he put on a charming smile and seemed pretty convincing every time he said he was fine.

The following weekend, you joined Nico at his neighbor's wedding in Jersey City, where he was in a much better mood. And that brought you to this weekend, where you faced your first doubleheader, having gone to your former blind date Rory's wedding to Brett on Friday night and then immediately to Marissa and Griffin's wedding the next day.

You needed water.

Finally pulling yourself off the couch you vaguely remember passing out on last night, you dragged yourself into the kitchen to find some sort of sustenance. Resting on the kitchen counter was a bottle of Gatorade and two capsules of Ibuprofen on top of a post-it note stuck to the granite.

Had to run for an early flight, but I hope the hangover isn't too bad. Text me when you're alive, please. See you in 2 weeks. Nico

You laughed that he had signed his name as if anyone else was breaking into your apartment and leaving hangover care packages. You quickly swallowed the painkillers before downing half the bottle of Gatorade in a few gulps.

You didn't know if Nico's mention of an early flight meant he left last night after the Uber dropped you off or if he had stayed over. You had a really fuzzy memory of an equally drunk Nico helping you get your shoes off after you stumbled through the front door. You couldn't recall anything he had said to you, as he sometimes mixed up his English and Swiss German when drinking. You could remember how you had spent the entire Uber ride from the city with your head half out the window, trying to focus on your breathing as the whole world seemed to be spinning.

A second blanket was neatly folded on the armchair next to your couch, and you didn't recall it being there before. Maybe Nico had slept there to make sure you were okay? Everything was still such a blur.

You had lost sight of Nico after the third tequila shot, having been adopted by Marissa and her friends as an honorary bridesmaid for the night.

Your stomach turned just thinking of the drinks from the night before.

Dropping the half-empty bottle of Gatorade back onto the counter, you sprinted toward the bathroom with a hand firmly clamped over your mouth.

Luckily, you made it just in time.

You remembered finding yourself in the bathroom the night before, bonding with the bridesmaids as you all helped to hold up the massive tulle skirt of Marissa's ballgown wedding dress while she used the toilet.

There was something oddly heartwarming about the bond drunk girls formed in the bathroom. No matter how well you knew each other to start, it was an unwritten rule for those few minutes that you were best friends, whether you'd ever see each other again or not. You didn't trust anyone who didn't love a drunken bathroom best friend. 

So, while you awkwardly maneuvered in the tiny stall, Marissa giggled as she introduced you to one of her bridesmaids as Nico's girlfriend.

"Wait, like the Nico you dated before Griffin?" Her bridesmaid, Tianna, had gasped.

"Yep," Marissa hiccuped in confirmation as you watched Tianna's jaw drop.

But Marissa sighed, letting her drunken thoughts continue to spill out. "I felt so bad when I broke up with him. He was a really nice guy, but Griffin was just…"

"The one?" you finished for her as her voice trailed off. Knowing Nico's dating history, you were pretty confident about where this story went.

"Yeah," Marissa nodded, smiling to herself as she thought of her new husband.

"It's okay," Tianna added, giving you a subtle wink. "It all worked out for the best, didn't it?"

"I hope it works out for you two," Marissa continued as the three of you tried to collect her dress and shuffle out of the bathroom stall. "I mean, Nico is incredible. And so are you! You both deserve someone like each other."

You laughed before politely thanking her. "He's a good guy. I hope it works out, too."

You felt odd lying, but technically, it wasn't a lie. You did hope it worked out—you didn't need to specify what it was to Marissa. She didn't need to know you were anxiously awaiting your inevitable break-up so you could meet the one, just like she had done after Nico.

"Do you think he's it?" Tianna asked as she helped to fluff Marissa's dress back into shape.

"Have you seen the two of them together?" Marissa giggled. "Of course he's it!"

You kept your mouth shut as Tianna continued to adjust Marissa's dress. You leaned against the counter's edge, watching the bride wash her hands in the reflection. You weren't quite sure how to react to this conversation. You guessed it was reassuring that the two of you were putting on a convincing show.

"How do you know when they are?" Tianna asked, grabbing your attention again. "Like, when do you know someone is actually the one?"

You took that moment to pull your favorite chapstick from your purse, hoping to buy yourself some time as you applied it in the mirror. Maybe Tianna was drunk enough to forget her train of thought if you didn't answer immediately. You were at a loss for what to say anyway.

You had never found the one. Quite the opposite, really.

"You just know. It's almost as if the feeling of coming home was another person. It's hard to explain in words," Marissa answered for you. "You just have to trust your gut, and you'll know."

Something about the whole thing made you feel uneasy. Guilty, almost?

It was hard to listen to your gut when all it was doing was screaming about tequila.

Oh, God.

Even thinking of tequila made you want to—

You heaved into the toilet once more, spitting up what little alcohol was left inside of you.

Three weddings down.

Only five more to go.

i was brave when i kissed you in london

When you had initially offered to be Nico's wedding date for the summer, all of the invitations stuck to his fridge had listed venues throughout New York City and New Jersey. You had never imagined so much international travel would be involved, and you'd find yourself using up your remaining year's allotment of vacation days from work to attend a stranger's wedding in England.

Yet here you were, shoving your life into a carry-on suitcase and taking a red-eye flight from Newark to London for the weekend to see Nico's sister's best friend get married.

Nico had insisted he book and pay for your flight, upgrading your seat to business class so you could at least attempt to get some sleep on the transatlantic flight. He said it was the least he could do to make the journey more comfortable, considering you would only be in England for 72 hours. You were flying home overnight on Sunday to be back at work in New Jersey on Monday morning.

You were exhausted just thinking about it.

You wished it wasn't so rushed, but you had used up all your vacation time for Gianna's wedding in August. It would be worth it, though, as you were spending two weeks in Italy with her before the wedding. You would be there to help make sure everything was set up and ready to go—and maybe throw her a surprise bachelorette party, too.

The moment your plane landed, you were jumping in an Uber to try to hit all of the major tourist landmarks before you were set to meet Nico at your apartment that night. Nico was also only in London for the weekend, having to head back to Bern on Sunday for his regularly scheduled off-season workouts.

Nico's sister had insisted you stay at the couple's apartment for the night rather than pay for a hotel. The bride and groom were already at their hotel with the rest of the wedding party for the weekend, but their rambunctious American Water Spaniel, named Bear, was at their apartment and needed a dog sitter.

You weren't going to be picky or risk making a bad first impression with Nico's friends and family, so you had agreed to stay at this complete stranger's apartment for the night. Nico even let you take the bigger bedroom, insisting it made more sense for you to have the ensuite bathroom to get ready in the next morning.

After so many celebrations of exes and one-time romantic flings that were leaving a lot more of an emotional toll than either you or Nico were ever going to openly admit, this weekend's wedding felt like a welcome break. It was a fun, low-stakes party that you could both enjoy.

His sister's best friend, Sunny, was getting married at a church in London, but it seemed the entire population of Switzerland had traveled into town for the grand event. Nico had mentioned he had known Sunny his entire life, having grown up in the same Swiss village. She had moved to London with her fiance, Colin, about a year ago, but they had been planning this wedding for years. When you saw the size of the church (and the wedding party), you quickly understood why this wedding had taken so long to put together.

Not a detail had gone unnoticed, and no expense had been spared.

Nico's older brother, Luca, dramatically rolled his eyes as the three of you exited your taxi to arrive at the venue. You were willing to bet the budget they must have spent on flowers to decorate the church entrance probably cost more than your salary for the entire year. It looked beautiful, but it felt a bit over the top. Luca had warned you that Sunny could be a bit much but didn't explain how or why.

You now understood what he meant.

You watched Nico adjust his tie as the three of you headed toward the front door of the church. Stopping just shy of the line of guests queuing to get inside, you lightly shooed his hands away to fix the crooked tie. Once satisfied with how it was sitting, you smoothed your hands over the lapels of his suit jacket, smiling in satisfaction.

"Does it look alright?" Nico asked, voice low so only you could hear him.

He looked more than alright.

This suit had to have been custom-tailored the way it fit him so perfectly. Your eyes bulged out of your head like some sort of cartoon character when you first saw him all dressed up today. The black dress pants clung to his muscular thighs, accentuating the strength and definition playing hockey gave him.

You had seen Nico in a suit plenty of times before at Devils games. But this sleek all-black outfit, in contrast to the rough shadow of stubble he had grown out over the last few weeks, was absolutely doing it for you.

Something about Nico had your stomach in knots today. He always looked good, but you physically couldn't keep your eyes off him. It was almost like you were suddenly seeing him in a different light.

When Luca caught you staring, very obviously checking his little brother out, he shot you a wink over Nico's shoulder.

"You look great," you managed to squeak out. "At least one of the top 3 best dressed Hischiers here today."

He laughed at your comment before lacing his hand with yours and walking toward the entrance. The sound of his laughter made you feel lightheaded, holding on tightly to his hand to try and keep yourself steady. If he noticed how hard you were squeezing his hand, he made no motion to acknowledge it.

As you approached, one of the flower girls greeted you, handing you a single red rose with the wedding program. You smiled at the young girl to thank her before tucking the program into the small purse you had brought with you.

"This is a bit much," Luca muttered from next to Nico, but you heard him loud and clear. You raised your eyebrows in surprise, hoping he'd elaborate. He shrugged when he noticed you looking at him expectantly. "It feels like they're overcompensating."

You didn't know Sunny or Colin well enough to say if Luca was right, but by the way Nico involuntarily snorted at his comment and immediately tried to cover it up with a cough, you could put the clues together.

The three of you mingled at the top of the aisle, waiting for the crowd to thin out before you went to find a place to sit. As you waited, guests occasionally stopped and said hello to Nico and Luca, chatting animatedly in Swiss German. You had no idea what they were saying, but you assumed they were either family or friends from back home.

They would all exchange a few words in Swiss German while you politely nodded and smiled. They would eventually reach a point in the conversation where you heard Nico say your name, and they'd usually grab you for a tight hug, as you assumed he was introducing you.

"You probably shouldn't say that too loud," Luca chuckled as the latest group of visitors left—an older woman who had pinched Nico's dimpled cheek when she first said hello.

"Fuck off," Nico grumbled, but that only piqued your interest more. You couldn't understand what they were saying, but the fact that Luca had switched back to English to caution Nico meant he wanted you to understand the warning, too.

"What shouldn't you say?" you asked, your brow furrowed as you looked between Nico and Luca.

"He—" Nico shot Luca a look that immediately shut him up. "Nothing," Luca waved off.

You were having none of that.

"Well, someone better start translating," you warned. You turned to Nico with an accusatory glare, poking a finger into his chest for emphasis. "What are you saying about me when you know I can't understand?"

"Nothing! I'm introducing you!" he raised his hands in defense.

You turned toward Luca for confirmation, knowing he'd have no problem ratting his little brother out. The wicked grin on his face confirmed your suspicion. "As his girlfriend," Luca smirked.

His answer left you confused. You had been introducing each other as boyfriend and girlfriend at all the weddings you had attended—this wasn't new.

In fact, Nico called you his girlfriend when you were first introduced to Luca last night. Had Nico told him your deal? Did his family know this was all fake?

"I told Sunny I was bringing a girlfriend," Nico defended himself, rolling his eyes.

"And she was okay with that?" Luca asked.

"She's getting married, so I think she's fine."

Luca opened his mouth to say something more, but Nico abruptly turned toward you, physically stepping in between you and Luca so you couldn't see him anymore.

"Shall we go find a seat?" he smiled, but his tone was sharp, and you knew it wasn't a suggestion.

He extended his elbow for you to link your arm through as he guided you down the aisle to find a row that still had room for you to sit. With your arm looped through Nico's, you grabbed his bicep and squeezed it to get his attention.

"Why wouldn't the bride be okay with you bringing a girlfriend?" you harshly whispered.

"Don't worry about it," came his immediate answer.

You recognized this weird avoidance from Nico. It was the same way he got when he recalled the details of his exes when you were reviewing wedding invitations with him. You didn't like how tight that thought made your chest feel.

"This is another wedding from the curse, isn't it?" you asked, half-hoping he would deny your suspicion and put your mind back at ease.

Instead, he ignored your question as you shuffled into the pew behind him. He politely smiled at the older man you two sat next to before you pinched his arm to force him to look at you. You stared at him expectantly, and he let out an annoyed sigh.

"Maybe."

"I can't believe you," you gawked, trying to keep your voice low. "Your sister's best friend? You're a dog, Nico."

He scoffed, shoving your hand away. "We hooked up a few times, but we were teenagers. It wasn't serious."

"Wasn't serious for you, or wasn't serious for her?" you challenged. Nico opened his mouth to say something before closing it a moment later, rethinking his words. "I can't believe you," you gaped.

"Why are you getting jealous?" He winked as he said it.

You tried to ignore the somersault your stomach did at the playful spark in his brown eyes. You rolled your eyes, but the snarky comeback died on your tongue as the organ music started and the wedding party began their procession.

That night, you learned that the Hischier family loved shots. You had witnessed this firsthand with Nico at your previous weddings, but his siblings were even worse. Whenever you tried to sneak away, Nina or Luca would find you and pull you back in.

Needless to say, you were feeling no pain by the end of the night. Nico, who was in just as messy of a state, offered to call a car to take you two home when he found you hiding at a reception table. You thanked him profusely before excusing yourself to use the bathroom as he let you know he'd be waiting for you out front.

When you came out of the stall, Sunny was at the bathroom counter. She was leaning over the sink in her white strapless mini dress, which she had changed into for the reception. It was one of three different dresses Sunny had worn throughout the day, but it looked every bit as expensive as the previous two. She was reapplying her lip gloss in the mirror, her eyes briefly glancing over to look at you in the reflection. 

"You look beautiful," you said, smiling at her in the mirror as you washed your hands.

You had yet to be properly introduced to Sunny, but it was an unwritten rule that if you saw another girl in the bathroom, you always complimented each other. It was all part of being a girl's girl.

She gave you a brief smile before putting the cap back on her lip gloss. She turned to face you, her hip leaning against the counter as she crossed her arms over her chest. 

You could feel her eyes raking over you as if she were studying you or trying to place who you were. You quickly felt uneasy under her gaze as her expression seemed to change into an emotion your intoxicated brain didn't recognize. 

"You're Nico's new girlfriend, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes narrowed as she said his name. 

"Yep," you chuckled, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood.

You introduced yourself by name, but she didn't seem interested. She rolled her eyes as you spoke. It wasn't a playful eye roll either, as if to tell you she already knew who you were, and it was silly to introduce yourself. This felt mean. Everything about this interaction felt malicious—and calculated.

"How long has this," she waved her hand at you for emphasis, "been a thing?"

"Uh—" You froze. Surprisingly, no one had asked how long you and Nico had been together every time you had introduced yourselves. It wasn't a detail you had thought to work out in your fake story. You tried to keep your answer vague, hoping it wouldn't contradict whatever Nico may have said when he told Sunny you were coming to the wedding. "A couple months."

She made a bit of a surprised noise at your answer, sending a bolt of panic through your body. But she didn't call you out on the timeline. Instead, she returned to the mirror to continue touching up her makeup. Sunny didn't bother to look at you as she continued to speak. 

"That's a pretty short time to be parading around his ex-girlfriend's wedding already." There was a brief pause before she turned her focus back to you in the mirror, a taunting smile on her face. "Did he tell you that? Before you got here, did he tell you about us?"

You didn't have an answer. Technically, no, Nico hadn't said anything until Luca outed him. He hadn't lied; everything he told you about Sunny was true. He just left out some details.

You also hadn't asked.

Most importantly, he wasn't your boyfriend and didn't owe you his dating history.

Nor would it have made any sort of difference. Nico had asked you to come to this wedding with him because he wanted someone, wanted you, to be here with him.

"I doubt it," she answered for you. "He's never been honest a day in his life."

She aggressively threw the lip gloss tube into the makeup bag on the counter. You flinched at the sound, hoping Sunny hadn't noticed that her little speech was having any sort of effect on you.

Sunny was clearly drunk and ranting. Hearing her ramble off such awful things about Nico was a bit jarring. He was probably the only person you had ever met that everyone always seemed to love. You couldn't recall a single negative thing anyone had ever mentioned about him before. He had his flaws; he was only human, but it didn't feel like he deserved this.

This was supposed to be Sunny's big day. She was now married in the most lavish wedding you had ever witnessed, yet she was venting about a past fling in the bathroom instead. Maybe Luca was on to something when he said the extravagance of the day was really Sunny and Colin overcompensating.

"Look, you seem like a nice girl," Sunny continued. Her mean-girl facade cracked for a moment as she sighed. "Do yourself a favor and spare yourself the heartache. I've been where you are, and it's not worth it."

"Sorry?" you stuttered, unsure you were hearing her right.

"It's not worth it," she repeated. "He'll wine and dine you, he'll be great in bed, and then one day he'll be gone, and he'll gaslight you into thinking you made the whole thing up in your head."

You awkwardly laughed, at a loss for how else to reply. If you and Nico actually were together, a clearly scorned ex-whatever would be the last person you would be taking relationship advice from.

"I'm trying to be nice and offer you advice here," she snapped when you didn't reply. "He's probably pulling all the same moves on you that he once used on me. I know exactly how it ends."

"I appreciate it," you finally spoke up, offering her a small smile to try and ease the tension. "I've got my head on straight, though. I know what I'm doing."

"Right," Sunny scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Good luck, babe."

Sunny's mocking laughter was ringing in your ears as you excused yourself from the bathroom. You hoped Nico wouldn't see the unease on your face as you headed toward the exit where he had promised you he'd be waiting.

But all that melted away when you saw him leaning against one of the large pillars outside the front entrance. He had a vase of flowers in his hands, and as you approached, he held them out toward you with a goofy, dimpled grin.

"These are for you," he smiled even wider, sending a whole new wave of butterflies into flight in your stomach.

You took the flowers, immediately recognizing the square crystal vase as one of the centerpieces from the reception tables. "Did you steal these?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

Nico waved you off, placing his arm around your shoulder to lead you toward the waiting car. "It doesn't matter how I got them; I got them for you."

Tucked into Nico's side, you used the chill of the night air as an excuse to cuddle up closer to him. His hand rubbed absentmindedly up and down your bicep to keep you warm as you descended the front steps of the venue.

In the backseat of the Uber, you made no attempt to move away, resting your head on his shoulder as he continued to hold you close. Letting your eyes fall shut, all you could focus on was the woodsy smell of his cologne and how large and overwhelming his warm hand felt against your cool skin.

It probably wasn't what Sunny meant with her rant, but all you took away was that she was confirming your drunken suspicion that Nico was great in bed.

Back at Sunny and Colin's apartment, you placed your stolen wedding favor on the coffee table where the couple would find it tomorrow. The flowers were a sweet gesture from Nico, but there was no way they were going to fit into your carry-on luggage and make it back to New Jersey in one piece.

When you joined him in the kitchen, Nico offered you a glass of water. You took the glass from his outstretched hand and placed it on the counter to free your hands so you could finally take your shoes off. You moaned as you stepped out of your heels, relishing the feeling of your aching feet now resting flat on the floor. 

Nico choked on his water at the sound, coughing as you looked up at him.

"You good?" you asked, unable to hide your giggle.

He didn't say anything; he just nodded his head in response.

You waited for a moment to see if he would speak up, but he stayed silent. You maintained eye contact, watching him as he raked his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face, only to fall right back across his forehead when he moved his hand away.

You shrugged at his silence, reaching for the glass of water Nico had poured for you. "Your family's nice," you offered, tapping your nails against the cup as you waited for Nico to say something.

"Yeah," he agreed. His one-word answer made you roll your eyes, something Nico missed as he turned his back to you to shrug off his suit jacket and place it on the kitchen counter. "Luca loved you."

"Does that mean I get to date your brother when this is done?" you asked, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

You didn't miss how Nico's shoulders tensed underneath his white dress shirt at your joke.

"No."

"I think that's up to him," you continued to taunt, "not you."

"No," he repeated, roughly pulling on his tie until it came loose and tossing it onto the counter as well. "Not going to happen."

"Why are you getting jealous?" you teased, mocking his reply earlier at the church.

But Nico didn't laugh. When he turned back around to face you, he looked serious. Nico didn't say anything, but his body language screamed yes. He was jealous simply at the mention of the joke.

That took the wind right out of the conversation.

Maybe he wasn't necessarily jealous of you; perhaps it was the idea of losing out to his older brother in competition. Siblings tended to be competitive like that. There was no reason for him to be feeling this way about you. You barely knew each other, and you weren't together.

You weighed your options for a moment. Tonight had been fun, but it wasn't serious. You could make the first move, kiss Nico, and get whatever tension was brewing between you all day out of your system. It was low-stakes and no strings attached.

"I'm going to head to bed," he eventually said, "I'll see you in the morning." He placed his empty cup in the kitchen sink before walking past you toward the hallway to the bedrooms.

When would you ever have this opportunity again?

So, without putting much thought into it or allowing yourself the opportunity to psych yourself out of it, you spun around to grab Nico's wrist to pull him back toward you. As he stumbled back into you, you leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

It was short and innocent, so quick that you almost thought maybe you had imagined it, but then Nico was leaning down and kissing you again, harder this time. You had been thinking about this since first seeing him that morning. You wanted to savor the moment.

He pulled away ever so slightly, looking down at you to check in and gauge how you were feeling. Your hands came up to rest on either side of his neck, thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw. You could feel his racing heartbeat, letting you know he had also been waiting for this moment.

He leaned down to close the gap again, this time with the hunger of a man starved. With one hand resting on his jaw and the other clutching onto the front of his shirt, you desperately pulled him in as close to you as possible.

Your fingers came up to intertwine in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a low groan from him. You took the opportunity to slip your tongue past his lips, and his hands slid to the small of your back, pressing you harder into him.

So caught up in everything a first kiss should be, you didn't even notice the world around you. All that existed to you was the delicious scratch of Nico's beard against your chin and the sensation of his fingertips skimming dangerously low across your back, holding you flush against his chest. Every part of your skin that he touched felt like it was perfectly on fire.

You stumbled over your feet as Nico began to walk you backward until you hit the kitchen counter. He brought his hand up to rest on the back of your neck, dipping your head back as he deepened the kiss. He didn't break the kiss as he grabbed you by the waist and effortlessly hoisted you up to sit on the counter so you were now eye-level with him.

You parted your legs so he could step between them, his hands squeezing at your hips, before he hastily pulled you forward until you were completely pressed against him again.

You eventually pulled away to catch your breath, resting your forehead against Nico's. You stayed like that for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall rapidly as he tried to catch his own breath. He made no motion to pull away, brushing his nose against yours delicately as your fingers toyed with the thin gold chain around his neck.

You shivered as his hands ghosted up the outside of your thighs, pushing your dress up with them until the silk fabric bunched up at your waist. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning as his fingers continued to trace patterns along your inner thigh.

As you let your head fall back with a sigh, Nico took that as his invitation to leave a trail of kisses along your jawline until he reached your neck. He licked a stripe over your pulse point before gently biting down on the skin as your eyes rolled back. You were complete putty under his touch.

You opened your legs wider, offering him better access as his fingers continued to inch their way up your thigh. You felt him smile into the kiss on your neck as you whimpered his name.

His hands were moving agonizingly slow as if he was enjoying torturing you. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his fingers finally hook under the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. Before Nico could actually touch you, the distinct sound of glass shattering had the two of you jumping apart.

You both turned toward the source of the noise, finding Sunny's oversized dog, Bear, standing by the coffee table. His wagging tail was at the perfect height to have knocked the crystal vase you had set on the table clean off onto the hardwood floor. Nico cursed as he jumped into action, stepping over the broken glass in the living room to pick up Bear and place him on the couch before he stepped on anything.

You pushed yourself to the edge of the counter, adjusting your dress so you could stand up when Nico stopped you. "Don't move. There's broken glass everywhere, Schatz," he warned. "Let me clean this up before you hurt yourself."

You nodded wordlessly, watching Nico disappear down the hallway momentarily before returning with a broom. You couldn't help but smile as you listened to him say something to Bear in Swiss German, earning a bark from the dog in confirmation. Pressing your fingers to your swollen lips as you watched Nico sweep up the mess on the floor, you felt dizzy.

The German pet name was new. It was something he had called you in passing at a few of the weddings but never in private when you didn't have an audience. You didn't quite know what to make of it or what any of this meant, but it had slipped off his tongue so naturally.

And he had kissed you like that.

You were sure that was the kind of kiss you would think about for the rest of your life.

Sunny's words weighed heavily in the back of your mind, though. She had warned you that it wasn't worth it.

You needed to remind yourself that it wasn't.

When the summer was over, the curse would be lifted, and you could go on and find your soulmate. Someone who would hopefully send sparks and butterflies coursing through your veins from just a kiss, like Nico had managed to do.

This interruption was probably for the best.

You were getting dangerously close to crossing a line you couldn't return from. You two still had two weddings to go, including Liam's, which was the main reason you were even in this situation. You couldn't throw it all away now because you were drunk and horny. You needed to be smarter than that—you were smarter than that.

So when Nico extended his hand to help you climb down from the counter once the mess had been cleaned, you politely thanked him before making your way down the hall to the guest bedroom. Once alone, you let out the breath you hadn't realized you had been holding.

Resting your back against the closed door, you could still feel Nico's hands all over you. It was taking everything in you not to double back down the hallway to Nico's room, desperate to pick up where you had left off.

You locked the bedroom door with shaky hands, trying to quiet the temptation.

Tomorrow was a new day, and you'd both move on. You were adults, and things like this happened all the time.

Everything was going to be fine.

hope you find somewhere safe for your baggage

After London, something about your relationship with Nico shifted.

You didn't know how to describe it or what exactly it was, but it felt like you were suddenly wading into uncharted territory.

You had kissed Nico. He had kissed you back.

He was also the one who escalated it beyond the innocent peck you had started it with. Then, the next morning, he didn't say anything, and you were too nervous to be the one to bring it up, so you acted like nothing had happened.

That had been a month ago, and too much time had passed to bring it up now.

There had been a four-week break in your wedding schedule, and you had yet to see Nico in person since the morning after in Sunny's kitchen. He had texted you nearly every day throughout those four weeks, though. Sometimes it was a quick text to check in or a photo of the dog someone brought to his off-season workout session. Occasionally, he'd ask how you felt about Liam's upcoming wedding, ensuring you were still on for your trip to Paris.

It was a new routine that you didn't even notice starting. Nor did you remember what life was like a few months ago without these daily check-ins from Nico.

You had told him you were feeling fine, but during the entire flight from Newark to Paris, you thought you were going to be sick with anxiety. The fear of facing your ex-boyfriend and the cousin he had left you for was now a reality. When your plane finally touched down, you had a very real moment where you contemplated bolting.

Scanning the board of connecting flights and looking for the best place to escape, your eyes landed on Monaco. There was a flight leaving almost every hour to Nice. A 90-minute flight and then a quick 20-minute train ride, and you'd be in Monte Carlo. Maybe you'd find a billionaire who would let you live on his yacht forever, and you'd never have to face the consequences of your actions ever again.

You could ignore everything going wrong and run away from your problems permanently.

You weren't sure if you could do this, something you had confessed to Nico the moment he met you at the baggage claim. He was wearing gray sweatpants, a Team Switzerland hoodie, and a backward Yankees hat—a signature travel outfit. He smiled as he watched you come down the escalator. He looked cozy, ready to cuddle up and keep you warm. Nico was a boyfriend straight out of a Hallmark movie, but even that couldn't calm down your frayed nerves.

As you got closer, his dimpled smile faltered when he saw the distress on your face. He could tell you were spiraling the second he laid eyes on you.

You were so freaked out over having to see Liam again and maybe a little anxious about facing Nico after what had happened in Sunny's kitchen that you were on the verge of hyperventilating. He placed a firm hand on both of your shoulders to bring you back to Earth.

"Schatz," he spoke slowly, trying to get you to focus on him despite the crowd continuing to fuss around you. "What's going on?"

For some reason, having him ask how you were doing was all you needed to fall apart. Your eyes immediately welled up with tears as you frantically shook your head. "I can't do this," you cried out. "I don't want to do this."

Without uttering another word, Nico pulled you into a hug. As he cradled the back of your head against his chest and soothingly rubbed his hand up and down your back, you rambled out every doubt and insecurity that you had been mulling over throughout the flight.

You had traveled this far, and you both realistically knew you couldn't back out now. But he patiently listened to your rant about not being ready to go before he placed a kiss on the top of your head, grabbed your bags, and told you to follow him.

"It's going to be fine," he had promised as you made your way to the taxi stand. "This is nothing coffee and a pastry can't fix."

His words were firm, and you felt you had no choice but to believe him. So you carried on as usual, pretending to ignore the very obvious elephant that had existed between you and Nico since that night in London, which you both were going to continue to not talk about.

Nico could tell you were uneasy about it all. So he tried his best to fix it. He wanted to try and find a way to make this trip feel a little less heavy, to help you enjoy the time with him in Paris before you had to face the reality of watching your ex-boyfriend walk down the aisle of the wedding you had planned.

Nico had strategically planned a busy day to keep your mind occupied. Too much downtime left the possibility of your mind wandering and you sulking, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. So he took you sightseeing across the city, hitting as many tourist traps as possible to compensate for your two's limited time.

You really only had one day to go sightseeing before Clara and Liam's wedding on Saturday afternoon. Then, you were flying to meet Gianna in Italy Sunday night while Nico returned to Switzerland.

It could be just the air of romance that Paris, the City of Love, has, but everything about the day felt overwhelmingly lovey-dovey. He was probably doing it because he had seen you fall apart in the airport that morning. Still, Nico held your hand tightly as you weaved through crowds, held every door open, and pulled out your chair for you at every cafe you stopped in along the way.

For a fleeting moment, with his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he stood behind you, you could forget about the real reason you were in France, distracted by Nico whispering dirty jokes about every painting into your ear—much to the dismay of the other guest on your guided tour of the Louvre. In that second of normalcy, you were two lovers friends on the vacation of a lifetime.

With your day winding down, you two returned to your hotel to see if your room was finally ready to check in. For some reason, Nico was suddenly in a hurry, as if he now had somewhere he needed to be.

He'd checked his watch about a dozen times throughout the brief elevator ride up to the sixth floor of this lavish Paris hotel. He rechecked the time as he fumbled with the key card for your room, cursing under his breath when the automatic lock didn't immediately recognize the card.

The key eventually scanned, and he pushed the door open so quickly, it slammed against the wall behind it. You flinched at the noise, worried about a noise complaint from the nearly silent floor. Nico pulled your suitcases into the room before wrapping his hand around your wrist and blindly pulling you through the dark hotel room toward the balcony door.

"Come on," he urged, dissatisfied with the speed you were following him.

With the sun finally tucked away behind the horizon and Nico refusing to turn a lamp or a light switch on in his haste, he fumbled with the lock on the balcony door in the dark of the hotel room. Standing behind him, you reached over his shoulder toward the light switch on the wall that you assumed would bring some sort of light into this pitch-black room. But as your hand reached for the switch, you were scolded with a quick but efficient "No!"

Your arm froze mid-reach, an annoyed sigh falling from your lips.

"You can be mad at me in a second," Nico remarked, acknowledging the intent behind your groans, "but I promise this will be worth it."

As if on cue, the lock finally clicked, and he pushed open the double doors to the balcony, revealing a small stone terrace. He reached back to grab your hand again, pulling you out onto the terrace. All that greeted you was two small lounge chairs and a wrought iron cafe table.

You weren't sure what about this was supposed to be so worth it unless the hotel had lied about the listing photos. But Nico was beaming, antsy with joy as if he were a little kid on Christmas morning. You followed Nico's gaze up toward the skyline, hoping that might help clue you in on what you were supposed to be so thrilled about.

You tried to match Nico's level of enthusiasm, not wanting to crush his spirit and risk starting a fight when you felt your dynamic was already awkward, but it was a bit underwhelming if you were being honest. This balcony offered an unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower, but it was dark, and there were no lights on at the tower, making it nearly impossible to see. Plus, you had already been there this morning when the sun was still up and taken more than enough photos.

This was just a worse view of a landmark you had already visited.

Furrowing your brows, unsure what you were supposed to find so exciting about this, you glanced over at Nico. There was a massive grin on his face as he looked back at you, that smug smile letting you know he was very proud of himself.

Maybe it'd be a better view in the morning when the sun came up.

"Nico," you said carefully, "we were just at the Eiffel Tower."

"Just wait," he pleaded, looking down at the watch on his wrist one more time as he bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet. "It should be any second… now."

You looked up as the Eiffel Tower came to life, the iconic French landmark lit up in golden sparkling lights. Your jaw dropped at the sight, mesmerized as the lights continued to flicker and twinkle across the tower.

It was breathtaking. You couldn't bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the view, only blindly reaching out to grab Nico's bicep beside you and give it a dramatic squeeze to show your appreciation.

It was beautiful, but his eyes stayed firmly on you.

This was far from Nico's first trip to Paris. Growing up only a short train ride away in Switzerland, he had already done all of the touristy things France had to offer. And he enjoyed it all, but it was nothing compared to experiencing the joy of traveling through your eyes for the first time. All he wanted to do was watch how excited you were finally visiting the places you had only ever dreamed of.

"I hope this makes everything else feel a bit more worth it," he finally spoke, keeping his voice low so he didn't disturb the moment. The twinkling view wasn't much, but it was all he could think to come up with on such a limited schedule.

"It's perfect," you answered without hesitation. You briefly pulled your eyes away from the tower to glance at Nico, giving his arm another squeeze. "This whole thing is… perfect. Remind me how you're single again?"

You didn't notice Nico wince as you said it.

The twinkling light show eventually ended a few minutes later, but Nico assured you they did it at the top of every hour so you could see it again. As you eventually made your way off the terrace and back into your hotel room, you flicked on the lamp closest to the balcony door. The grand hotel room Nico had insisted you stumble blindly through finally came to life under the glow of the warm light.

As the room came into focus, you stuttered to a stop. Nico crashed into your back at the unexpected standstill, his hands coming up to grab your waist and steady you before you could tip over. He made no motion to move, holding you firmly against him as his eyes scanned the room, too.

The spacious room looked every bit as luxurious as the lobby and the balcony view had implied. It was decorated with expensive art on the walls and antique furniture that felt authentically Parisian. You knew it must have come at an outrageous price, especially given how last minute Nico had booked it. Right in the middle of the extravagant suite was a bed piled high with decorative throw pillows that looked like they were all hand-sewn.

The only problem was that it was the only bed.

The rest of the room had an antique wooden desk, a massive wardrobe, and a matching set of bedside tables. Despite having more than enough space for one, there wasn't a second bed or even a pullout sofa anywhere in sight.

In the middle of the bed was an ice bucket filled with what looked to be a bottle of champagne next to a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. Ruby-red rose petals outlined the alcohol and sweet treats, laid out perfectly like a heart across the white duvet.

"Oh," came Nico's voice as you stared at the single bed—that couldn't have been larger than a Queen size at best. "I get it now."

"You get what now?" you challenged, brow arched as you glanced over your shoulder to eye him skeptically.

"La lune de miel," he answered as if that was supposed to be evident to you.

You tried to ignore the rush of heat that went right between your legs at his basic use of French. Despite the reprieve of the air-conditioned hotel room, you must have still been flushed from the summer heatwave outside.

"The receptionist kept saying it, but I didn't know what it meant," he explained.

You took a few cautious steps out of Nico's grasp, picking up one of the rose petals off the bed. You were pleasantly surprised to discover it was a real flower petal. This hotel clearly spared no expense for the surprise welcome gift. It was then you noticed a small white card on the tray of chocolate desserts. Your eyes scanned over the handwritten 'Félicitations' note on the front as you listened to Nico's voice continue to drone on in the background.

"I knew it was something about a moon," Nico continued, "but I thought maybe she meant, like, it was only available for one night or whatever. It was the only room they had available, so I said yes," he rambled, a scarlet blush creeping up his neck as he refused to look at you.

"Nico," you managed to get out between giggles as you let the rose petals fall back onto the perfectly made bed. You watched him breathe a visible sigh of relief as he heard your sweet laugh, confirming you weren't upset. "Are we in the honeymoon suite?"

He wandered over to the ice bucket delicately balanced at the foot of the bed. He pulled the chilled bottle of champagne out of the bucket, smirking as he read over the expensive label. "I think we are, Mrs. Hischier."

It didn't take long for the two of you to finish the complimentary champagne. With the inevitable jetlag beginning to set in, the alcohol was hitting harder than expected. You had made yourself comfortable, your back against the headboard and your feet resting in Nico's lap as he lay across the foot of the bed. He absentmindedly massaged your ankles as you talked, catching up on all you had missed in the weeks since Sunny's wedding.

"How long were you and Liam together?" Nico eventually asked, unable to help himself from prying.

He had been wondering since he had found you broken-hearted in the grocery store. Still, you had been tight-lipped about any actual details about your most recent ex.

"About a year," you admitted, eyes focused on his hands as they soothed the aches in your ankle from all the walking you had done that day. He removed one hand to grab his champagne glass from where it was resting on the floor beside the bed, finishing off the final few sips in the glass. "It wasn't that long, but we moved pretty fast, so it felt serious. To me, at least. I thought he was the one because he told me he was."

Nico frowned as he listened. He hated hearing how dejected your voice sounded as you recalled the end of your relationship with Liam.

"Then he dumped me in a text message, and now he's marrying my cousin."

Nico choked on his mouthful of champagne, his eyes practically bulging out of his head as he stared at you in disbelief. Coughing to catch his breath, he placed the empty glass on the floor before propping himself up on his elbows to get a better look at you.

"Your cousin?" he repeated in disbelief. "Fuck that. Why are we going to this wedding?"

"Because it's my cousin," you emphasized. "I wanted to skip it, but my mom called me and politely told me it wasn't optional. Something about Clara and I practically being sisters growing up, and it would mean a lot to her if I were here or whatever."

Nico couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. When you had asked him to accompany you to your ex-boyfriend's wedding, as sad as you were about the whole ordeal, he had assumed that meant you had ended on good terms or were at least still friends in some way. He wasn't expecting him to have left you for your cousin.

"And then Liam texted me saying he's glad we can be mature about this," you laughed. "So now I look like the bad guy if I don't go."

Nico was at a loss for words, shaking his head in disbelief as he tried to process everything you had said. "That's insane," was all he managed to come up with.

"That's really rich coming from the guy who slept with his sister's best friend."

You felt him tense up despite trying to force out a small laugh and pretend your words didn't bother him. You instantly regretted your attempt at a joke. Maybe you weren't supposed to mention Sunny or anything related to that night in London.

"I didn't just sleep with her," he eventually said. "You're making it sound worse than it was."

You contemplated telling him about your run-in with Sunny in the bathroom that night. You could tell him how you weren't the one making it sound bad; Sunny was doing enough of that all on her own. Apparently, there were a lot of things about that night in London that you two needed to talk about.

But that felt too messy. As much as you loved a little gossip, these were real people with real feelings involved here.

Nico let out a sigh, collapsing back onto the bed and staring blankly up at the ceiling. It would be easier to be honest with you if he didn't have to look directly at you or feel you judge him for his past mistakes. Nico wanted to be honest, though. He figured whatever you were imagining had happened was worse than the truth. He didn't want you to think that poorly of him. Not just for the sake of clearing his name—Nico cared what you thought of him.

"We dated for a bit when we were teenagers," he clarified. "But we broke up right after I got drafted. Everything felt crazy and so far out of my control—I thought I was doing the right thing by not dragging her into the circus my life was becoming. There was so much distance, and I was solely focused on hockey. I wasn't going to be a very good boyfriend."

"That makes sense," you whispered. You watched as Nico chewed on his bottom lip, brown eyes still focused on anything other than you. "It sucks, but I get it. You thought you were doing the right thing."

Nico let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "She didn't see it that way. Kept saying it was a cop-out to tell her I loved her and that's why I was leaving her."

You weren't sure why, but the admission that Nico had been in love with her made your chest hurt.

Suddenly, Sunny's bathroom rant made a lot more sense. You'd probably feel the same way if it had been you. Not that she'd ever understand, but you knew Nico was just trying to do the right thing, as awful as it was. He willingly accepted the role of the villain in that story, all to spare her from the worse fate of what their relationship surely would have spiraled into.

You wanted to reach out and grab his hand and give him a reassuring squeeze as you told him it was okay and he did the right thing. As long ago as it was, it was apparent he still felt guilt over the failed relationship.

Instead, you kept your hands firmly placed in your lap, picking at a loose string on the hem of your t-shirt.

"She's probably over it by now," you lied, deciding to keep the memory of Sunny's bitter rant to yourself. "She's off on her honeymoon while you're stuck here about to go to my ex's wedding."

"Lucky us," he mumbled.

"That's the curse, Neeks," you shrugged, removing your feet from his lap. You brought your knees to your chest, allowing Nico to sit up.

"Gianna hates it whenever I say that," he said, rolling his eyes as he mentally recalled all the times she would groan and scold him about being dramatic. "But what else could there be?"

"I get it," you sighed, letting your head fall back against the headboard as you shut your eyes. Without looking at Nico, you felt more confident in voicing your thoughts. It was suddenly less scary to be vulnerable and open up to someone. The complimentary champagne definitely helped, too. "She rolls her eyes whenever I say something, always quick to tell me there can't possibly be a curse. But I think it's easier to blame something else than accept that it's me that no one can seem to love long-term."

"Schatz, I—" he sighed as if struggling to find the words he wanted to say.

You couldn't stop yourself from yawning, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth. "I think we need sleep," you mumbled between another series of yawns.

"Yeah," Nico agreed. "Probably a good call."

He hesitated for a moment, watching you slip under the covers before he reached to grab one of the pillows off the bed.

"Where are you going?" you asked, brow furrowed in confusion as he picked up the decorative throw blanket draped across the end of the bed.

"To sleep?" he answered, head cocked to the side in confusion—as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

"Where? On the floor?" you waved your hand for emphasis, in case he hadn't realized this honeymoon suite only had one bed.

"No, there's a couple chairs on the balcony, I could—"

"You can sleep in the bed, Nico," you mumbled into the pillow, eyes already closed.

You heard him sigh before you felt the mattress dip, letting you know he had climbed into bed.

"Schatz," you heard him whisper just before you could pass out, "please don't ever think it's you."

The following morning, you woke up initially feeling well rested—ready to face whatever this day would throw at you. It took a moment for your still-asleep brain to catch up and recognize where you were.

You didn't remember falling asleep this close, but with the air conditioning cranked as high as it could go, you had gravitated toward Nico for warmth in the middle of the night. And he had graciously let you cuddle into his side, limbs intertwined as he snored softly into the pillow beside you. Your head was tucked into the crook of his neck, one of your legs thrown over his hips. Nico's firm hand on the back of your thigh kept you close.

You knew you shouldn't, but he was still fast asleep, so you stayed like that for a moment, fighting to silence that tiny voice in the back of your head that wanted to snuggle in deeper. He was so close you could easily lean over to kiss him. You could pick up right where you had been abruptly stopped in London.

Instead, you remained frozen, hoping he wouldn't wake up and that you could stay like this a little bit longer. You were enjoying the feeling of his fingers resting on the bare skin of your thigh, left exposed by your sleep shorts, far too much to move right away.

You tried to ignore the way your entire body tingled as his fingers subconsciously twitched in his sleep, his grip tightening against your thigh. Deep down, you knew this wasn't a good idea. You adored Nico, but you were just friends. You weren't supposed to be anything more than that.

You two were together for a reason: to break up and find other people. You weren't supposed to actually be together. With your combined terrible luck with love, this would never actually work out.

Nico didn't stir when you finally slipped out of his grip, quietly replacing your previous spot with one of the overwhelming number of pillows stacked on the bed. By the time you emerged from the bathroom, now dressed and ready for the day, Nico was awake, propped up against the wall of pillows as he scrolled on his phone.

He quickly suggested the two of you head out for coffee, desperate for caffeine to wake you up. You had stayed up far too late the night before, finishing the complimentary champagne as you talked into the wee hours of the morning. It felt like you had talked about anything and everything.

And then, in the morning light, you once again pretended nothing happened.

It was almost like you were settling into some sort of routine. As frustrating as it was, everything about Nico also felt oddly comforting.

Like how he let your fingers anxiously fidget with the beaded bracelets on his wrist while he held your hand, seated in the final row in case you needed to make a quick exit. As you watched Clara walk down the aisle to meet Liam, with Nico's hand laced with yours, it felt significantly less devastating than you had thought. It still stung to listen to Liam recite his vows, to hear the man you had thought you would spend forever with promise everything he had once said to you to someone else.

Any time that jealous green monster began to grow, and your chest would feel tight with envy, Nico would give your hand a slight squeeze as if he knew.

It had never felt like anyone really understood you like this before. Nico had been through all the same heartbreaks. He was also navigating the disappointment and frustration of constantly feeling like you were coming up short. Yet, here he was to back you up and support you through what should have been the most emotionally devastating day of your life.

He just got it.

He got you.

crucial evidence i didn't imagine the whole thing

You were spending the two weeks before Gianna and Nate's wedding at a Tuscan villa on the coast that had the most breathtaking ocean view from the garden terrace. You had said goodbye to Nico and flown from Paris to meet Gianna the day after Liam's lackluster wedding. The rest of her small wedding party was there too, helping to sort out all the loose ends before Nate and his groomsmen arrived in a few days.

You hadn't heard much from Nico over the last week. The summer was winding down, and he had some media commitments in Bern he was required to be at, so his check-ins had been a bit more infrequent. You knew he was switching back into captain mode, trying to focus on the pressure of the upcoming seasons for the Devils, so you didn't want to push or come across as needy.

As much as you looked forward to a text or missed call to see how you were doing, Nico didn't realistically owe you anything.

The rest of the bridesmaids had ventured into town to get groceries and supplies for the final bachelorette night, leaving you and Gianna to get everything else set up. With all of your errands out of the way, you were sitting in the back garden and enjoying the late afternoon sun while you waited for the rest of the group to return.

This was the first time you two had had time to talk since you had last seen her for a brief catch-up after the first wedding. When you told her that Nico had agreed to try and break the curse with you, she had cackled over the phone. She checked in after each wedding, but she and Nate had returned to Canada for the off-season in June, so you had not seen her in person since then.

After all the overthinking and mixed emotions the last month had brought you, it was refreshing to just exist with your best friend again.

Gianna briefly excused herself as the doorbell rang, scurrying off to collect whatever wedding delivery had arrived. While you waited, you slipped your phone out of your pocket, frowning at the screen when you found no new notifications. You opened up iMessage, scrolling through until you found the thread with Nico to make sure you hadn't accidentally missed a message. But there was nothing there waiting for you.

When Gianna returned, she was holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers. The colorful arrangement was so big you could barely see her behind them. She stopped before you, practically shoving the flowers directly into your face.

"Wow," you laughed, watching her rise onto her tiptoes to peek over the top of the flower arrangement. "Nate's really outdone himself."

"They're for you," she said, shoving the flowers into your hands.

You cautiously took the bouquet from her, unsure what to make of the surprise delivery. Had she ordered flowers for all of the bridesmaids?

"Read the card," she whined. "I want to know who they're from."

With hands you didn't notice were shaking, you picked up the small card that was resting between the twine woven around the base of the bouquet. You glanced at Gianna's wicked grin before rereading the simple note. You had a sneaking suspicion that she knew who the flowers were from before you even opened the card.

Just because. ♥️ Nico

Nervously chewing on your bottom lip, you wordlessly handed the card to Gianna to let her read it for herself.

"Shut the fuck up," she shrieked. She looked back at you from the card a few times as if trying to determine if what she was looking at was real. When she decided this romantic bouquet was actually from Nico, she couldn't figure out why you weren't freaking out. "This is the cutest thing I've ever seen."

She dropped into the seat next to you, handing the card back to you. You placed the bouquet of flowers on the garden table, but you kept the card in your hands. You reread the small note a few more times, trying to wrap your head around it all.

"So," Gianna practically sang, "how's it going with Nico then?"

"Good," you answered vaguely.

"Good," Gianna repeated, but her face looked skeptical. "Curse is lifted?"

"Well, I haven't received any more wedding invites," you rolled your eyes, putting the card down to rest in your lap. "So it hasn't gotten worse, at least."

You could tell from how Gianna's knee was bouncing restlessly that it was taking all her self-control to hold back her interrogation. Nico had sent you just because flowers. She had no idea your relationship was at that point.

You didn't even know your relationship was at that point.

You hadn't heard from him much since Paris. Yes, you knew he was busy, but it didn't make you obsessively check your phone any less. And now he was sending you flowers?

Not just any flowers, either. Nico was sending you flowers just because.

You had told him these were the kinds of flowers and gestures that would make someone fall in love with you. All those months ago, in his kitchen, before all of this began, he had said he would try to remember that. 

Did he remember, or was this an unlucky coincidence?

"Come on, I'm dying here," Gianna whined, shaking your knee to try and get you to focus. "Let's cut to the chase. Are you and Nico in love yet?"

You snorted, ignoring Gianna's frown at your response. "That's never going to happen."

You could see how this might confuse Gianna or send a different message. Nico was playing his part well as the doting summer boyfriend. But it was all pretend.

As fake as this all was, you had a sinking feeling that this would only end with you getting hurt—no matter the outcome.

"But the two of you would be perfect for each other," Gianna insisted. "I would die if you and Nico got together."

"What?" you turned to face your best friend, completely disbelieving at her sudden change in opinion. "You're the one who said no when I asked you to set us up!"

"You were asking me to set you up because of your stupid curse," she rolled her eyes as if that were supposed to be obvious to you. "If you had told me you thought he was cute or something, I would have made it happen."

"I can't believe you," you muttered, looking down at Nico's note again.

"You've got to be in it for the right reasons," Gianna explained. "Maybe that's why it's never worked out before. You've been so focused on the possibility of a curse that you never fully commit yourself to anything just to try and dull the heartache when it's over."

"Is that such a bad thing?" you asked, looking up at Gianna, "Trying to protect myself?"

"No, I never said that," she answered carefully. She let out a small sigh before reaching out to gently squeeze your leg. "But if you have one foot out the door the entire time, how do you expect anyone to feel comfortable enough to stay?"

"Oh."

Gianna's words knocked the air out of your lungs. You couldn't argue with her. You had always been so focused on self-preservation, preparing yourself for when everything inevitably ended, that you never stopped to consider that was part of the problem.

You had leaned too far into the idea of a curse and had accidentally made it a reality.

"But I think Nico wants to stay," Gianna laughed softly, glancing at the oversized flower bouquet on the table.

"I kissed him," you blurted out.

"When?! At Liam's wedding?" she gasped, squeezing your hand so hard you were surprised she hadn't broken a bone. "Oh my God, we need more wine."

Before she could fully stand up, you grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the spot next to you. You didn't need glasses of wine or anything else to make it a bigger deal than it already was. It didn't mean anything. The flowers didn't mean anything, either. 

"No, it was the wedding before Liam's," you told her. "In London."

Gianna's jaw dropped. If she was upset you hadn't told her sooner, she was focused more on discovering every detail.

"What happened? What did he say?" she demanded.

"He kissed me back."

Gianna raised her eyebrows in anticipation, waiting for more.

"That was it," you shrugged. "We were interrupted before it could go any further."

"Did you want it to go further?" she asked.

"Gianna," you warned.

"What? I just told you I'm Team Nico," she defended, holding her hands up in surrender. "So, what happened after?"

"I already told you nothing happened." Your best friend narrowed her eyes at you, not buying your story. "We never talked about it again."

"Have you said anything?" she asked.

"No. I mean, we were drunk. It was probably just…" You trailed off, shrugging.

"Maybe he hasn't said anything because he thinks you regret it," she reasoned. "He's a good guy. He probably doesn't want to embarrass you."

You gnawed on your lip as you contemplated Gianna's answers. "How do I know for sure?" you asked.

She smiled, nodding her head toward the table. "I think the flowers are a pretty sure sign."

"No, they're—"

The glare Gianna sent you shut you up immediately. "Babe," she warned, "don't even try that."

You sighed, looking down as you traced your fingers over the heart at the end of the note.

You always thought you liked getting flowers, but you had never really received them without having to ask. These just because flowers were something you had always dreamed of but had only ever witnessed other people getting. And yet here was someone sending you flowers because he was thinking of you.

Someone willing to and wanting to do what you deserve.

"We've become friends through this whole thing," you admitted. "It makes it complicated."

"You're friends?" Gianna repeated skeptically.

You nodded your head in confirmation. "We've spent so much time together over the last few months. It was bound to happen."

"You like him," Gianna deadpanned. "And the sooner you admit that to yourself, the sooner you can tell Nico that."

"I don't know," you admitted. "I'm not saying I don't like him. I just don't know how I'm supposed to feel right now."

Truthfully, you didn't know how you felt. Two weeks ago, you were crying on an airplane about your ex-boyfriend and then seething with jealousy when you watched him marry someone else. If you had feelings for Nico, you wouldn't still have been thinking of Liam, right?

It had been so long since you had felt this way or had feelings toward someone in a healthy relationship that you almost didn't remember what it felt like. When the fairytale feeling from all these weddings wore off, you would be able to think more clearly.

"Do I get to tell you 'I told you so' when you finally realize it?" Gianna teased, pulling you from your thoughts.

You rolled your eyes, putting the card on the table next to the flowers so you would stop obsessively looking at it. "I'll talk to him after the wedding," you said.

"Why wait?" Gianna asked, dramatically shaking your knee to emphasize her point. "Call him now!"

"No, I'd rather do it in person," you shook your head. "And it's your big day. I don't want to ruin anything or make it awkward."

"Can I be blunt?"

You dramatically rolled your eyes at her question. "Have you ever felt the need to ask before?"

She ignored your sarcastic response. That was how you knew Gianna was serious about this.

"Don't worry about ruining my day, stealing our thunder, or whatever other excuse is rattling around in your head right now," she said. "The only person you're ruining this for is yourself."

"I'll think about it," you agreed with a sigh. You knew you wouldn't say anything at the wedding, but if you agreed, it could hold Gianna over for now.

You probably weren't going to say anything, at least.

You would wait until these weddings were over and you were back in New Jersey and see how you felt then. You wouldn't rush it. You didn't even know if Nico felt the same way, and there was no point in stressing over it until then.

Gianna grabbed her coffee mug from the table, where it was resting next to Nico's flowers. Settling back into her seat, she brought the cup to her lips as the two of you stared in silence at the bouquet. She did her best to try to hide her giggle behind the rim of her cup, but the attempt was futile.

"What are you laughing about now?" you asked, watching her skeptically out of the corner of your eye.

"I'm just thinking about how cute we'll look in our matching WAG jackets next season."

you're standing face to face with "i told you so"

Watching Nate and Gianna tearfully exchange their vows, it hit you.

Gianna's elaborate planning had paid off, and their sunset ceremony at a breathtaking winery in the Tuscan countryside was the epitome of romance. You were overjoyed for your best friend and honored to stand beside her as her maid of honor. Yet as you watched Nate wipe another tear away, you felt that familiar green monster pressing on your chest.

You were jealous.

You had felt this way in Paris, too. At the time, you had thought you were seething with jealousy over Liam finding his forever with someone else. Now, you realize it wasn't the person you longed for; it was the love.

When you thought of Liam and Clara's wedding, there was no more sadness or heartache. All that remained was pure, green envy. And not over Liam—envy for the happily ever after.

You wanted to shout from the rooftops and celebrate your love in front of everyone you knew.

You wanted this, all of this.

With Nico.

You felt dizzy at the revelation.

You had thought you liked him, but this felt like something entirely different. This felt like the person you wanted with you forever.

You wanted the person you didn't have to beg to love you back—the one who showed up no matter what, who loved you in the way you needed to be shown love.

The one who loved you just because.

You could feel the back of your neck sweating, your heart racing at the realization. It was such an adrenaline rush you thought you might pass out.

When the ceremony was over, you rushed through the crowd of guests to find Nico. You didn't know what you would do; you just knew you needed to see him. When you found him in the crowd, he was chatting with a few of his teammates. He was wearing that same black suit you had swooned over in London, but, as most guests had done in the heat, he had shed the suit jacket and rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up.

He looked deep in conversation, and you didn't want to interrupt. As if he felt your eyes on him, he looked up to find you across the courtyard. The corner of his mouth curved into a smile when he saw you. He excused himself from the conversation, making his way over to you with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes.

"Hi," you whispered when he finally reached you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you in for a hug, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he greeted you. "You okay?" he whispered as he pulled away slightly to look down at you.

"Yeah," you smiled, nodding your head for emphasis. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, tracing along his silk tie. "Never better," you promised.

His smile grew even wider, showing off his dimples that never failed to make your stomach flip. You relaxed in his arms; the dull flutter of the butterflies in your chest felt oddly comforting. Everything about this felt precisely that—comfortable.

He smiled like he knew what your coy answer really meant.

Did he know? Did you just hope he knew, or did you blurt it out and tell him?

Before you could say anything more, another bridesmaid pulled you from his arms. She muttered something about being late before you were whisked away for photos with the rest of the wedding party.

While the guests were sent to a cocktail hour before the reception began, the photographer wanted to take advantage of the golden hour sun before it set too low in the sky. As the photos wrapped up, you noticed Nico lingering near the courtyard gate, waiting for you to finish. The second the photographer said you could go, you made a beeline toward him.

If Gianna or Nate had commented about the two of you, it went unnoticed as the rest of the wedding party passed the two of you. So wrapped up in each other, you barely registered the rest of the group passing by to make the short walk from the courtyard to the vineyard where the reception would be.

"We should probably get to the reception," you said as you noticed you were the only two left.

"We can be late," he shrugged, eyes still firmly on you. A playful smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he wound his hands around your waist again, pulling you into him. "We'll make a grand entrance."

As much as you wanted to stay there wrapped up with Nico, you had spent six months planning all the details of Gianna and Nate's reception. You didn't want to miss their big entrance or first dance—or see Nate embarrass himself with the thank you speech you had overheard him practicing last night.

It was a quick walk to the reception. Still, it involved an uneven cobblestone path you had been nervous about twisting an ankle on before the ceremony when you weren't in a rush.

"I can't walk very fast in these shoes," you told Nico, earning a small laugh from him. "If we don't leave now, we might miss the party entirely."

He seemed unphased by your excuse as he clasped his hands behind your back. "That's fine. I'll carry you."

"I can walk," you insisted, giving him a slight shove as you rolled your eyes. You could only imagine the comments from Gianna and Nate that would be waiting for the two of you when you finally arrived. The last thing you wanted to do was add fuel to the fire by showing up literally in Nico's arms.

He laughed at your protest but let you step back anyway, lacing his hand with yours. You held on to his hand tightly to help you balance as you navigated the uneven stones.

He offered to carry you a few more times throughout the walk. He was worried you were going to fall or break an ankle and couldn't understand why you wouldn't take off your shoes or let him carry you the rest of the way.

"Please," Nico begged again, grabbing your elbow to steady you as the stone you stepped on wobbled, "let me just—"

His plea was cut off by the stone slipping out of its spot on the path, sending you off balance and tumbling into Nico's chest. He caught you easily, hands coming to your waist to steady you as your hands landed on his broad chest. You could feel his heartbeat racing through the thin material of his shirt, refusing to look up at him. If you looked up, standing this close, his hands held firmly on your hips, you were going to kiss him.

And it felt like he was thinking the same thing, his grip on your waist tightening. 

Looking down at you with his doe eyes, the distant noise of the wedding waiting for you two seemed to fade away. Nico's pupils were so blown out that his dark eyes practically looked black in the fading evening sunlight. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, dampening the flushed pink skin. He never looked away, making no motion to break the intense eye contact.

How were you expected to not fall for him when he looked at you like that?

You could easily drop your hands from where they rested on his chest and walk away. He wouldn't stop you if you tried. But you remained rooted where you stood, fingers slowly curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him ever so closer.

"Nico," you whispered, eyes focused on your hands as they held onto him.

"Yeah, Schatz?"

There was that nickname again when no one else was around. Were you really about to do this? Once you opened your mouth, there was no turning back.

You briefly closed your eyes, trying to muster up all the courage you could before backing down.

"I love you."

Your confession was met with silence.

Opening your eyes, you reluctantly looked up at Nico. He was still smiling down at you, but now you were second-guessing everything. Had you been misinterpreting his kindness for romance? Maybe all of these smiles you had thought meant he felt the same way were actually him pitying you.

You took a step backward to separate yourself from Nico. He let his hands fall as he watched you take a few more wobbly steps backward to distance yourself.

"I'm in love with you," you repeated, letting out a shaky breath. "And not just in some phony way to break this dumb curse. I'm actually head over heels, can't-think-straight kind of in love. Like, if we were in high school, I'd probably be drawing your name with hearts all over my notebooks, daydreaming in class."

Nico opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand to stop him.

"I need to finish this," you pleaded. "Before I lose my nerve or you break my heart, I need to get this all out, okay?"

He nodded his head, letting you continue.

"As incredible as this summer has been, I love the boring stuff, too. Grocery shopping, folding laundry, watching crappy reality TV shows when we're hungover the next morning that you pretend to hate but somehow know the names of all the cast members."

The corner of Nico's mouth twitched up into a smile briefly at the mention of your morning-after routine you had fallen into over the last few weddings. As fun as the actual weddings were, the in-between moments where it was just the two of you were always the ones that mattered the most. Even if you made him watch the most insufferable dating shows while he nursed a hangover.

"I want it all," you continued, nervously wringing your hands together. You took a deep breath, looking directly into his eyes. "I'm in love with you, and I don't want this to end after tonight."

You tucked your hair behind your ears and adjusted the thin straps of your dress—anything to keep your hands occupied as you anxiously waited for him to say something.

When he remained silent, you could feel your confidence crumbling.

"That's the whole speech," you whispered. You were hoping Nico was just politely waiting for you to finish and not staying quiet as a gentle way to reject you. But the longer he didn't say anything, the more you began to panic. "You can talk now."

"Schatz, I'm not going to break your heart," he finally spoke up. He shook his head slightly, that stupid smirk still on his face. "I love you, too."

"What?" Your fidgeting hands immediately stilled as you stared at Nico in disbelief. "Actually?"

"Has it not been obvious?" he asked.

"I—" you paused.

You were at a loss for words. You were so focused on telling Nico how you felt that you hadn't really considered what would come after that.

"I didn't think I was being subtle," he laughed softly, scratching at the back of his neck as he blushed at the confession. "I knew I was in love with you in London. I wanted to tell you in Paris. Honestly, I thought the flowers said it for me."

"Just because," you whispered.

"You told me that was how to make someone fall in love with you," he shrugged. "I was already so far gone. I needed to know you were, too."

Nico had listened.

He was trying to tell you exactly how he felt about you, in the way you had told him to.

You couldn't bear the distance between you two for a moment longer. Kicking off your heels to steady yourself on your feet, you rushed toward him. Nico effortlessly caught you, lifting you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist. You crashed your lips down onto his, feeling him smile into the kiss.

As you pulled apart, Nico leaned up to steal one last quick kiss that made your entire body buzz.

"Why couldn't you have told me sooner?" you asked, brushing the tousled strands of hair that had fallen forward off his forehead. "I've been freaking out since Sunny's wedding."

"My sister told me I couldn't tell you I loved you at someone else's wedding. So I was just trying to find the right time," he smiled.

Feeling your face flush with embarrassment at the subtle jab, you buried your face into Nico's neck in hopes he wouldn't notice. He pressed a kiss to your temple as his hand came up to cradle the back of your head against him.

"You beat me to it, Schatz," he whispered, lips still pressed to the side of your head.

"Sorry," you smiled, biting your lip as you felt Nico press another soft kiss to your hair. "You can tell me again, and we'll pretend it's the first time."

"I love you," he said right away.

You straightened up a bit, still held firmly in Nico's arms so you could look down at him. The look on his face, that love and adoration you had thought you saw when he spotted you in the crowd after the ceremony, was still there.

You leaned down to kiss him again, your hands resting on either side of his jaw as you deepened the kiss. When you finally broke away, you used your thumb to wipe the traces of your lip gloss that had transferred to Nico's bottom lip.

"Okay, now we're really going to be late for this reception," you giggled.

Nico gave your waist a light squeeze before gently placing you back down. He watched you grab your discarded heels, opting to hold them rather than try to navigate the rest of this treacherous path with them on.

"Ready to go make our grand entrance as a real couple?" he asked, holding out his hand once you were ready and lacing your fingers with his own.

"How will they even know it's real now?"

He lifted your intertwined hands to his mouth, brushing his lips against your knuckles. "Oh, trust me," he laughed, "they'll know."

You leaned up to steal one last kiss before squeezing his hand for confirmation.

"Okay, let's do this," you nodded. "I'm ready for the I told you so's."

[theemporium]

[11.6k] when in desperate need for a date to your friend's wedding, the last person you expected to step up was nico hischier. then again, he didn't step up as much as he was thrown into the mess by jack.

inspired by 'the spanish love deception' by elena armas

.

“Come on!”

“When I said a favour, I didn’t mean this!”

“You said you would do anything!”

“Yeah, like help change a flat tire. You know, the normal things!”

“Do you even know how to change a flat tire?”

“Well…”

“Jack.”

The boy let out a noise mixed between a laugh and an exaggerated groan as he threw his head back. He was just fresh out of the shower after practice, hair still dripping and cheeks flushed red, when you found him by the trainers’ kitchen grabbing a protein shake. 

Your friendship with Jack Hughes was one made through the bond of joining the New Jersey Devils together. He was newly drafted and feeling the pressure of being first pick, whilst you were freshly entering the real world on your own two feet with no real plan in your head. It was by chance that a friend of a friend had managed to pull you a job with the hockey team. And it was by chance you ended up befriending the new hot-shot player in a sport you honestly didn’t know all that much about. 

Still from the first day, after a very awkward meeting on both parts, you and Jack Hughes had been the best of friends—which was exactly why you thought he would help you out on being your plus one to a wedding. 

“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Jack whined, leaning against the counter that displayed all the blenders and ingredients for the players’ protein shakes and smoothies. “Isn’t it your friend’s wedding? Why do you need a plus one, it’s not like you won’t know anyone?” 

“That’s not the point,” you huffed out, feeling like a disgruntled child as you crossed your arms over your chest and resisted the urge to pout. 

Jack raised his brows. “So, what is the point?” 

“I—” You paused, something bitter and nostalgic twisting in your chest before you shook your head. “Can you do it or not? It’s not like you are running off to the Bahamas on your week off. You said yourself that you were free.” 

“The Bahamas sounds better than a wedding in South Carolina,” he grumbled, his lips twitching upwards when you knocked his shoulder with your own. He looked like he was about to say something else before he paused, his eyes brightening. “So, you really need a date to this thing?”

You shot him a look. “Did the last twenty minutes of me begging not give it away?”

His grin widened, something quite unsettling in the smile. “So, you’re desperate?” 

You frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t say desperate—”

“Nico is free this week!” Jack announced loudly, his grin reaching scary levels of taking over his face before his eyes glanced over your head. “Aren’t you, cap?”

Your eyes widened a little as you whirled around, finding the Devils captain standing a few feet away from the two of you. He was dressed similarly to Jack, in a team-branded hoodie and sweatpants, with his wet hair tucked under a beanie. He looked a bit caught off-guard as he glanced between the two of you, though his eyes lingered on Jack.

“Uh, yeah,” he cleared his throat, standing a little taller. “I guess. I didn’t have any plans—”

“Brilliant!” Jack clapped his hands together. “Nico can be your fake boyfriend to your friend’s wedding.”

Your head snapped around to glare at your friend. “I just needed a date—”

“Yeah, your date is your boyfriend,” Jack retorted.

Your glare hardened. “And I asked you—”

“And I’m busy,” Jack said with a shrug, almost as if he was saying ‘what could you do?’. “But Nico is free and you know each other. It should be an easy solution, right?” 

You finally had the courage to face Nico, who looked a bit stunned himself. If it were any other day, you would have laughed at the fact that the captain looked so lost and unsure of himself, so unlike himself. But right now—with the tightening band around your chest that felt like it would crush your ribs—you couldn’t find yourself to even smile.

“You don’t have to,” you said eventually, when you finally found your voice again and your thoughts were coherent. “Jack is just—”

“I’ll do it,” Nico blurted out.

You blinked.

“I mean,” Nico paused, looking a little flustered at his own sudden announcement. “If you need someone, I can help out. I don’t mind, really.” He paused again. “We’re friends, right? This is what friends do.”

“Yeah, friends,” you repeated, clearing your throat a little before giving him a strained smile. 

And just like that, Nico Hischier—captain of the New Jersey Devils—was your wedding date.

…

You decided that after this wedding was over and done, you were going to kill Jack Hughes.

In your mind, Jack would have agreed to help you out with your predicament, you would have gone to the wedding and had a laugh together. This would be one of those memories that you two would joke about for years to come, like when he almost burned down your kitchen making boxed macaroni cheese or when you called him sobbing because of a spider in your bathroom. 

You didn’t think he would throw you under the bus like this.

And maybe that was a bit dramatic, but it felt necessary after Nico left the room with the promise he would message to sort out the details of your plans.

Your issue wasn’t with the fact Jack didn’t want to do it. If that was the case, you would have understood. Your nagging and begging was mostly just a bit of friendly banter, and you thought he was reciprocating. 

He was reciprocating. 

But then, instead of being a normal human and telling you he didn’t want to do it so you could find someone else to help you, he just threw a solution at you. 

An—in the kindest way you could put it—unwanted solution.

It wasn’t that you hated or even disliked Nico Hischier. Not at all. Your relationship with the captain was just…non-existent, in a sense. Very superficial, if you were being honest.

When you were new to the team, you didn’t really talk all that much to any of the players. Jack was the exception, someone who was just as lost as you—though his extroverted personality hid it far better. But weeks passed and slowly you began to see some of the players beyond friendly acquaintances. 

But Nico just…never really left that label. 

It wasn’t like he was rude or mean to you, quite the opposite. Even though he was the captain to only the team, that caring and kind personality extended to everyone who worked for the Devils—you included. 

He was a good guy. He was sweet and thoughtful and loyal and kind. He cared more than any person should. He was the kind of person people write in books and movies. 

And it was intimidating, in a weird way. 

There was no logical explanation for it. But something about Nico Hischier felt too perfect for your shit show of a life. He was confident and put together and everything you weren’t. 

Jack knew that. Jack knew how you felt. Jack had laughed about it more than once before reassuring you that there was more to Nico than you realised. 

You just wish you could’ve discovered that side of him during a team night out rather than at your friend’s wedding out of state. 

And because Nico was the perfect guy, it was no surprise when he messaged you that the two of you could take his car down to Charleston, South Carolina with him taking the first shift. 

“I thought you’d be sick of being on the road,” you said to him as you stood outside your apartment complex, bags in hand as you walked towards where Nico had parked his car. 

“It’s a part of me now,” he joked as he reached for your bags, not giving you a chance to say anything before he placed them in the back with his own. “I go crazy if I’m not locked in a moving vehicle for more than three hours.” 

You snorted, turning your face away so he didn’t catch the way your cheeks burned in embarrassment at the noise. 

“I’ve also never been to Charleston,” Nico continued, shrugging his shoulders. “Thought it would be a nice chance to take it all in if we drive.” 

“I really don’t mind driving the whole way,” you said, chewing on your bottom lip nervously as you eyed his car. “You’re already doing me a favour, the least I could do is—”

“It’s a long drive, I wouldn’t want you getting tired behind the wheel,” Nico said, his brows furrowed together. “It’s fine. I promise.” 

“Okay,” you relented and took your spot in the passenger seat for the first stint of the drive. 

…

It was around two hours in when the small talk shifted into something deeper. 

“So, what’s the deal??”

You glanced over at the boy in the driver seat, your lips still wrapped around the straw of your slushie you bought at the last service station. Nico had gaped at you being able to drink something so sweet and cold so early in the morning, but you just grinned and shrugged. You didn’t get much of a chance to say anything before he was paying for it anyways, along with the coffee he got for himself. 

Sensing your confusion, he continued. 

“With the date,” he said, risking a glance at you before his eyes returned to the road. “You just seemed…”

“Desperate?” You supplied.

His lips twitched. “I was going to say insistent,” he corrected. “But yeah, desperate works too. Is it really such a bad thing if you go to your friend’s wedding alone?” 

“Well,” you started, still hesitant to say your thoughts out loud when you knew it sounded immature. “Not really. Lucy wouldn’t care if I brought a cactus with me, she would just be happy I was there for her big day.”

Nico huffed out a laugh. “So, why am I here instead of a cactus?” 

“I’m not a big fan of pricks,” you joked and, to your credit, he did smile. But the look he shot you told you that deflecting wasn’t going to get you very far. “My ex will be there.”

Nico didn’t say anything for a few moments. “And you’re…still in love with him?”

“What? No!” You quickly shook your head, your face scrunched up in a grimace. “God, no. Not at all. Never again.”

“Oh,” Nico murmured, though there was still a look of confusion on his face. “What’s the big deal if he’s there then?”

“Our breakup was…messy,” you confessed, wincing a little as the memories you tried to block out returned like an unwanted slap to the face. “It was ages ago and I’m over it. But the last time I saw a lot of these people was just before the breakup and I just wasn’t in a good place.” 

Nico didn’t say anything, letting you continue. 

“He cheated on me.” you said eventually because there didn’t seem like much point in beating around the bush, especially when Nico was helping you out despite being thrown into the deep-end unwillingly. “It got messy within the friend group and I ended up moving away after we broke up to get a fresh start. Not just because of him, but it was nice to get away from all the mess and drama.” 

“So you came to New Jersey,” Nico finished. 

“So I came to New Jersey,” you confirmed with a nod.

“And having a boyfriend when you see these people will…” he trailed off, his brows furrowed together once again. It was the same expression you saw on his face during games, when he was trying to work out plays in his head before they happened.

“I was originally planning to come myself,” you admitted to the boy. “But then I was on the phone with Lucy and she kept asking if I’d be okay with everything and I just imagined everyone asking me the same thing and,” you paused and shrugged. “I just ended up blurting out that I was using my plus one.”

When you turned to look at Nico, you were surprised to find a sympathetic smile on the boy’s face. 

“If you showed up alone, nobody would’ve thought you moved on. But if you came with someone, people would believe you were actually okay,” Nico finished for you, and it should have been unsettling how well he understood. But his empathy and insight were one of the many traits that made him captain.

“It sounds stupid but I just wanted to come here and enjoy my friend’s wedding,” you said with a dry laugh. “The pitying looks were bad enough the first time around, I don’t need them again.”

Nico hummed, nodding his head. “So, what’s our story?” 

You turned to him, frowning. “What?”

“Our story,” he repeated, a kind smile on his face that made your chest feel tight. “You know, like how we got together. Surely people will ask, no? We should have a plan.”

Your lips twitched upwards. “Can’t keep away from the strategies, can you?”

Nico laughed, smiling. “Guess you can’t take the captain out of the man or whatever the saying is.”

You snorted, shaking your head before you settled back in your seat. You thought about his point for a few moments, contemplating your options. 

“I don’t think we have to overcomplicate it,” Nico said, interrupting your thoughts. “You have that look on your face that says you’re scheming.”

You raised your brows. “How do you know that?”

“It’s the same look on your face you get when you plan a prank with Jack,” he responded, smiling a little wider at your shocked look. “Neither of you are subtle. Or quiet.”

“I was just trying to think of an interesting story,” you defended, narrowing your eyes at the boy. “We can’t just have a basic co-workers to lovers situation, that’s boring.”

Nico laughed. “Boring?”

“Yeah!” You laughed back. “We have the chance to make up the craziest love story ever, why not take it?” 

Nico shook his head. “What do you suggest then?”

“A puck was flying at your head and I saved you,” you joked. “Full on spidey sense moment, just caught the puck with my bare hands and you were lovestruck after that.”

The full belly laugh Nico let out made your smile widen. “Caught the puck?” 

“Bare hands,” you nodded. 

“I am sure everyone will believe that,” he teased.

“You clearly haven’t seen me in the net,” you mused. “I have insane reflexes.”

“I’ll let the team know the next time we need a goalie,” Nico retorted. 

In the end, you decided to go the ‘boring’ route. It felt safer to stick with almost-truths, it prevented any possible slip up if the two of you were interrogated separately. And, much to your surprise, there was something quite fun about fabricating a fake relationship with the captain you barely knew. 

…

You arrived in Charleston, South Carolina just after seven o’clock.

The address Lucy had given you was for a massive house by the beach she was renting out for the week. It was gorgeous, over three storeys high and looking like it had been plucked straight out of a postcard. The beach house was slightly secluded as well, far enough from the closest neighbours for all the main wedding party to park their cars outside with no bother.

It felt a little surreal. 

You didn’t even get a chance to step out of the car before the front door swung open and Lucy came running out, squealing as she opened her arms and wrapped them around you. Your chest tightened at the closeness, at seeing one of your closest friends in person after so long of being apart. 

“You’re here!” She exclaimed as she pulled back, her bright eyes finding yours with an understanding shining in them. She missed you as much as you missed her.

“And you’re getting married!” You retorted, watching as her grin—somehow—widened. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Lucy murmured before she brought you into another hug. And you let yourself sink into the embrace, to forget everything else until your friend let out an intrigued hum. “And I’m guessing this is your plus one?” 

Your eyes widened a little when you remembered Nico standing a few feet behind you and quickly pulled back, glancing back at him before turning to Lucy. Something deep in your stomach twisted at the idea of lying to your friend but there was no going back now. 

“Nico, this is Lucy. Lucy, this is Nico,” you said as you gestured between each other, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “My boyfriend.” 

Lucy’s shock was clear. “Boyfriend? You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend! You just made it seem like your plus one was a friend over the phone!”

You gave her a shaky smile. “Surprise?” 

Nico, seeming to somehow pick up on the way the guilt was starting to take over you, stepped in and offered his hand to your friend. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And congratulations on the wedding. It’s an honour to be here, even just as a plus one.” 

Lucy’s brows raised in surprise, her eyes briefly finding yours as she shook his hand.. “Wow, you are a…gentleman.” 

“I guess I upgraded,” you joked, wincing a little when you saw her face scrunch up in guilt. 

“Are you sure it’s not weird that he’s here? I know Tom wanted him here but—” But you didn’t give her a chance to continue as you shook her head, reaching out to grab her hand and squeeze softly. 

“It’s fine, Luce, I promise,” you said, though you weren’t totally sure if she believed you or not. In an attempt to solidify your point, you turned back to glance at Nico with a smile. “I’ve moved on. I’m happy. And I want to be here with you to celebrate your wedding. It probably won’t even be that awkward, it’s been years since everything happened.”

Lucy nibbled on her lower lip. “You’re sure?” 

“Positive,” you nodded.

“Okay,” she said before smiling. “Well, I’ll let you two settle into your room. You’re on the top floor but I can get Tom out to help with your bags. Let me go get him!”

You didn’t get a chance to say anything before Lucy ran back inside but you were hit with a sudden realisation that had you turning to face Nico, an apologetic look painted on your face.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your cheeks warming as he gave you an inquisitive look. “She asked if I only wanted one room and I said yes because I thought I’d be with Jack and it wouldn’t be that bad, but I forgot to tell her it’s changed. We don’t have to stay here! We can get a hotel nearby or—”

“Hey,” Nico stepped forward, his hands placed on your shoulders to ground you for a moment before you started pacing. “Take a deep breath.”

You let out a shaky breath in response. 

“It’s fine,” he told you, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice. “It would have been weird if we were in separate rooms anyways.”

“I can take the floor,” you suggested.

Nico shot you a look. “I’m not letting you do that.”

“But—” 

Nico’s look hardened. 

“Fine. No floor,” you grumbled before you flashed him a sheepish smile. “I really am sorry though. I feel like you have just been thrown into this whole thing and—”

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to be here,” Nico assured you, squeezing your shoulders before nodding towards the house. “C’mon, we should go inside and freshen up. Then you can tell me everything I need to know, starting with who Tom is and if we like him.”

And that was enough to make you snort, momentarily ignoring the problem of the one bed for now. 

…

You didn’t bump into your ex until later that night.

In retrospect, you should have expected to see him sooner rather than later, but a stupid part of you was still in denial about having to spend the week with him living under the same roof as you. Another part of you was also hoping he just wouldn’t show up, that he would bail on the whole event or maybe even just show up on the day of the wedding. 

But you knew that would have never been the case. Because as close as you were with Lucy was just as close he was to Tom, Lucy’s future husband. In fact, Lucy and Tom had met because of you two, because of the fusion of your friendship groups which now just felt like the biggest joke ever. 

At least someone benefited out of the relationship.

You weren’t even expecting some big confrontation or horrendous outcome when you expected to bump into your ex. You were just expecting to be a little more prepared, to have time to put yourself together. You knew you would see him at dinner that night, that much was inevitable. But you thought you could at least have the upper hand by walking into the room, hand in hand with Nico. 

What you weren’t expecting was to see him for the first time in years when you were waiting by the stairs for Nico (since being the gentleman he was, he had let you go refresh in the bathroom first). 

“Look what the cat dragged in!”

You hated the way your body instantly tensed up at the sound of his voice. You hated the way he was smiling at you like the last time you spoke he hadn’t shattered your whole world. You hated the way you felt so caught off-guard, so unprepared for a meeting you were expecting to have the upper hand in. 

“Jackson,” you managed to grit out as you gave him a strained smile. “Nice to see you again.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, huh?” He said, so lighthearted and casual and dismissive. 

You had to bite your tongue when the urge to say something a little more snarky came up, but you would hate yourself if you created a scene. You were doing this for Lucy. You were here to celebrate a momentous moment in your friend’s life. You weren’t here to get petty revenge on something that happened years ago—at least not in the form of bitter remarks. 

“A couple of years or so,” you answered with a shrug of your shoulders. 

“I was surprised when Lucy said you were coming,” Jackson told you.

You frowned. “Why would that be a surprise? She’s one of my best friends.”

“Yeah but,” Jackson waved his hand like that explained everything. “You haven’t visited since you left.” 

And the underlying words went unspoken. 

You haven’t visited since everything that happened between us. You haven’t visited since you had your heart broken. You haven’t visited so people just assumed you were still hurt and inconsolable after we broke up. I thought that was why you never came back.

“My job keeps me busy,” you stated simply, swallowing the acidic taste in the back of your throat. “Lucy knows that.” 

Something quite like amusement shone in his eyes. “Ah yeah, Tom mentioned something about you working in some ice rink in New Jersey. That sounds super busy.”

You bit your tongue. He was goading you again. You knew that. But fuck, you just wished you could have—

“I would hardly call The Rock just some ice rink,” a voice spoke from behind you and you turned to find Nico settling into the spot next to you, his face remaining very…neutral. 

Jackson stared at the boy, his lips agape as recognition clearly hit him. He blinked and then turned to you. “You work for the Devils?”

“Last time I checked,” you said, a twinge of satisfaction sparking inside you at his disbelief. 

He puffed his chest out a little. “When Lucy said you were bringing a plus one, I didn’t think she meant a co-worker—”

“She didn’t,” Nico interrupted, a look on his face that reminded you of his post-game interviews after the team lost. Before he continued, he wrapped an arm around your waist, making sure the boy saw the movement. “I’m her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” Jackson repeated. 

“Yes, that is a word Americans still use, no?” Nico retorted. 

“Of course, man,” Jackson said with a laugh, but it felt forced and strained. He tore his eyes away from Nico to look back at you. “Well, I should be heading back. I’ll see you two down there.” 

He didn’t wait before he turned around, heading down the stairs to the dining room where the rest of the wedding party were probably starting their dinner. A few moments passed between the two of you before Nico finally broke the silence. 

“So, that was your ex,” he said.

You snorted before you winced. “I was blinded by young love.”

Nico laughed at that. “I didn’t realise blondes were your type,” he admitted, something different in his voice that he couldn’t quite work out.

You rolled your eyes before you sighed. “They usually aren’t, to be honest. But Jackson was…Jackson.”

Nico seemed oddly pleased with the response. 

“And he’s a hockey fan?” He questioned, his brows furrowing together like Jackson was a rival team’s game strategy he had to study. “He knew who I was.”

A slow grin spread across your face. “His family are from New York.”

Nico raised his brows before he laughed. “Islanders or Rangers?”

“Rangers,” you said with a proud look on your face. 

“That’s why you originally asked Jack,” Nico mused. “You wanted to rub it in that little more.”

“You bet them in the playoffs, I just thought he would like a nice reminder,” you retorted with an innocent look.

He laughed—that full belly laugh once again—before shaking his head in amusement. Before you could say anything more, he was intertwining your hands together and starting to make his way down the stairs Jackson had disappeared down a few minutes ago.

“C’mon, they are probably waiting for us,” he said. 

And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to pull your hand away. 

…

Dinner was uneventful, though you did enjoy watching Jackson bitterly stew from the other side of the table. 

A sense of familiarity and nostalgia washed over you as you sat at the dinner table, enjoying a meal as you laughed and chatted to a group you once saw daily but now hadn’t properly seen in years. It felt so easy to slip into old dynamics, to laugh at old jokes and tease each other as Lucy and Tom were the first to take such a monumental step from the lot of you.

Nico fit in so well, it almost made your chest feel tight if you thought about it too hard. He didn’t seem to mind the countless questions thrown at him about his job and the team. If anything, you thought he was milking his answers a little just to see Jackson squirm—especially when asked about playoffs. 

Eventually the day-long drive finally caught up with the two of you and you wished everyone goodbye before returning to your room on the top floor. Despite trying to play the gentleman card again, you allowed Nico to go to the bathroom first and tried not to stare too hard when he came out in a tight shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms. 

It took an embarrassing few minutes to hype yourself up in the bathroom mirror before you finally headed back to the room, only to pause at the doorway when you saw Nico lying on the ground by the bed with a pillow under his head and blanket over his body.

“What are you doing?”

Nico frowned a little. “Uh, sleeping?” 

“Why are you on the floor?”

His confusion growed. “Because that’s where I’m sleeping?”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Nico,” you sighed as you shook your head, walking into the room until you paused by his feet. “You’ll fuck up your back. Let me take the floor.”

Nico smiled softly. “My back will be fine. Take the bed, schatz.” 

You ignored the way the nickname made your stomach flutter. “I’m not the one who needs to stay in good shape for hockey, captain. The fans will murder me if you can’t play because you have a stiff back. Now take the bed.” 

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you have made Jack take the bed?”

“Yes,” you answered instantly before wincing. “Well, I probably would have shared the bed with him.”

“You would?”

“Yeah, like a sleepover,” you said with a shrug. 

“Then we can do that.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“We can share the bed like a sleepover,” Nico said as he stood up, failing to hide his groan as he stretched his back (and ignoring your pointed look). “We’re friends, right?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Then we can share,” Nico said simply. “Either you take the bed alone or we share. It’s your choice.”

“We may be friends but I am also doing this because the fans scare me and I don’t want to know what they would do to be if I broke their captain’s back,” you said with a pointed look before you climbed into the bed, ignoring the way your heart was thumping as he settled on the other side.

Nico huffed out a laugh. “I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

You rolled onto your side to look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. “You better not move to the floor when I fall asleep, Hischier.”

Much to his dismay, he blushed at your words. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I know.”

You let out a sigh, allowing yourself to stare at the boy for a little while longer before you rolled over to fall asleep.

“Thank you for helping me,” you whispered.

Nico’s soft smile returned. “It’s what friends do.”

“Goodnight, Nico.”

“Goodnight, schatz.”

…

It took a solid thirty seconds after you woke up to realise you were practically lying on top of Nico Hischier.

As your body started to wake up, you realised how warm and comfortable you were. You snuggled further into your pillow, into the warmth and hoped your body would just fall asleep for a little longer. 

It took longer than it should have to remember that pillows weren’t warm before you opened your eyes and found yourself settled on Nico, your legs tangled together and one of his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. 

You didn’t give yourself a chance to live out a waking nightmare and risk waiting for him to wake up in the next ten seconds, so you pulled yourself away from him and then hid in the bathroom for fifteen minutes freaking out.

By the time you came out, Nico was awake and sat up against the headboard. His hair was ruffled and dishevelled, his eyes still hooded and a sleepy smile on his lips that made you want to turn on your heels and have another bathroom freakout. 

Instead, you smiled back and told him the two of you had to be outside in the next hour for the brunch Lucy had planned before both wedding parties went off to do their last fittings. 

Thankfully, no more bathroom freakouts were required. 

The brunch Lucy had set up looked like something straight out of a Pinterest aesthetic board. It was set in the house’s back porch with a stunning view of the beach and morning sun beating down on the sea. The table was set with plates of pastries, fruits and other brunch dishes, all topped with the morning mimosas Lucy demanded was a part of the experience.

Nico barely gave you a chance to settle down in your seat before his hand reached for the leg of your chair, dragging you closer to him until his arm could settle along the back of your chair comfortably. From the corner of your eye, you could see Jackson watching the two of you. Nico had noticed too.

If anything, it just made him smirk. 

One by one, everyone had made their way from their rooms to settle down at the brunch table like you all had done the night before. However, unlike yesterday, you noted an empty seat next to Jackon that hadn’t been beside him last night. 

Before you could even ask, a high-pitched voice shrilled from inside.

“I’m here! I’m here! I promise I’m not late.”

You turned to look at Lucy, your eyes widening in response but your friend only mouthed an apology before she turned to the door just in time for a redhead to wander out onto the porch. 

“Bryce! Happy to finally have you here!” 

You watched the two of them hug but your whole body had locked up, an unwanted flurry of memories washing over you. And just like that, it felt like another situation in which you should have been prepared for but didn’t get the chance to. Another rug pulled from under your feet. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You could feel him lean closer, hear the concern in his voice. And yet, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the redhead talking to Lucy a few feet away.

You knew. You knew Jackson had a plus one, it was the whole fucking reason you showed up with one of your own because you didn’t want to look like the loser who hadn’t moved on. You had been warned that he was bringing someone else. 

You just never assumed it would be her.

“That’s the girl my ex cheated on me with,” you managed to mumble under your breath to Nico, managed to finally turn your head to look at him. 

His expression was some mix of surprise and anger and, honestly, you would have laughed at the seriousness on his face if it weren’t for the fact you felt the exact same. You didn’t care about your ex and you had moved on, but it was still a bitter sting to know he was still with the woman he cheated on you with all those years ago.

You tried to relax your shoulders and act as unaffected as you could as Bryce rounded the table to take the seat next to Jackson—the seat across from you. But any hopes of the brunch going as smoothly as the dinner yesterday went out the window when her eyes landed on you.

“Oh my god,” Bryce let out a laugh and smiled at you, a smile you were sure was meant to be friendly but just made your skin prickle. “I didn’t know you would be here! Luce didn’t tell me.”

Luce. That was your nickname for her, not Bryce’s.

“I guess we are both surprised then,” you replied with a strained smile.

Nico couldn't help but snort, not even trying to hide his reaction.

Her eyes snapped over to him, calculating. “And this must be your plus one. Your friend?” 

“Boyfriend, actually,” you corrected.

“Hm, how sweet.” 

You still felt on edge as the brunch continued. Nico’s arm around the back of your seat was a comfort but it didn’t help the fact Bryce’s gaze on you felt like daggers against your skin. You ignored both her and Jackson for the most part, listening to the stories exchanged amongst the group and Lucy raving about the final dress fitting later that day. It was easy to zone out until the conversation seemed to focus back onto you and the boy by your side.

“So,” Lucy grinned as she glanced between you and Nico. “What’s the story? How did you meet? When did it happen? I want details, I can’t believe you’ve been holding back on me!”

You flashed her an apologetic look. “You were busy with the wedding, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Well, you can tell me now,” she retorted with a wink. 

“It’s really not that interesting,” you said, shifting in your seat when you felt everyone’s eyes on you. As much as you joked about having an insane love story, the idea of even saying the boring one right now with everyone’s attention directed on you made your skin prickle with discomfort.

But even if everyone else was oblivious, Nico wasn’t. 

“To her, maybe,” he spoke up and everyone’s focus shifted to him, even your own. But he was used to this. He was used to many eyes on him and attention directed towards him. “I still get teased about it by the boys.” 

Lucy’s smile softened. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Nico laughed, his eyes briefly looking at you before his gaze returned to your friend. “I had a huge crush on her when she joined the team. Like, embarrassingly huge. Jack used to tease me all the time on how I seemed to forget how to speak English around her.”

Your stomach dipped and, for a quick second, you almost believed him with everyone else.

“She always did play a little hard to get,” Jackson mused and something visibly changed in Nico’s expression. 

“And she was worth every second of it,” Nico retorted, the same camera-approved smile he gave the journalists during interviews. “Unlike some people though, I have no plan to lose her.”

Jackson clenched his jaw. 

“How long have you been together then?” Bryce jumped in, her narrowed gaze glancing between you both.

“A few months,” you and Nico replied at the same time.

Bryce’s eyes gleamed. “And how long is a few months?” 

“Six,” Nico answered simply before he turned to smile at you. “Best six months of my life.”

Your face warmed in response. “He’s a little cheesy.” 

“You mean romantic,” Lucy teased, but there was something approving in her expression. It warmed your heart a little at the idea that she would have approved of Nico if he really was your boyfriend. “She isn’t used to that.”

Jackson stiffened. 

Nico’s grin widened and before you could even realise what he was doing, he was taking your hand in his and placing a kiss along your knuckles. “I’m honoured to be the one to spoil her, then.”

Thankfully, Jackson and Bryce didn’t say much for the rest of the meal.

…

You felt like you were in an odd routine over the next few days, but you found that you actually quite enjoyed it. 

The wedding frenzy was in full effect but there was something grounding about having Nico by your side for it all. 

Every morning, you woke up first and found yourself tangled in bed with the boy. It also meant the bathroom freakouts had become a part of your routine, but it was worth it to wake up and enjoy the warmth of Nico Hischier’s hold for a few minutes. You two would end up lounging in your shared room, just trying to fully wake up before Lucy dragged you into last minute wedding nonsense. 

But even at night, you found yourself settled into a routine with the boy. He would go first to the bathroom and you’d go second, and then the two of you would be settled against the headboard, rambling away until one of you yawned and the other one turned the lights off for the night.

It almost made you laugh that there was ever a time you were intimidated by the captain—even when that time was just last week.

And yet, for the first time since you arrived in Charleston, there was nothing for you to do. The rehearsal dinner was tomorrow, the wedding was the following day and it was like you were facing the calm before the storm took over your lives. And it was the first time you could all enjoy the beach without a deadline looking over your head.

“C’mon, it will be fun!” 

Lucy snorted. “For you, maybe.” 

Tom grinned down at his future wife, lightly tugging on her hand but she remained sat on the deck chair. “It’s just a friendly game of soccer. Boys versus girls. Come on.”

“Football,” Nico corrected under his breath, making you snort.

“That is hardly fair,” Lucy argued. “You’ll have a professional athlete on your side!”

“Nico is a hockey player!” Tom retorted.

“Same thing,” Lucy waved off and Nico’s expression was enough for you to snort again. “Fine, we play but with mixed teams.”

Tom contemplated for a moment before agreeing. “Deal.”

“And I get Nico on my team,” she added, watching in delight as her fiance gaped.

“But—” He paused, lifting his head to find your gaze. “You’re on my team then.”

“She’s my best friend!” 

“You took the athlete, I get your best friend. That’s the deal.”

“Do we get a choice in this?” Nico murmured to you and you just laughed, shaking your head.

After more arguing and bickering and negotiating between the future married couple, the teams had been decided. Goals had been marked in the sand, a ball had been acquired and the game began. It was stupid and harmless and it was meant as nothing more than a little fun. 

But Tom and Lucy were more competitive than they let on. And it certainly didn’t help the fact Jackson seemed to have it out for your boyfriend before the match even began.

“Think you can handle tackling your boyfriend?” Jackson asked you. 

“I don’t think it concerns you how well I handle him,” you retorted, feeling the weight of Nico’s gaze on you from across the makeshift pitch like a comfort.

“He doesn't seem like your type,” Jackson continued, always sticking close enough so he could keep talking.

“My type is none of your business,” you stated bluntly.

“I mean, a jock? Really?” Jackson shrugged. “Just didn’t think you went for the airhead.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing when I considered what I saw in you.”

He huffed. “You—”

“Don’t want to continue this conversation, Jackson,” you shot him a look. “I’m happy with Nico. I don’t care what you have to say about it. I’m here for Lucy, not you. Don’t get it twisted.” 

“You’ll never have what we had with Nico,” he said. 

“One can only hope.”

…

You were stupid to think Nico wouldn’t be competitive in a friendly game. He was a professional athlete. It was literally written in his DNA.

And honestly? You felt bad for anyone who played against the Devils because you couldn’t imagine how intense Nico was to play against in a proper game when this was how seriously he was taking a stupid football match that meant nothing.

“NEXT GOAL WINS THE GAME!”

The group had been playing for the last hour, the game was tied and you knew that you would have to head back into the house for lunch soon. But neither team wanted to leave the game until there was a clear winner.

Any semblance of friendliness went out the window as the last leg of the game continued. You weren’t too bothered, more than happy to watch Tom and Lucy mostly fight over the ball and constantly try to tackle each other. 

But your stomach dipped a little when you saw Lucy kick the ball back to Nico. And the feeling only got worse when you saw Jackson making a beeline towards the boy, determined to tackle it out of his hold. Before you even knew it, you and the rest of the party were watching the two boys race down the makeshift pitch.

However, no matter how hard he tried, Jackson could never match Nico’s speed. 

You watched as he kicked the ball, right through the makeshift goal that had been created in the sand. The group broke out into a mix of groans and cheers alike, people clapping and whooping as Nico ran back towards you with a massive grin on his face. 

You barely had a chance to react before he was right in front of you, crouching down enough for his arms to wrap around your thighs before he hoisted you over his shoulders. 

“Nico!” You let out a noise mixed between a scream and laugh.

“We won, baby!” He cheered and your cheeks burned at the nickname. 

Your hands tried to hold onto him for balance but a part of you knew he would never drop you. You patted his back and Nico seemed to catch the hint as he slowly dropped your back to the ground, though his arms remained wrapped around you to keep you close.

“You won,” you corrected. “We are on different teams, remember?”

Nico shrugged. “My win is your win.” 

You snorted. “That was cheesy.” 

“Didn’t like it?” He teased, and your cheeks burned warmer. 

“You make it work,” you admitted, the band around your chest tightening when you saw his face brighten at your words. 

“Yeah?” 

For a moment, you forgot that you were surrounded by people. For a moment, it was just you and Nico stood on this beach, smiling and laughing and alone. For a moment, you could have sworn his eyes dipped down to your mouth. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you.

A big part of you wished he did. 

“C’MON, LOVEBIRDS! LUNCH IS READY!”

You blinked, tearing your eyes away from the boy right in front of you and instead turned to look at the others. Some of the group were already making their way back to the house, but a few lingered on the beach. Lucy was grinning at you like a madman with Tom looking equally as happy. However, it was hard to focus on them when Jackson stood a few feet away, glaring at you and Nico.

You cleared your throat, hoping your smile seemed normal as you turned to Nico. “Ready for lunch?”

“Hm,” Nico hummed, looking like he wanted to say more but ultimately just nodding. “Yeah, I’m starving.”

“Scoring the winning goal really does knock you on your ass, huh?” You joked.

Nico just laughed, throwing his arm around you before the two of you began to make your way back to the house. “Running in sand is much harder than skating.” 

“Didn’t stop you from achieving the win.”

“I’m a winner, baby,” Nico grinned. “I don’t like losing.”

…

The football game had sucked the energy out of most of the group, so it was no surprise everyone started to head to bed before the clock had even reached ten.

You were dragging your feet as you followed Nico to your shared room, doing everything in your ability to stay awake as he went into the bathroom first. Every one of your moves felt lethargic and sluggish and you wanted nothing more than to curl up under the duvet to sleep forever.

It was like a cruel joke from the universe that the second your head hit the pillow, you couldn’t fall asleep. And it took a solid ten minutes of twisting and turning before Nico spoke up.

“Are you okay?”

You froze before letting out a heavy sigh, settled on your back as you stared blankly into the dark room. “Just can’t sleep.” There was a pause. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep yet.” he assured you before he shuffled in his spot until he was facing you, even if he couldn’t really see you in the dark. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Your lips twitched upwards and maybe it was the exhaustion, but you couldn’t even stop yourself from letting out a laugh that echoed through the room.

Nico let out a noise of amusement. “What?” 

You shook your head, feeling oddly giddy as you spoke. “Nothing, it’s just,” you paused for a few seconds. “I just remembered Jack telling me how the team joked that you took on the role of the therapist before you became captain. That after bad games, you went out of your way to ask them how they were doing and being the shoulder they needed to cry on.”

Nico frowned a little. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all,” you answered as you turned to look at him, imagining the features on his face even if you couldn’t see him. “It’s just funny that I knew what you were like this whole time but still…it took me experiencing you to realise how stupid I was.” 

His confusion grew. “Stupid for what?”

“For thinking you were scary,” you admitted in a whisper.

Nico didn’t say anything before he let out a laugh. “You thought I was scary?” 

“Well, not scary,” you corrected, but you couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Just…intimidating.” 

“Is that why you never spoke to me?”

“I spoke to you,” you argued.

“Hardly,” Nico mused. “I don’t think we had a proper conversation until you had almost been with the team for a year. I had to ask Jack if I had done something to piss you off because you seemed to get on with everyone else but me.”

You couldn’t hide your surprise. “You asked Jack?”

“I wanted to apologise if I had done something I didn’t realise upset you,” he confessed, and something in your chest tightened at the thought.

“Oh god,” you murmured, letting out a groan as you raised your hands to cover your face. “Now I feel like even more of a dick.”

Nico huffed out a laugh before he reached over, his palm warm and comforting as it rested on your arm. “It’s fine. We are friends now, right?”

You sighed. “Yeah but—”

“Hey, don’t feel too bad about it, okay? We were both being stupid,” Nico’s words washed over you, his thumb gently rubbing soothing circles on your skin. “And without that, you could have been here with Jack or someone else instead and I would have missed out on a pretty fun week.”

“You’re having fun?”

“Of course I am. I’m here with you,” he murmured, voice thick and full of sincerity. It made your heart race in your chest to the point you almost swore he could hear it. “Plus, it’s pretty funny seeing how pathetic your ex-boyfriend is.”

You snorted. “Not my finest decision in life.”

“As much as I wish you never experienced that kind of pain, I’m glad it happened,” Nico whispered, his hand lightly squeezing your arm. “It meant you moved to New Jersey. It meant that I—that the whole team got to meet you.”

Your cheeks burned but you smiled, even if he couldn’t see it. You placed a hand over his and squeezed back. “I’m glad I met you too. All of you.”

“Bet you wouldn’t have had this heart-to-heart with Jack, huh?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “No, he probably would have fallen asleep before I even left the bathroom.”

Nico laughed but didn’t disagree. 

You don’t remember exactly at what point you fell asleep that night, but you spent a little longer in his arms the next morning. 

It was a risk but you had lost time to make up for with Nico Hischier, even if it meant making up those moments tangled in bed with him.

…

The rehearsal dinner was where everything really hit you.

It had been running smoothly, though you expected nothing less from Lucy. You knew she probably had the day planned down to the minute, and even if the plan deviated, she would have five back up plans that were ready to go. It was just the kind of person she was.

It was held outside on the beach, the slowly setting sun casting the skies orange and pink over the venue. The tables were set to perfection, the fairy lights decorated across the borders and you had truly never seen anyone happier than Lucy and Tom in that moment. Your heart soared at the idea of the two most deserving people finding the happiness they earned.

It was gorgeous. It was perfect. It was the last fucking time and place you should have been hit with the fact that you were maybe, kinda, most definitely falling in love with Nico Hischier.

Lucy had just wanted a calm, laid back rehearsal dinner. The wedding party was just meant to practise walking in and out, before eventually sitting down to enjoy the nice meal set for the occasion. It was nothing intense, nothing high-stress or extreme. 

It was meant to be fine.

And it was, all things considered. Everything ran smoothly, everyone stood where they were meant to stand and there wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s head that the wedding itself would run smoothly. 

But it didn’t feel fine in your head. 

You had taken your place in the line of bridesmaids, waiting for your cue to start walking down the makeshift aisle. You had stepped out right on beat, you kept your gaze forward, you stood on your marked spot and then you turned to wait for Lucy to make her way down the aisle. 

Except your eyes shifted away from the bride and found Nico’s gaze. 

He should have turned his head to look at the approaching bride-to-be like everyone else was. He should have been watching the ceremony, enjoying the love shared between the happy couple you were all here to celebrate. He should have been looking the other way.

But he was looking at you. 

He was looking at you with a soft smile—one that only widened the second he realised you were looking right back. The skin around his eyes crinkled with his smile, his chain was peeking out the open collar shirt and the soft breeze was making strands of his hair flutter down onto his forehead and—

Fuck. 

You were falling for Nico Hischier. 

The realisation hit you hard and fast, it almost felt like you were winded by the thought. It was a small blessing that everyone was focused on Lucy, that they were far too preoccupied to watch the way you stumbled slightly in your spot at the weight of your sudden realisation. 

Well, everyone except Nico.

He frowned a little, a crease forming between the brows and you could see the concern in his eyes even with the large distance between you. You could see the way he tilted his head slightly, the silent question hanging between you as you just flashed him a small smile and nodded your head. 

You had to tear your eyes away from him before your lungs caved in or your heart burst out of your chest. You had to force yourself to remember to smile and focus on the rehearsal dinner. You had to force yourself to remain normal.

Because he was Nico Hischier. 

He was captain of the New Jersey Devils. He was your colleague. He was your newly-made friend. He was here doing a favour after Jack practically threw him in the deep-end. He wasn’t here to witness your sudden and mind-boggling realisations. 

So, when the dinner was starting to be served and he found your side again, you didn’t hesitate to lie through your teeth. 

“I’m okay,” you told him, a kind smile on your face that you hoped was believable. “Trust me, Nico, I’m fine. Just got a little dizzy, must have low blood sugar or something.” 

Because you were here for your friend’s wedding. And he was here to help you out. 

There was no place for your newfound feelings.

…

To absolutely nobody’s shock, the wedding went through without a single hitch.

The ceremony ran through smoothly with pretty vows and sweet kisses exchanged between the newly married couple. As the reception rolled around, speeches were given, laughs were shared and dinner was served as the guests all enjoyed the union of Lucy and Tom and their love. 

It was sweet. It was perfect. It was everything your best friend deserved for her wedding.

It didn’t take long after the dinner for the first dance to commence, a soft smile in place as you watched Tom and Lucy softly sway to their chosen song. They looked lost in their own world, so caught up in each other like they forgot everyone else existed. 

A pang of longing hit you but you shoved it away. 

It was somewhere between your third and fourth glass of wine when Lucy found you, dragging you towards the dance floor with some halfhearted rambles about wanting to get pictures of all the bridesmaids and groomsmen dancing before you all got shit-faced drunk.

It was your unfortunate luck that the photographer paired you with Jackson before you had the chance to disagree, to escape the way Bryce was glaring at you like you had chosen him.

“She isn’t you.” 

You tried to keep your eyes anywhere but his face, to try and focus on something other than his hands on your waist. You thought you could zone out and that maybe the song would pass quickly, but the universe had other plans for you.

“It’s not like how it was when I was with you,” Jackson continued. 

“What do you genuinely think this conversation is going to achieve?” You asked him, gaining the courage to lift your head to look him in the eyes. You kept your voice down to avoid attention, to avoid creating a scene. “We’re done. We were done years ago when you chose to throw our relationship down the drain. I’ve moved on, you should too.”

Jackson shot you a look. “Tell me you haven’t felt it this week. Tell me you don’t feel the pull—”

“I don’t,” you stated bluntly. “And I have no interest in what you’ve felt this week. I don’t care.”

He frowned. “Because of your lil’ hockey player?”

“Little isn’t the word I’d use to describe him but no,” you answered honestly. “Not because of him but because of you. You ruined things, Jackson, and I moved on with my life. Accept that.” 

Jackon’s frown only deepend. He opened his mouth and you could only imagine what he was going to say, could only imagine what bullshit he was about to pull out of his ass. But before he got the chance, a firm hand landed on his shoulder to halt his movements. 

“Mind if I cut in?” 

Jackson glanced over his shoulder to see Nico standing there, smiling like nothing was wrong, like he wouldn’t happily put Jackson in his place if he disagreed. And maybe your words got through to him or maybe Jackson accepted it was not worth arguing with a man over fifty pounds heavier and four inches taller than him. 

He turned to look at you, saying nothing as his jaw clenched in response before he wandered off. 

Nico hardly wasted any time in taking up Jackson’s spot, one arm wound around your waist and tugging you close whilst the other intertwined with your hand. He looked down at you, eyes full of concern, fondness and something else as he noted how tense you were.

“You okay?” His voice soft and quiet but, fuck, it was exactly what you needed to hear. “He didn’t say anything, right? Because I can—”

“I handled it,” you assured him with a soft smile, squeezing his hand to punctuate your point. “But thank you for being my knight in shining armour.”

“Selfishly, I wanted to do it the second the dance started,” Nico admitted, and if he hadn’t been drinking all night, you would have assumed the pink flush to his cheeks was a blush. “I mean, you’re my date after all. Surely first pick dancing rights go to me, no?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “First pick in the draft, now in dancing…you’re quite the man, Hischier.”

“I’m consistent,” he retorted, tugging you that little bit closer until you had the excuse to rest your head against his chest. 

And for a moment, with your cheek pressed against his shirt and his presence engulfing, you let yourself pretend this moment would last forever. You let yourself enjoy the last day Nico Hischier would pretend to be your boyfriend and imagined a world where it wasn’t really pretend at all.

…

Lucy wasn’t happy that you had to leave early the next morning, but she understood that both of you had to return to New Jersey.

It was dreadfully early—far too fucking early with how late you stayed up the night before—to start an eleven hour road trip, but Nico had just smiled and told you to nap the first few hours whilst he drove the first stint of the journey. 

You knew he was right, that you should have rested and gotten a little sleep but you couldn’t bring yourself to stay asleep for long. You felt like you were wasting time, you were wasting precious hours in this little bubble you had created with Nico that would burst by the time you both returned to Newark. 

So, you did what every normal and sane person did and stocked up on coffee and energy drinks at the next service station stop to keep you fuelled through the drive.

It was no different to the drive down to Charleston except for a shift in the energy. It was easier, in a sense. On the way down, Nico was essentially a glorified stranger to you that you had only shared a number of conversations with. But it felt different now, it felt like you actually knew the boy in the seat beside you. 

And it was bittersweet in that sense, too.

Because you loved this. You loved how easy it was to talk to him. You loved how you got to see the side of Nico Hischier that enamoured the fans, the team and the league. You loved that you got your own special version of him in the last week. And you didn’t want to lose that, you didn’t know if you would ever see this version of Nico again once you reached New Jersey. 

And as the hours passed and the closer you reached your destination, it felt like Nico realised the same. The car was tense and thick with tension, one that went unspoken but reeked of longing and the desire to cling onto the bubble the two of you created over the last week.

It was there, lingering and stewing and, yet, neither of you said anything about it once you reached your apartment complex.

“Thank you,” you said for what felt like the millionth time that weekend, but it was necessary. It had to be said. It meant so much more.

Thank you for coming with me this weekend. Thank you for backing me up. Thank you for being a good friend. Thank you for showing me who you really are even if it’s going to fuck with my head for the rest of my life. Thank you for being you.

“Any time,” he said, the words just as heavy as yours. You wish you knew what he meant by them. “Do you need help with your bags? I can—”

“I’ve got them,” you assured him.

His brows furrowed together. “Are you sure? I—”

“I’m sure,” you said, clearing your throat and finding the courage to finally look at him. You pushed away the stupidest and strangest urge to cry. “Well, see you on Monday then?”

Nico frowned a little but nodded. “See you Monday.”

It felt harsh being so blunt, so straightforward and direct. But you knew you needed to get out of that car as quickly as you could. Because you had spent the last week with Nico by your side the whole time, basked in the warmth of him as a person, and you knew all it would take was a few more moments alone with him for you to blurt out something stupid.

You knew you needed to get out of there and just be alone. To lock yourself in your apartment over the next twenty-four hours before you had to return to work, to attempt to wrap your head around the flurry of emotions bursting inside of you. You knew you needed to get behind that door before you had the urge to run back down to his car.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look back at his car, to see if he drove off, as you reached the door of your apartment complex. You forced yourself to keep your gaze ahead, to put one foot in front of the other until you reached your apartment. You felt your body moving on autopilot as you unlocked the door, stepped inside and dumped the bags you had dragged up. 

And then, the overwhelming realisation and memories of the last few days washed over you. 

Fuck. You were in love with him. You were properly in love with him. You were going to have to go into work on Monday and see him there and pretend everything is normal. You are going to have to pretend for the rest of your life or until your feelings go away. You were going to—

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

You paused, the heel of your palm pressed to the centre of your chest as you tried to regulate your breaths. You had half the mind to ignore the knocks, to hope the person on the other side of the door just left you alone so you could curl up onto your couch with a fluffy blanket and a tub of ice cream.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

But you had a nagging feeling this person wouldn’t leave.

You avoided the mirror in your hallway as you headed back towards your front door, twisting the handle and pulling the door back with the full expectation of seeing one of your neighbours on the other side. 

Instead, it was a panting and breathless Nico.

“Nico?”

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he blurted out, beyond the point of caring whether he was too blunt or straightforward. “I can’t pretend because I have spent the last few years pretending and I’m tired of it.”

Your brows furrowed together. “What are you—”

“I wasn’t lying when I told your friends,” Nico continued, his eyes never leaving yours. It was almost like he was afraid to look away. It was like he was scared you would disappear if he did, or he would lose the confidence he had to say what he had been feeling since he first saw you. “I had the biggest crush on you when you joined the team years ago.”

Your lips parted in surprise, but no words came out. No words were needed as Nico continued.

“And Jack knew. Everyone fucking knew how I felt about you,” he admitted with a laugh, one that was a little dry and self-depricating. “They knew how I felt about you before you even spoke to me. And then Jack saw the opportunity and he tried to help me but it just made everything worse.”

Your heart twisted at his words.

“Because it showed me what life would be like if I was actually yours,” Nico whispered, voice cracking and emotions raw. “It showed me what it would be like for you to hold my hand and call me your boyfriend and introduce me to your friends like I’m this huge part of your life. And now it fucking sucks that it’s not true, that it’s over. And I can’t just keep going on in life and seeing you at work on Monday and acting like I’m still okay with pretending—”

You kissed him.

He was standing at your doorstep confessing a million different things at once, confessing things that had your head spinning and your brain racing to catch up with. But he was standing there and he felt the same way and you just couldn’t help yourself but to grab his face and kiss him.

Nico sunk into the kiss like it was what his body was made for, like an instinctive reaction to grip your hips and pull you closer. Your arms slowly wound around his neck, tugging him down to deepen the kiss as every racing thought in your head stopped and there was just him, him, him.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you murmured against his lips because you genuinely didn’t have it within you to pull away properly, to put any more distance between you.

You could feel him smile against your lips. “No?”

“No,” you swallowed harshly as you lightly nudged his nose with your own. “I don’t want to go back to the way everything was before the wedding. I don’t want you to become a stranger in my life.”

“Never, schatz,” he murmured softly before leaning down to press his lips against yours again, slow and purposeful. 

You let him slowly lead you back into your apartment, listened to the way he kicked the door shut with his boot as he led you towards the coach in your living room. You could feel his smile against your own as you fell back onto the cushions, his body a comfortable and familiar weight on you as memories of your mornings together flashed through your mind.

“Oh god.”

Nico pulled back, holding his weight on his elbows as he looked down at you with a frown. “What?”

“Jack is going to be so fucking smug,” you grumbled, playfully groaning whilst the boy on top of you just laughed. 

“You’re something else,” Nico murmured with a grin.

You raised your brows. “Good something?” 

“Best something,” Nico corrected before he leaned down to kiss you again. 

.

[isaadore]

EVERYTHING YOU'VE WANTED NICO HISCHIER

pairing nico hischier x reader

SUMMARY you and nico have been close for years, but when his christmas plans begin to spiral out of control, you can't help but wonder if he's missing what's most important right in front of him. word count 1.8k

warnings pure fluff

note my first fic for "a nonsense christmas" event <3 requested by anon 🤍

MAIN MASTERLIST NH13 MASTERLIST EVENT MASTERLIST

YOU'D THINK YOU'D be used to Nico’s holiday over-preparation by now, but each year, he somehow manages to one-up himself. This year, you’re sitting across from him in a cozy, bustling café, watching as snowflakes drift lazily through frosted windows. Nico’s leaning over a notepad filled with scribbled lists of gifts, decorations, and plans for get-togethers, his brow furrowed in the same concentration he usually reserves for games.

You lean in, trying to catch a glimpse of his list. “Is all that really necessary?” you ask, half-amused, half-astounded.

He looks up, a hint of a determined smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I want this Christmas to be special,” he says. It’s a line you’ve heard from him every year, and yet, each time, there’s a part of you that wonders if he means something more.

You smile, watching him go all out for everyone he cares about. Nico has always been the type to give so deeply that he sometimes overdoes it. Being his best friend, you get to see the side of him that no one else does: the quiet moments when he lets go of those expectations he piles onto himself, the way he seeks out solitude after a long day to recharge. You’re not sure when, but over the years, the admiration you felt for his big heart turned into something deeper, something harder to ignore.

“You don’t have to work so hard to make things special, you know?” you say, softening your voice. “People just want to be around you.”

He glances down, smirking as he takes in your words. “Easy for you to say,” he counters, his voice playful but with a touch of sincerity. “I’m not great at just… being there and doing nothing.”

You shake your head, smiling at his stubbornness. “You don’t need to do anything. You’re already enough just as you are.”

His cheeks flush slightly, and he looks back down at his list, but not before you catch the soft smile tugging at his lips. Your heart races a little, but you try to brush it off, focusing on the chatter of people around you and the smell of peppermint drifting in the air.

Nico breaks the silence. “So, what’s the plan?” he asks, tapping his pen against the list.

“Apparently, you have it all covered,” you tease, but inside, a part of you wonders if this year might be different. If there might finally be room for the feelings you’ve kept hidden for so long. “But maybe ease up on the holiday party planning? You know, just enjoy being around people.”

He smirks again, shifting in his seat, and you swear there’s a hint of something in his gaze when he looks back up. “What about you? Don’t you want something a little extra?”

The question is innocent enough, but it catches you off guard. “Me? I guess… I just want things to feel real. Not forced,” you reply honestly. It’s not the full truth, but close enough. Nico knows you well enough to read between the lines, but if he senses the unspoken feelings, he doesn’t let on.

“You always make things sound so simple,” he says, his voice quieter. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just making it all too complicated.”

You sip your coffee, choosing your next words carefully. “Sometimes. But it’s okay to let things happen on their own.”

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair, clearly a bit self-conscious. “Not exactly my strong suit,” he admits. “Guess that’s why I’m always making lists.”

As the afternoon wears on, the café around you fills with laughter and cheerful chatter, and yet, every now and then, Nico glances up, his gaze lingering on you just a beat too long. It’s these moments that stay with you, the feeling that he’s close but still somehow just out of reach. You’ve been friends forever, childhood best friends with enough shared history to write novels, and yet… here you are, still feeling the thrill of every accidental brush of his hand.

When it’s time to leave, you pull on your coat and wrap your scarf around your neck, bracing yourself for the chilly walk home. Just as you’re about to say goodbye, Nico pauses, glancing back over his shoulder like he’s been holding something back.

“Hey, I’ve got the tree up at home, but it’s still bare,” he says, almost shyly. “Think you could help me decorate it?”

You try to hide your excitement and nod casually. “Of course. Can’t let you take on all the work alone.”

His place is quiet and warm when you get there, the faint scent of pine filling the room. Boxes of ornaments are scattered around, each one holding memories from past Christmases. You pull out a few decorations, laughing as you remember the year he bought a massive Santa figurine and insisted on displaying it proudly, despite your protests that it was overkill.

He chuckles, his eyes softening as he watches you. “Guess I have a habit of going overboard.”

“Maybe just a little,” you reply, nudging him gently.

At one point, Nico pulls out a small, handmade ornament, a little snowflake you recognize immediately. You gave it to him when you were kids, and you’d nearly forgotten about it. A little embarrassed, you watch as he hangs it carefully, a fond smile on his face.

“Didn’t know you still had that,” you murmur.

“Of course. It’s always been one of my favourites,” he replies, his voice sincere.

You fall into a comfortable rhythm, working together in that easy way you always have. You lose track of time, your arms brushing now and then as you reach for ornaments or adjust the lights, each accidental touch leaving you a bit breathless. Eventually, you step back to admire your work, the tree aglow with soft lights casting a warm ambiance.

“Thanks for staying to help,” he says, his voice soft, gaze lingering on you. “I don’t know why, but this year feels… different.”

You nod, feeling a subtle shift in the air between you. “Maybe because it’s just us. It feels more… real somehow.”

He hesitates like he’s weighing his words. “Maybe that’s all I needed, just to be with the people who matter most.” His words hang in the air, full of unspoken meaning. You wonder if he realizes what he’s implying, but before you can respond, he lets out a soft laugh, as if trying to shake off the tension. “But don’t tell the team I said that.”

Your heart flutters, and you smile, the tension fading but still there, humming beneath the surface. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He meets your gaze, and for a moment, everything else fades: the tree, the lights, the ornaments scattered around. It’s just him and you, standing close in the quiet. Nico shifts, looking away as if gathering his thoughts. “You know… for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

You nod, feeling the weight of the moment. “Me too.”

You both stand there, taking in the sight of the glowing tree, the lights casting soft shadows that dance across the room. The warmth in the air is almost tangible, settling between you in a way that feels heavy and electric. You glance over at Nico, finding him already looking at you with an expression that’s softer, and more vulnerable than you’ve seen before.

He takes a small step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a second, you forget to breathe. His hand reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek gently. Your heart began to race. The touch lingers, warm and grounding, and you feel his thumb lightly trace along your jaw as if he’s memorizing every detail.

“Nico…” you whisper, his name catching on your breath, barely audible.

His gaze deepens, the soft determination you’ve come to know so well flickering in his eyes. “I don’t know why it took me this long,” he murmurs, voice low, almost as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you. “But I think… maybe you always knew.”

There’s a raw honesty in his voice that leaves you feeling exposed like he’s stripped away every wall you’ve put up. You nod, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I think I did. But I was scared… scared of ruining what we have.”

He leans in closer, his eyes searching yours with a look that’s both questioning and certain like he’s seeking permission while already knowing the answer. His hand holds your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin, and you feel your heart pounding. The world around you began fading into the background.

“Guess there’s only one way to find out,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, each word sending a thrill through you.

Then, slowly, almost as if testing the waters, he leans in and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is soft at first, a tentative brush, but the warmth and familiarity between you quickly deepen it. His hand slips around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he melts into the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a gentle yet undeniable intensity.

You wrap your arms around him, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his sweater, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. The kiss grows deeper, both of you giving in to the years of unspoken feelings and all the moments you held back. There’s a warmth that spreads through you, a feeling of home, and for the first time, you allow yourself to believe that this is real, that he wants this as much as you do.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he gazes down at you. His hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin, and his eyes are filled with a warmth that makes you feel like the only person in the world.

He lets out a quiet, almost nervous laugh, glancing away briefly before looking back at you with a hint of that familiar shyness. “Guess I don’t need to plan so much anymore, huh?” he murmurs, his voice a mix of relief and happiness.

You smile, reaching up to rest your hand over his. “Maybe just one more plan, for us.”

He nods, his hand slipping down to entwine with yours, and you feel his thumb rubbing gently over your knuckles. The world outside is quiet, the glow of the tree casting a soft light around you. As you stand there together, you realize that this, right here with him, is exactly where you've always wanted to be on Christmas.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎MAIN MASTERLIST ✷ EVENT MASTERLIST

[lam-ila]

Baseball and Love || Dawson Mercer

Summary: Four times you watched baseball at home and one time you watched in person.

Word Count: 1,906

Warnings: one scene occurring during quarantine

please let me know if you find more that i should add

NHL Masterlist

a/n: here’s my 2024 summer fic exchange for @hischier-papaya! i hope you like it! as always, huge thank you and shout out to @wyattjohnston for hosting the fic exchange! you’re amazing!!

this is gender neutral. hope you enjoy this! feedback is appreciated

LIKES ARE GREAT, REBLOGS ARE BETTER ♡

—————

1. The First Time

Every summer, since before you were born, your parents hosted a summer barbecue at your house. Eight year old you was running around with other kids your age, screaming with joy as you played tag. Early on into your second round of tag, you were plucked out of the game by your parents to meet a new friend.

“Sweetheart, this is Dawson,” one of your parents explained to you. Your eyes were wide with intrigue as your mouth twitched into a small smile at the sight of a new friend, so you weren’t sure which one of your parents was talking to you.

“Hi,” you said to him. You looked over your shoulder to the game of tag still going on behind you. Looking back at Dawson, you continued “Do you wanna join our game?”

“Yeah!” Dawson exclaimed, looking up at his parents for a nod of approval before running off after you.

After many rounds of tag and a few other games, you and your new friend were completely tired out. Luckily for you, it was perfect timing as the Reds game was just staring to begin. You plopped yourself down on the floor in front of the tv where the game was playing. Since Dawson wasn’t introduced to anyone besides you, he followed you to the tv and sat down right next to you.

“Who are you rooting for?” Dawson asked, looking at you looking at the tv.

“The Reds," you answered, still looking at the tv. “My dad and grandpa like them, so I do too.”

“Cool,” Dawson followed your eyes back to the tv, staying silent for a bit before asking “Do you want some lemonade? I’m gonna get some for myself.”

—————

2. The Time at a Sleepover

Sleepovers with Dawson were a common occurrence and at these sleepovers, baseball was watched whenever the Reds were playing. After dinner, you and Dawson spent the hour before the game begun reassembling the tv room and turning it into a fort. Blankets were laid across and above chairs borrowed from the dining room and pillows were placed on the carpet beneath the temporary shelter.

“I heard there’s a rumour going around that we’re dating.” Dawson casually mentioned while snacking on the bowl of popcorn resting in between you two.

“Ew that’s gross, Daws,” you exclaimed, scrunching your face in disgust. “We’ve known each other since we were eight. That’s like, five years.”

“Yeah…” Dawson trailed off, looking at you while your eyes were glued to the game. “That’s gross.” He slightly shook his head, mentally shoving his ever growing crush on you deeper in his mind.

—————

3. The Time Before He Got Drafted

Quarantine sucked. Everyone knew that. Your last year of high school was cut short, the NHL season was paused until further notice, and worst of all, you couldn’t see Dawson. However, despite not being able to see each other in person, you and Dawson were constantly on the on a call together. One night, a little over a week away from the 2020 NHL draft, you and Dawson were on a call together, as per usual, and both watching the Reds game on either side of the call.

Your conversation consisted mostly of comments about the game, until Dawson spoke up.

“The NHL draft is coming up. Would you wanna join my family’s bubble to be at my place with me during it?” Dawson wondered.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I am a little nervous though. What if I don’t get drafted?” You immediately answered without question.

“Dawson Mercer,” you started, lowering the volume of your tv so there wasn’t much background noise. “listen to me when I say this: you are going to get drafted. You’re such a crazy talented player that it’s impossible for you to go undrafted. Any team who doesn't see that is simply stupid.”

“Thanks, it really means a lot.” He breathed as he felt a rush of warmth flush to his cheeks. He giddily smiled as he thought about how sweet your affirmation was.

“Also, I’m totally buying all of the merch of whatever team you’re getting drafted to.” Your statement broke Dawson’s train of thought as he laughed. “I’m gonna be so broke, but I’ll take being broke if it means supporting you.”

—————

4. The Time You Surprised Him

About half of Dawson’s third NHL season passed by without you being able to go to one of his games due to your schedule. You felt awful for it, but Dawson reassured you over and over again that it was okay, but you could tell he was still a little upset that you had yet to make it. Unbeknownst to him, you were flying over to New Jersey to watch him play and to spend a few days with him.

You planned everything with Jesper and Nicole, having them pick you up from the airport and driving you over to the game, keeping your bag in their car, so Dawson wouldn’t suspect a thing.

You went over to the Prudential Center and waited with Nicole and the other WAGS for the team to see everyone before the game started. It felt weird, but yet nice, for you to be waiting with the WAGS since you and Dawson weren’t together, but you pushed that aside, anticipating for Dawson’s excitement over seeing you for the first time in a while.

You straightened as the team began to come out, eyes widening as you spotted Dawson talking to Jesper. You began to smile as you watched the two of them walk towards you and Nicole.

“Hey Nicole, how are you do-” Dawson began before his jaw dropped at the sight of you standing next to Nicole. “What are you- how are you- hi.” He engulfed you in a breathtakingly tight hug.

“Hi Daws,” you greeted him back, still holding each other.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he stated after pulling away.

“That’s because we planned to surprise you.” You briefly motioned over to Jesper and Nicole. “So, uh, surprise?”

Dawson turned over to face his teammate saying “You were in on this?” before bringing him into a bro-hug. “Thank you for bringing my best friend here.”

“Of course man.” Jesper smiled at the sight of Dawson being over the moon excited that you were standing in front of him.

The game ended with the Devils winning and Dawson scoring one of the goals, pointing up to were you were sitting with the WAGS as his celly, showing you that he dedicated his goal to you.

Once you saw Dawson after the game, you grabbed him into another hug whispering “I’m so so proud of you” into his hair.

You walked over to Jesper and Nicole’s car, grabbing your bag out of the trunk and placing it into Dawson’s trunk before following him into his car and making your way to his apartment.

After settling into his apartment, you watched as Dawson crashed onto his bed, turning on the tv in the process to the Reds game still going on. They were in Los Angeles to play the Dodgers meaning about half of the game was still left to play. You turned your head to the tv, smiling at his urgency to put on your favourite baseball team’s game. Looking back at Dawson, you saw him meet your eyes and extend his arms towards you while doing grabby hands, making you laugh.

“You know, you really do act like a child sometimes,” you teased.

“Oh, just get in my arms. I want cuddles,” he demanded, making you laugh.

You laid in his arms while watching the game for about an inning and a half before you start to feel the effects of travelling, going to Dawson's hockey game, and staying up late to watch a baseball game all in one day. You’re fighting the heaviness of your eyelids as your head lulled to the side, making you look away from the game on the tv.

Dawson lowered the volume and pressed a tentative kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment as he whispered “Goodnight”.

You nuzzled your face further into his body, finding yourself placing a kiss to the bottom of his neck, close to his collarbone.

“Night Daws,” you mumble before accepting the sleep your body so desperately needs.

—————

+1. The Time He Surprised You

Despite being a big Reds fan, you had never been to a Reds game. That was something Dawson planned to change as he bought two tickets to a game for you two to go to during his offseason.

“Dawson, can you please tell me where you’re going?” you pestered in the passenger seat of Dawson’s car as he drove you to an unknown location.

“Nope,” Dawson smirked while responding. “you’ll see when we get there.”

“Ugh, fine," You rolled your head back against your seat’s head rest. “Wait, is that the Reds’ stadium?” You perked up, your face pressed up to the window.

“Mhm,” Dawson confirmed, “and we have two tickets to their game today.”

“Really?” you exclaimed. “Oh my gosh, thank you Dawson! I am so going to hug you when we get there.”

And you kept your promise, quickly unbuckling your seatbelt when the car was parked and rushing to the driver’s side of the car to give him the biggest and tightest hug you’ve ever given him.

Once inside the stadium, you found your seats and admired the very close up view, taking some pictures to send to your parents. You and Dawson then decided to get food before the game started, so you made your way to one of the food stands, hand in hand to avoid getting separated.

"Hey Daws?” you asked once standing in line, still hand in hand with him. “How much were the tickets?"

"That’s nothing of your concern," he asserted.

"But I want to pay you back."

"Not gonna happen."

"Okay, well I'll pay for food."

"You could pay me back by being my partner." Dawson started the sentence confidently and very quietly mumbled the last three words.

“Hm?” you hummed, hinting at him to repeat what he said.

“Oh, uh…” He let go of your hand, using his now empty hand to awkwardly scratch at his head. “Sure, you can pay for food.”

After eating, you two sat at your seats, waiting for the game to start.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” you said, your body twisted so that you were facing Dawson.

“Ah, no need to thank me,” Dawson waved your appreciation off. “It was about time I brought you to a Reds game.”

“But why’d you do it?” you asked, intrigued by what his answer would be.

“ ‘Cause you’re my best friend.”

“Yeah sure, everyone gets their best friend front row seats to their favourite baseball team,” you sarcastically remarked.

“Okay, you want the full answer?” You nodded in response, all your attention focused on him. “I like you, as in, romantically. I have since we were twelve.” Dawson stated in a matter of fact tone.

“You do?”

“Yeah, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. Nothing has to change.”

“Nah, I’d like for things to change because I like you too.” You laughed slightly as his reaction to you saying that, his face visibly brightening with excitement.

“Good because I’m going to kiss you now.”

You and Dawson leaned into each other, meeting in the middle and pressing a kiss to each other’s lips that expressed everything that’s been unsaid since you first met.

——————————

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[asahicore]

fast forward - pjs

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems.

genre+warnings. high school au, the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with, they act like they're academic rivals even though they're not particularly academically gifted, jay has a thing about german the language, sunoo and kazuha besties, heeseung is a loser, jake and sunghoon are assholes sorry, ive liz is german, 02z get into a white-boy locker-room fight, attempts at banter etc, they're a little bit silly

word count. 26.6k

a/n. had the idea for this listening to fast forward by somi LAST SUMMER... and only wrote it this summer and only posting it now <3 i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it !!!!! jay is an absolute cutie here pls love him as much as i do.... as always let me know what u think and remember to vote for @zreamy president in the upcoming elections, shes the only one i trust to beta-read and hence to run a country <3 no it doesnt matter that shes scottish put this woman in the white house

There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.

Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.

You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.

Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied. 

Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.

There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.

You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade. 

“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face. 

You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around. 

“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”

The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”

One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”

“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson. 

You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.

Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.

You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.

“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”

As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.

And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.

“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.

Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.

But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.

You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.

Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.

For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice. 

You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.

But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot. 

You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.

“And that’s your business, because…?”

You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”

You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”

He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.” 

This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”

You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”

You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”

“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves. 

Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue. 

Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.

Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.

Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”

So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”

“I don’t-”

“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”

“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.

“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”

“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”

“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.

“What are you-”

“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”

The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”

“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”

You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?

“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”

“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.

Then you see it.

Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.

The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.

Your heart sinks to your stomach.

You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice. 

Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone. 

“Y/N-” 

Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone. 

The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.

Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic. 

Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.

You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.  

But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked. 

You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”

When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.

You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.

--

For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.

Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers. 

The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe. 

The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.

It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.

A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.

You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.

Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there? 

You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.

Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right? 

You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist. 

The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie. 

Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”

Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.

It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”

Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.

“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”

Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey. 

“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?

“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”

He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.

When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other. 

Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.

You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”

He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”

The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”

You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.” 

So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder. 

“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.

Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.

Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.

“This is so good,” you mumble.

Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”

You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.

“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”

You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?

But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”

Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else. 

“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.

He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.

But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.

As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.

“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”

“No. I have… things on my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”

You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you. 

You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie. 

A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.

“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.

It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.

“...Jong?” you try.

“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.

You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.

“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”

You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.

--

Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.

They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.

“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.

“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”

“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.

Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”

“Exactly!”

“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”

Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”

You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”

Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.

“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”

“Nowhere. Go on.”

“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.

“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”

Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.

“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”

“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”

“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.

“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.

“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.

“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.

“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”

You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”

“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”

Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”

“None taken.”

“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.

“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”

Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”

“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.

You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair. 

“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.

“She had a dream that she m—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.

Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.

“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.

“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.

For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.

“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.

“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class. 

The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.

--

It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.

Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.

There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.

Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.

Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.

But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.

Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.

It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.

He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

And your friends wondered why you hated him?

“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile. 

“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.

You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”

He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”

“No. Stop.”

“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”

This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up. 

If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.

At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.

Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding. 

“Jong, your textbook.”

He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.

“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.

“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.

He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”

Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.

Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?

You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.

He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.

You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.

--

As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.

Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life. 

“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”

You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.

“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom. 

“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.

And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.

You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.

“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you. 

So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together. 

Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.

For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”

--

you guys how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined

kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start

you so what… be nice to him? how do i do that

sunoo oh my god y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being

you he’s not just another person!

sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings

you i hate u

kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore and don’t start arguments for no reason

you he’s the one who starts them… but okay i’ll try

--

“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”

The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”

“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.

“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.

Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”

You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”

He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.

You frown. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? That’s a recent development.”

“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.

His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”

“Back to hating.”

“Let’s start the assignment.”

You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.

Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”

“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble. 

He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s just focus on this.”

His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.

He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”

“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.

“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.

“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?” 

He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”

“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.

So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.

--

But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.

Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.

You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.

He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology. 

Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.

“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”

“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”

“Love? I know.”

“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.

“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.

“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.

“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.

“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.

“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.

“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.

“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.

“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.

“I never—When?!”

She shrugs. “The other day.”

You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.

“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.

In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”

Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”

“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.

You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”

They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.

You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”

Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”

You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.

No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”

“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.

“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.

“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.

“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.

“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.

“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”

“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”

You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”

He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.

You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”

“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

--

sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier

kazuha WHAAAAT

you KIM SUNOO.

kazuha WHEN?????

sunoo right before class after the lunch break y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol

you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass

kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml

you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING NOTHING HAPPENED

sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart

you were* and no we weren’t

sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his

kazuha sunoo…?

sunoo what can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him

you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting

sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it

you …

sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee it was so obvi what you both were thinking of

kazuha cuuuute

you i resent these accusations.

sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will

kazuha ???

you SUNOO?

sunoo WHAT

--

Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.

Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.

You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.

Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you. 

Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”

Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”

Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”

That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.

The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that. 

Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.

He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”

“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.

You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.

“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.

He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight. 

Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple. 

It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them. 

He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”

But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”

You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.

He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”

Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.

“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Y/N…”

“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.

The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.

--

jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension

you you idiot what did your parents say?

jong they’re not happy i have to do all the household chores for a month

you boo-hoo

jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…

you … are you feeling better?

jong a little bit the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers but i’m okay because there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)

you oh did you ask chaewon to do that?

jong um no i was talking about you ..if that’s okay

you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up

jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon

you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!

jong :) see you tomorrow pretty 

 --

The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.

You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.

His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.

Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.

In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily. 

In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?

A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.

College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.

May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.” 

Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.

In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.

But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”

Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”

You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.

As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

You smile. “Never.”

So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.” 

It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.

It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.

But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.

You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.

I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting. 

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.

“Give me five minutes!” you call back.

You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.

--

A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.

He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says. 

He’s still Jong.

You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside. 

It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.

When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.  

Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.

He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.

So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.

When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.

In any case, he’s hiding something.

The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.

Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is. 

Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely. 

It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile. 

Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?

Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.

--

From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.

With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year. 

Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. 

He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.

But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.

I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.

Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.

But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.

Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really. 

But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.

Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness? 

And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you. 

Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.

I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on… 

I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.

(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)

Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now? 

Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.

Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.

He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.

You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.

You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement. 

In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.

You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.

On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does. 

Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.

All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.

Until you didn’t.

It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.

He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.

So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.

Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.

And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley. 

Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence. 

He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.

You said so yourself.

He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.

Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.

And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.

When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.

But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?

You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore. 

So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you. 

He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?

--

It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.

Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.

Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles. 

You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.

When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.

“Did you guys sit next to each other?”

You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”

He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”

You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.

When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.

Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”

“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”

“Now?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”

And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.

“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.

“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.

His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”

He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this? 

“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes. 

But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”

The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”

“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”

“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“Really.”

Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.

Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”

Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming. 

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks. 

“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”

“I think I did, too.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”

Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.

He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”

Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.

Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now. 

“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”

“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”

You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”

“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.

“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”

“Fifty years, huh?”

He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”

There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.

--

The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls. 

The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.

You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway. 

Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.

You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.

“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.

You smile. “I am.”

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[thornescratch]

JAKUB VRANA CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP FLOSSING.

[lani-heart]

ATEEZ -> HOW'D THEY GIVE ORAL?

|| lani-heart's ultimate masterlist || MDNI ||

genre(s) -> reaction, smut, anonymous request <3 paring(s) -> ( separately ) ATEEZ x reader warning(s) -> pure smut... like all of it is smut. MDNI

-> KIM HONGJOONG 

Out of all of the members, Hongjoong is who I’d consider the biggest tease and menace. He’d mock you and overstimulate you, probably thinking of this as punishment if you act out. If you couldn’t handle cumming for the fifth time alone with him just eating you out he’d pout and also fake sympathize with you. He’d talk you through it and keep on making you cum even after your squirt. You already made a mess anyway so why should he stop? He isn’t the type to get off of your pleasure to worship you but does it more for entertainment to see you whine and squirm because of him. A huge sadist getting off on how you can’t take it anymore. Maybe even with a slight dumbification kink in there where you’d cum so many times that you can’t even think straight. Would doubt he’d even stop if you passed out ( he’d be worried and make sure you’re okay before going back at it ) and still tease you when you wake up. 

“I can’t believe how big of a mess you’ve made… who’s gonna clean it up?” he would say and go back to eating you out saying he was simply cleaning the mess and you were making the mess bigger.  “How is that my fault?” 

-> PARK SEONGHWA 

Arguably the best at oral. Also, the second biggest pussy whipped member here. I think he is one of the members who’d get off of your pleasure and want to hear you cum over and over again. He could skip the whole part of his pleasure and purely be satisfied with making you cum on his tongue alone. Not much of a talker like Hongjoong but instead is pussy whipped where nothing can pull him away from you. Stuck like this for hours or an eternity if he could. Even if you move to close your thighs while he’s still overstimulating you, he’d only chuckle. He wasn’t close to finishing… this was where he’d stay because this wasn’t just about pleasuring you but also his own pleasure. It was as if he was starving or thirsty and hadn't had water for days. 

“Let me have one more, just one more time” he’d beg after you tried to pull him away too overestimated to continue further. Though one more… turned into two then three, etc.  “Promise this is the last one” 

-> JUNG YUNHO  

I don’t see Yunho as the type who’d do oral often and would probably only do it as foreplay. Using his fingers more than anything and… we know why. When he would it would be a mix of foreplay and fingering. He isn’t a menace or as mean as other members but if you were to act out I see him more like being a jerk where he’d make you beg for him to pleasure you. He’d use oral as a way to tease you before finally giving in to what you want as well as adding fingers into the hither movement to try to make you cum or even squirt. I don’t see him doing it often for a long time but would do it briefly as foreplay. 

“Why should I?” he’d tease to get you to beg before you were a whiny mess and laugh and smirk at your expression before kissing your clit.  “Okay okay… we’ll do what you want for now”

-> KANG YEOSANG 

This man is scheming… I can see him one day scrolling on Tiktok and finding that one trend of feeding your partner pineapple the whole day. He’d go to the store and buy a bunch of pre-cut pineapple and throughout the day when you’re busy, he’d feed you one until you either notice or you’ve finished the pineapple he bought. Once you finish it he’d have to try to get you into the mood where he’d decide today was an experiment so he’d worship you and tell you later. Though… if it did change something he’d become addicted. Probably would be stuck there for a while even after you come until it's too much after each time he makes you cum. He’d just praise you and how you taste that he wouldn't be able to stop. He’d probably also decide not to tell you about what he did anymore and implement pineapple in your permanent diet. 

“You taste so good… just enjoy it” he’d say completely pussy drunk moaning into you making the pleasure even more unbearable while he wouldn’t even stop to breathe.  “I don’t think I can get enough of you”

-> CHOI SAN 

The manhandler… he would ask you to also sit on his face. He’s been working out a lot, after all, he could take it. If you were nervous about it he’d just pick you up from your thighs and lay down not letting you go. He wouldn’t even mind, he wants you to put your entire weight. However, I could see him as more of a giver than a receiver even if you offered to help him off when you're on top of him he’d deny it and whine and groan if you moved. Only tightening his grip on your thighs that you’d get bruises. I don’t think it helps that this whole era he’s been a cowboy, he probably also teased you that if you have the cowboy’s hat you’ll need to be able to ride him in return. He could do it for hours until he has no more self-restraint and you have enough pretty red hickies and even the yellow bruises that’ll turn purple tomorrow. 

“I wanna show you why I’ve been to the gym” he’d say only encouraging you to sit on him and when you did his tongue would explore everywhere it could... barely even taking breaths in between.  “Don’t be shy, princess” 

-> SONG MINGI 

I also don’t see him as someone to do oral often, probably more of a greedy lover for his own pleasure though I think he would like your reactions. Teasing you with pussy slaps in between him sucking your clit and edging you until you cry literal tears. He’d probably do it for his own entertainment rather than your own pleasure and would just tease you to later give you a bigger orgasm. He would also probably leave marks and would only stop once you’ve squirted. If you do come after all the edging he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself and want to feel himself around you. Everything for him is just to see how you squirm and cum because of him. 

“You were about to cum? I’m sorry love” he’d say teasing you and you would be able to hear his disingenuous tone. He’d go back to teasing making you cry.  “Why are you crying? Do you want me to stop?” 

-> JUNG WOOYOUNG 

Pussy Drunk. Gets off on your pleasure and will cum in his pants because of it. After a long day of choreo just to relax and get off he’ll trap you on the couch and piss your clit through your clothes until you finally agree and get rid of your sleeping bottoms. He’d probably make you keep your panties on. Tasting you through your underwear teasing and restraining himself until he couldn’t handle it and needed to taste you from the source. Would lose track of time that he’d probably get off by humping the couch or a pillow while hearing your moans and eating you out. I think he probably wouldn’t hear you if you started to whine out that it was too much and be so lost in your pleasure that you’d have to pull him away. 

“Mmhmm… please I need one more” he’d beg and cry just to continue tasting you and of course how could you ever deny a tired and pouty Woo.  “I just wanna feel and taste you some more”

-> CHOI JONGHO 

He’d definitely use oral against you. Maybe the meanest member when it comes to punishment. He would tie you up, give you what you want until you beg to cum when he’ll stop and leave you in the room for in theory a few seconds but for you feels like forever wanting to cum so badly and wanting him to come back until you finally apologize for being a brat, begging for him to come back. He would tease you until you finally beg him to finish you off, he’d really only use oral during punishments or special occasions or… when he felt that you learned your lesson and should be rewarded. 

“You’re sorry, right? I think we should reward good behavior” he’d tease seeing your pouty and tear-stained face before aiming to make you come. But when you do… it was really intense and– “You can give me a few more right? To make it up to me?”

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