꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested. And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you know better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
➶︎ IN WHICH;; Your best friend martin plays wingman for his hb keonho who has a crush on you. But don’t you love to play hard to get— yet you fail cause you also have some feelings for that smiley boy and since 7th grade.
➶︎ PAIRING;; nonidol!ahn keonho x f!reader
➶︎ CONTAINS;; cussing only tbf ||
masterlist :; ↺
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bhunlit original work — do not copy, repost or claim as your own.
Perm t/l:;@wonnieslvr @aespavx @adoreade @outsiddaline @zugiioxo @fleshbetrayed @chosolvrr @tacomugi @fein4hoon @fartzzn @pawsytif @pumrikku @hueningaholic @yitoshis @mystgene @wntr-tmblr @sugarcwtie @woclude @enha7beshit @lyzoor @ziziforsan @xoheedeung @xdbug-bob
ZHAO YUFAN ✶ 𝓛 ATE NIGHT C𝓞NVERSATIONS FOR THE PLATONI𝓒ALLY DOOMED
SYN you can handle your drunk best friend. you can handle his whining, his dramatics, even the possibility of him throwing up on your couch. what you can't handle is him looking you in the eye and start confessing every feeling he's buried since the day he met you.
❤︎ ٰ zhao yufan ⭒ f!r ‹𝟹 ⸻ the art of loving 𓈒
you're kneeling on the floor in front of the couch with three different medicine packets spread beside your knee, trying to remember which one doesn't make people drowsier than they already are.
the apartment smells faintly like alcohol and peppermint because you'd forced james to chew gum the second he stumbled through your door, swaying with one shoe untied.
a bucket sits beside the couch within arm's reach, a bottle of water balanced on the coffee table, and your phone is plugged in nearby in case he suddenly decides he's dying and needs emergency reassurance at three in the morning.
meanwhile, he's completely relaxed about the whole thing, sitting there with his head tipped back against the cushions and his hands folded over his stomach like he's on vacation instead of one bad movement away from throwing up. every few seconds he watches you move around with lazy eyes, following you silently while you mutter to yourself about electrolytes and whether soup would've been smarter than instant noodles.
"you're doing too much," he says eventually, his voice rough and sleepy as he watches you crouch by the table for the third time in five minutes.
"you said the room was spinning," you remind him without looking up, tearing open the medicine box to double check the dosage instructions again.
"yeah, but in a fun way," he replies with a lazy grin, shoulders sinking deeper into the couch cushions.
you shoot him a flat look while unscrewing the cap off the water bottle. "drink before you start speaking nonsense again."
"i've been speaking nonsense since birth," he takes the bottle from you with both hands because his coordination is terrible right now, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.
you sigh and move closer, pushing his hair back from his forehead because it keeps falling into his eyes every time he blinks. he lets you do it without complaint, sitting unusually still while you stretch the soft headband over his head and tuck the loose strands away from his face.
the second your fingers brush near his ears, he closes his eyes with a dramatic exhale almost like you've just granted him peace after years of suffering.
you ignore him and lean back to inspect your work, making sure nothing's bothering his skin because drunk james becomes weirdly sensitive to everything. his gaze stays fixed on you the entire time, heavy and unfocused but quieter than usual and that makes you nervous.
"you're pretty," he says suddenly, staring at you with the kind of sincerity only drunk people seem capable of.
you don't even look up from the medicine packets in your lap. "you're drunk. you must be seeing things."
"no, i mean it," he insists softly, brows furrowing slightly, hating that you brushed it off so quickly.
"mhm," you hum absentmindedly, pretending to focus very hard on reading the back of the medicine box.
"did i ever tell you that before?" he asks after a pause, voice quieter as he tilts his head against the couch.
you pretend not to hear him, too busy rearranging things on the table that honestly don't need rearranging anymore. the bucket is already in the perfect spot, the water bottle is full, and the medicine instructions are facing upward so even half asleep you could read them, but keeping your hands occupied feels safer than acknowledging the softness in his voice.
james watches you for another long moment before shifting slightly on the couch, the blanket sliding down one shoulder as he tilts his head. his eyes look glossy under the dim light, but there's something oddly awake about the way he's staring at you.
you can already tell he's about to start talking again, and drunk people always say things they don't remember later. right?
"the first time i met you," he starts slowly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, "i thought you hated me."
you snort quietly at his words. "because i did."
"no, you didn't," he argues, shaking his head against the couch cushion with sleepy confidence.
"i remember rolling my eyes at you," you remind him, lips twitching into a small smile.
"yeah," he says with a crooked, tired grin, "and i liked you immediately because of it."
you finally glance over at him properly, and he's smiling to himself, probably replaying the memory in his head. his fingers tap lazily against the water bottle while he talks, words slightly slurred but still clear enough for you to understand every single one.
outside, rain taps softly against the windows, filling the spaces between his sentences while you stay crouched beside the couch listening. he looks strangely boyish like this, hair pushed back with the ridiculous plush headband and cheeks warm from alcohol and exhaustion. it makes him easier to look at and harder to ignore at the same time.
"you were sitting in the corner at that stupid party," he continues, blinking slowly as his gaze drifts back to you. "everyone else was trying so hard to look cool, and you looked miserable."
"i was miserable," you admit dryly, leaning your shoulder against the side of the couch.
"and you kept glaring at me every time i got loud," he says, sounding far too amused by that fact.
"you were very very loud," you point out, remembering exactly how unbearable he'd been that night.
"but you still handed me your charger when my phone died," he murmurs, smile softening at the edges.
you remember that night embarrassingly clearly once he mentions it. he'd spent nearly an hour making people laugh in the middle of the room while you sat on the armchair wishing your friend would finally decide to go home already.
at some point he'd dropped onto the floor beside you out of nowhere, smiling like you'd been friends for years, and asked if you had a charger because his phone was 'on spiritual life support.' you expected him to leave after that, but instead he stayed beside you talking nonsense until two in the morning, counting your silence as participation.
looking back on it, that was probably the first mistake either of you made.
james watches recognition settle across your face and laughs softly to himself.
"i remember thinking," he murmurs, rubbing sleepily at one eye, "‘she's mean, but like . . . in a pretty way.’"
"you're actually unbearable drunk," you tell him, even while heat creeps annoyingly into your face.
"no, no, listen," he says quickly, lifting a hand toward you as if trying to physically stop you from brushing him off again.
"you need water, not a confession, james," you mutter, reaching over to push the bottle closer to him anyway.
"i thought you were the kind of person who'd leave early and never talk to me again," his voice drops softer near the end that you almost miss it over the rain. the joking tone fades little by little until he's just looking at you with tired honesty sitting heavily behind his eyes.
you stop fussing with the medicine box and lean back against the couch instead, arms resting loosely over your knees while he talks.
"but then you kept showing up, you know?" he starts blinking heavily while his thumb rubs against the condensation on the water bottle. "you answered my messages even when they were stupid."
"yeah, they usually were stupid," you reply quietly, unable to stop the small smile pulling at your mouth.
"you remembered things about me," he continues, eyes still fixed on you.
"well, someone had to," you joke weakly, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in the room.
"and every time i thought maybe you were getting tired of me, you'd do something that proved you weren't."
for a second neither of you says anything after that. the apartment falls quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rain outside your windows.
your bestfriend stares at you with heavy eyelids, looking seconds away from passing out, but knowing him and his stubbornness, he will fight sleep just to keep talking.
"you make me feel safe," he says quietly, gaze dropping toward his hands for the first time.
your breath catches before you can stop it. "okay. you're definitely drunk."
"i know," he agrees with a small, tired smile, looking back up at you again. "still true, though."
"you should sleep before you start getting emotional. don't wanna see you cry your eyes out," you mumble, looking away first because holding eye contact suddenly feels impossible.
you don't know if he'll remember any of this tomorrow morning, and honestly you're not sure which possibility is worse. because if he forgets, then this becomes yours alone to carry.
"i met you and suddenly wanted to stay alive long enough to see you again the next day," he says softly. "that's kinda emotional already."
you stare at him for a long second, completely speechless for once in your life. he just blinks slowly back at you from under the ridiculous headband, looking so calm after casually dropping something devastating into the middle of your living room.
then, like the universe deciding you've suffered enough emotional damage for one night, his expression abruptly twists. you react instantly, grabbing the bucket and shoving it toward him while he groans and folds forward.
"oh my— waitwaitwait," you mutter, scrambling closer while holding the bucket steady in front of him. "there he is."
"i think i'm dying," he groans into his hands, voice muffled and pathetic.
he stays folded over the bucket for another minute, breathing dramatically like he's just survived something life threatening instead of one too many drinks and a bad decision involving tequila.
you sit beside him on the couch, one hand rubbing slow circles against his back while the other keeps the water bottle balanced on your knee.
his hair keeps slipping out from under the headband no matter how many times you push it back, strands sticking slightly to his forehead from the warmth in the room.
the second he leans away from the bucket, you immediately hold the water toward him with narrowed eyes because you already know he's going to fight you on this for absolutely no reason. sure enough, he squints suspiciously at the bottle.
"drink," you tell him firmly, nudging the bottle closer to his chest.
"i don't want it," he complains instantly, voice rough as he sinks deeper into the couch.
"you just threw up."
he turns his head away the second you try to hand it to him. you stare at him in disbelief before grabbing his jaw lightly to force him to look at you again. his skin feels warm under your fingers, cheeks flushed from alcohol and exhaustion, eyes half-lidded in stubborn refusal.
normally he's annoying in a loud, energetic way, but drunk james becomes difficult like a sleepy child fighting bedtime.
"james, please," you sigh tiredly, scooting a little closer so he can't avoid you as easily.
"i said no," he mutters immediately, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor instead of looking at you.
"you need water."
"i need the room to stop moving first," he complains weakly, pulling the blanket higher over himself.
"you're making this harder than it has to be."
"nah."
"please just one sip," you plead, trying to push the bottle back into his hands again. "you're going to wake up feeling horrible tomorrow."
he groans softly under his breath but still refuses to take it from you. you reach over, brushing his hair back again because it's sticking to his forehead from sweat. the second your fingers touch him, he goes quiet. his eyes close briefly like he's trying to focus on that instead of the nausea twisting through him.
"just a sip and i'll stop bothering you. promise."
"you never stop bothering me," he murmurs lazily.
"i'm serious."
"so am i."
"okay, james—"
"i like you."
the words cut cleanly through the middle of your sentence. your hand freezes around the water bottle while he keeps looking at you with this awful honesty that makes it impossible to pretend he's joking.
the room suddenly feels too warm, too quiet, every sound outside the apartment fading underneath the sharp pounding in your chest. james doesn't look away after saying it either. if anything, he looks relieved.
"you're drunk," you say quickly, forcing your expression into something unaffected even while your chest tightens painfully.
"i know i'm drunk," he says quietly, his brows pulling together slightly. "but i'm not confused."
"you don't mean that."
"yes, i do. i've meant it for a long time."
you look away first. "james . . . "
he watches you carefully, trying to decide whether he should stop talking while he still has the chance. but something about the way your fingers tighten around the water bottle must give you away a little because his expression softens instead of shutting down.
he leans his head back against the couch again with a quiet exhale, eyes fixed on the ceiling for a second before drifting back to you.
"i think i realized it the night you stayed with me at the hospital."
months ago, sometime past midnight, james had called you sounding strangely calm after getting into a minor accident on his way home. he kept insisting he was fine, said it wasn't serious, told you not to come because he'd probably get discharged soon anyway.
you completely ignored him, of course. you showed up at the hospital twenty minutes later still wearing pajama pants and mismatched flip flops because you left so fast you hadn't even noticed.
"you were angry at me," he continues quietly, eyes lowering toward his hands. "like genuinely angry."
"because you got hurt."
"no," he says softly, shaking his head once. "because you were scared."
you swallow hard but say nothing.
"i think nobody's ever looked at me like that before." he's talking slowly, carefully, like each sentence costs him something to admit out loud.
you remember sitting beside his hospital bed at two in the morning while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and he kept trying to joke around despite the cut near his eyebrow and the bandages wrapped around his wrist. you'd spent hours pretending to be annoyed with him because being angry was easier than admitting how terrified you'd felt getting that phone call.
"you stayed the entire night even after i told you to go home and you fell asleep sitting in that horrible chair beside me."
you look down at the water bottle in your hands.
"and every time i woke up," he continues softly, "you were still there. i remember thinking that if i lost you someday, i genuinely wouldn't know what to do with myself."
there's nothing playful about his words anymore, nothing easy to laugh off or blame on alcohol. he looks exhausted saying it, eyes slightly red from being sick and tired and maybe from holding this inside for too long.
you don't think you've ever heard him sound this vulnerable before. james is always the person filling silence, making people comfortable, making everything lighter than it really is. but right now he sounds almost scared.
"you make everything feel less lonely," he admits quietly.
your throat feels tight suddenly.
"you made me want to tell you everything first. good things, bad things, dumb things. half the time something happened and my first thought was literally just ‘i need to tell her.’" he laughs weakly to himself before looking down again. "and whenever you got quiet or pulled away even a little, i'd spend the entire day wondering if i did something wrong. did i fuck something up? was it something i said?"
"you shouldn't say things like that drunk," you whisper.
his eyes lift back to yours immediately at that. there's something devastating about how serious he looks. it's almost like he's been waiting forever to say this and hates that it's happening under circumstances where you can dismiss it tomorrow if you want to.
he shifts slightly closer without seeming to realize he's doing it, shoulders brushing yours lightly beneath the blanket. "i tried not to like you. i really did."
"james," you say again because it's the only thing your brain can manage.
"but then you started becoming part of every important thing in my life without even trying. and one day i realized that every version of my future somehow had you in it."
"you take care of me even when i make it difficult," he murmurs, eyes flicking briefly toward the untouched water bottle still in your hands. "you remember things about me. you stayed."
your chest feels painfully tight, heartbeat uneven while he watches your expression carefully, bracing himself for rejection.
you stare at him for another long second before finally loosening your grip on the water bottle. he watches your face carefully while you unscrew the cap. you try not to think too hard about the fact that your hands are shaking a little when you hand the bottle over.
"and i think," he says slowly, almost embarrassed by how honest he sounds, "a part of me started loving you because of that long before i admitted it to myself."
he glances at the water bottle again. "can i have the water now?"
"here," you murmur quietly, finally placing it into his hands.
"thank you," he says just as softly, fingers brushing yours for a second before pulling away. he takes a slow sip of water while you sit beside him trying very hard to keep your breathing normal.
you glance away first again because looking at him too long suddenly feels dangerous. beside you, he swallows carefully before lowering the bottle into his lap.
"there," you say quietly, mostly because the silence is starting to make you awake of everything. "see? that wasn't difficult."
"i think i'm too exhausted to fight you anymore," he murmurs with a faint tired smile.
"that's dramatic."
"you like dramatic."
"i tolerate it."
he lets out a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly. his thumb rubs absently against the side of the bottle while his gaze drifts downward again.
"can i say something selfish?" he asks after a long pause.
you glance at him carefully. "you already confessed. i think we passed selfish a while ago."
he let's out a weak laugh, staring down at the water bottle in his hands for a moment before finally speaking.
"i really, really want it to be me someday," he admits softly. "the person that gets to stay beside you."
your chest tightens immediately.
"but if it isn't . . . " he pauses briefly, jaw tightening a little before he continues. "if somebody else makes you happier than i can, then i think i'd still be okay with it."
you blink at him quietly, caught off guard by the steadiness in his voice.
"because i like seeing you happy more than i like the idea of you liking me back."
you know he's not saying it in some self-pitying way or trying to make himself sound noble. if anything, he looks almost embarrassed admitting it out loud. like he hates that loving you has become something so genuine it stopped being about what he gets in return.
"that's a really sad thing to say," you murmur after a second, trying to keep your voice light even though it comes out softer than intended.
"it's true, though," his shoulders lift slightly in a helpless shrug.
"you shouldn't just accept that."
"i'm not accepting it." his eyes linger on your face before drifting away again. "i'm saying i wouldn't want you to stay with me out of guilt if your heart was somewhere else."
it's clear that he wants you to understand exactly what he means without making this harder for you than it already is.
"i think . . . " he exhales quietly. "i think loving someone should feel kind, even when it hurts."
you stare at him silently.
"my feelings for you were never supposed to become your responsibility. i never wanted you to feel trapped because i couldn't shut up about them."
"you're not trapping me."
"but i don't want you sitting here panicking because you think you owe me an answer tonight either."
that shuts you up immediately because unfortunately he's right. your thoughts have been spinning ever since he confessed, emotions crashing into each other too fast for you to sort through properly.
and even now, james is more worried about making sure you're comfortable than protecting himself from getting hurt.
"you know what my favorite thing is?" he asks suddenly.
"what?"
"when you laugh so hard you hide your face."
you groan quietly. "i don't do that."
"you do," he says with a tiny smile. "every time."
"and when you're excited about something, you start talking really fast."
you shake your head immediately, but he just looks amused in that sleepy, affectionate way that makes it impossible to argue with him properly.
you glance down at your hands.
"and you pretend you're cold whenever you want someone to stay close to you longer."
"that's not true."
"it is. i notice everything about you."
he says it so simply too, without expecting anything for it. maybe to james, paying attention to you was the easiest thing he'd ever done.
"i don't know," he murmurs. "i just— i think you deserve someone who looks at you and feels lucky every single day. if one day that's somebody else . . . then i'll still be glad they found you first before the world got mean enough to change you."
you look at him helplessly while he smiles softly to himself, already accepting something you haven't caught up to yet. there's no bitterness in his voice when he talks about losing you to somebody else someday.
"because you're good," he finishes quietly. "you don't even realize how good you are."
you can tell he's getting sleepier by the second, the water bottle loose in his hands. his words are slower, softer, shoulders sinking deeper into the couch cushions
you should probably make him sleep properly soon. instead, you stay exactly where you are.
he's debating whether to say one more thing before finally letting himself rest. then his mouth curves into something faint and sad all at once. "do you remember that charity gala thing martin tried setting us up for?"
your brows pull together immediately. of course you remember.
it had happened many months ago during one of your friend group dinners when everyone decided it would apparently be funny to pair the two of you together for the annual winter charity gala. couples tickets were cheaper, your friends had argued. besides, you and james were already attached at the hip anyway. the entire table had erupted into teasing almost instantly.
"oh my god, no," you'd said back then between embarrassed laughter while everyone kept talking over each other. "james would actually hate that."
you remember how easy it was to brush off at the time. how harmless it felt. just another joke. another thing to laugh away before anyone looked too closely at why your face had gone warm so suddenly.
beside you now, james smiles weakly, remembering the exact same thing. "you laughed so fast. was the idea of us together that ridiculous?"
"it wasn't like that," you say before you can stop yourself.
he shakes his head gently, still smiling. "no, i know. you didn't mean anything bad by it."
you swallow hard.
"but i remember everybody looking at me after you said no." his fingers tighten slightly around the bottle. "so i laughed too."
you remember him leaning back in his chair that night, grinning easily while waving your friends off like the idea amused him too. he'd joked about how unbearable you'd be as a date. everyone laughed and the conversation moved on quickly after that.
but sitting here now, hearing him talk about it like this, you suddenly wonder how much effort it took for him to sound casual back then.
"if the decision was only up to me," his eyes are unfocused, drifting through the memory more than speaking to you directly, "i would've said yes."
james lets his head fall back against the couch again with a tired exhale, exhaustion finally winning against the alcohol and emotions keeping him awake this long. still, he keeps talking anyway.
"i wanted to say yes so badly. it was embarrassing. i remember thinking . . . " he pauses, blinking slowly. "i remember thinking that if you'd looked at me for even one second like you wanted me there, i would've agreed immediately."
your fingers curl tightly in your lap.
"but you laughed first."
the worst part is that you remember why you laughed. not because the idea sounded impossible or because you didn't want it.
you don't know what to say to that.
"you should've told me," but the words feel painfully insufficient the second they leave your mouth.
"i couldn't. you looked so sure."
you'd laughed because everybody was staring, because your heart had jumped into your throat too quickly, because the idea of people noticing how much james already mattered to you had terrified you more than the joke itself.
but he didn't know that. all he saw was you rejecting the possibility before he even got the chance to want it openly.
"and i . . . i think i liked you too much already to hear you reject me twice in one night."
you look down quickly because suddenly your eyes burn. james shifts slightly closer without thinking, his shoulder pressing more fully against yours.
"if it was up to me," he says again, sleep beginning to pull at every word, "i would've said yes."
he blinks heavily, fighting to keep his eyes open while his fingers slowly loosen around the water bottle. the confession seems to have drained the rest of his energy.
"i would've gone with you. would've worn whatever stupid suit they wanted." his head tilts slightly until it rests against your shoulder without him realizing.
"if it was up to me," barely awake, he keeps mumbling the same thing over and over. "i would've said yes."
"i would've stayed beside you the whole night. would've said yes immediately if it was my choice." the words start slurring together near the end, exhaustion finally overtaking him.
you stay frozen beside him while his breathing gradually slows, warm against your shoulder.
maybe if he says it enough, someday you'll finally say yes. maybe if he says it enough, he'll finally get the happiest night of his life instead of just dreaming about it.
"always yes with you."
he says one last time before sleep takes him completely, handing the dream over to another universe because this one never gave it to him.
PART ONE ─── everyone either has a guardian angel or guardian devil. what keonho has is a guardian devil named seonghyeon sitting on his left shoulder whose favorite thing to do is annoy the lovely guardian angel (you) that sits on his right.
or newbie guardian devil!seonghyeon has a crush on you, the prettiest guardian angel ever, and makes it his job to annoy you (but at the same time, he’s also obsessed with you?). ++ also you guys babysit keonho (the worst kid ever) who apparently sent his former guardian angel (juhoon) to the psych ward, chased the tooth fairy, and played with the underworld's dog, cerberus ... (｡Ó﹏Ò｡)
or texts with your fellow guardian, seonghyeon & the 17 yr old (terror) kid you guys are babysitting, keonho.
contains guardian devil!seonghyeon x guardian angel!reader. ft. human!keonho, angel!juhoon, devil!james, human!martin, angel!lesserafim. romcom, crack smau, fantasy au. lowk enemies to lovers (depending on the situation ig). basically cortis if they were angel/devils. keonho is like timmy turner, you’re wanda, & hyeon is cosmo (from fairly oddparents). mentions of hades and his dog, cerberus!
( 🪽 ) —— i can't believe this smau has gmail, discord, whatsapp, imessage, & all in one.. another draft done! (yes there will be part 2.. and part 3...) i enjoyed making this & i actually laughed reading my own texts... anw, enjoy! likes, comments, & reblogs r always appreciated <3 mwah
( 🪽 ) —— thank you for reading till the end! <3 wanna be tagged in the next part? comment or send me an ask!
contains sfw. fluff. kissing. friends to ???. sleepover things. pillow fights (without pillows). they're cute but they're idiots in love. ahn keonho is a little shit and yn is a lil stupid/oblivious. weird ways to confess? probably.
warnings none. yn swears once or twice. (making out?)
wordcount 1.4k
keukeu-note 🥥 first time writing anything, ever. sorry for any grammar mistakes, english is not my first language (｡･ω･｡) slightly edited may 25
the floor of your living room was now buried beneath layers of thick blankets and mismatched pillows.
the sleepover you’d planned with your friends had finally made its way out of the group chat and into reality. and now that the living room looked more like a blanket fort than an actual place people lived in, everyone had gradually drifted toward the kitchen to get the snacks ready.
well, everyone except you.
sometime during the making of the bed, you had finished up your end and crawled your way underneath the blankets, covering yourself entirely.
it was nice.
warm. and quiet.
at least until a heavy weight suddenly landed on top of you.
the only opening you’d left for airflow was immediately sealed shut beneath a pile of blankets and what felt suspiciously like an entire human being.
the heat beneath the blankets became unbearable almost immediately. you tried pushing your arms upward to bring the blankets off your face, but to no avail. whoever was on top of you was really set on capturing you in the blanket.
the muffled sounds of your distress went completely unnoticed by everyone else in the room.
apparently, the ongoing debate about whether a turtle without its shell was naked or homeless was far more important than your active murder.
seeing as your ‘murderer’ was using their hands to hold down the blanket, you pushed your hands down toward your waist, where you could feel their legs caging you in. a loud yelp sounded above you. and while you had your suspicions from the beginning, the telltale squeak in his voice just solidified it.
“if you don’t get off me right now, keonho, i’ll-”
your words were cut short when he shifted his weight across your torso. the groan that left you was no louder than the sound of his giggles echoing above you. he laid his head on your chest and nuzzled his face further into the blanket.
“hm? you’ll what?” his words were muffled into the fabric, but you heard him clearly.
“i swear, i’m gonna...”
this time your words trailed off for a different reason. mid-sentence, you realized he had finally loosened his hold on the blanket.
sensing the opportunity, you hurriedly pulled the blanket off your face, wrapped your legs around his, and shifted your weight so that now he was trapped underneath you.
his eyes squeezed shut as his back hit the blankets, a soft puff of air leaving him.
your hands fumbled through the mess of blankets until you finally managed to pin his wrists beside his head.
and then—
stillness.
for the first time since he’d tried to suffocate you alive, neither of you moved.
you sat over his waist catching your breath while keonho blinked slowly up at you, looking almost dazed.
then, gradually, amusement flickered across his face.
like he was trying very hard not to smile.
your eyes narrowed.
what the hell is he thinking about now.
what you hadn’t realized yet was that when you went to pin down his arms, you’d unknowingly leaned over him. as a result, your position was in no way going to look appropriate to anyone who walked into the room.
“is this what you were planning?” he whispered teasingly. “’cause to me, this doesn’t seem that bad.”
“huh?”
now it was your turn to blink stupidly down at him. how was it not bad to be pinned by someone else?
“huh,” you repeated, eyebrows furrowing as a frown crossed your face.
when he only grinned in response, you huffed and rolled your eyes. you loosened your grip on his arms slightly, and he pulled them down. your balance faltered, and you had to let go completely to stop yourself from crashing face-first into him.
his breath hitched as your arms landed beside his head. you had effectively caged him in, once again.
it wasn’t until you felt the soft warmth of his breathing against your face that you finally realized.
keonho was close.
way too close.
close enough that you could see the tiny crease near the corner of his mouth from how hard he was trying not to laugh.
close enough that your eyes kept catching on his lips.
stupidly pink.
stupidly soft-looking.
your stomach twisted.
if you leaned in just a little—
great. now you were thinking about kissing your friend.
embarrassment crashed through you as you scrambled to get off him.
before you could go anywhere, his hands tugged you back down, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you against him. his chin landed on your shoulder as he hugged you close.
while it wasn’t unusual for keonho to be this touchy, it was definitely sending your brain into overdrive today. your heart was beating out of your chest, and you were almost sure he could feel it. he hugged you tighter before finally pulling back.
your eyes squeezed shut, silently hoping he’d let you go before your brain actually melted.
you knew he wouldn’t.
what you didn’t expect, however, was the overly wet kiss he planted on your cheek. honestly, it felt more like a dog licking you than anything romantic.
your eyes flew open.
for a second, you could only stare at him in complete disbelief.
keonho stared back, entirely unashamed.
“ahn keonho,” you whispered. “what the fuck...”
he was grinning, clearly proud of himself.
but there was something nervous underneath it too.
a tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth. the way his eyes kept flicking toward yours and then away again.
like he was suddenly unsure whether he’d crossed a line.
your hands came up to cradle his face gently.
“oh, you’re dead,” you muttered.
as you wet your lips, his eyes widened slightly. trailing over your features before dropping to your mouth.
you turned his face away from you, your grip gentle enough not to hurt him. his eyes fluttered shut. you closed your own as you leaned in, less than a hair’s breadth away from successfully getting your revenge when you felt him turn back toward you.
once again, you realized it too late.
your lips met his by accident.
soft.
fleeting.
warm in a way that made your brain completely blank out for a second.
neither of you moved.
keonho’s breath caught softly against your mouth.
his fingers tightened around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
his eyes stayed squeezed shut for a second too long.
like he was waiting for you to pull away.
you should've moved.
and once your brain caught up with you, you did.
you pulled back too fast, nearly knocking your forehead against his in the process. your sleeve brushed frantically across your lips as your eyes searched his face for an explanation.
his eyes were half-lidded, fixed solely on your mouth. he swallowed once, like he was trying to gather the courage to say something and failing miserably at it.
his thumb twitched lightly against your waist.
“keonho, what was—”
no more words could leave your lips before a soft, desperate “please” slipped from him.
his hands hurried from your waist to your face.
warm fingers cupped your cheeks as he pulled you back into him.
the kiss this time was nothing like the accidental one from before.
it was slow at first, hesitant in a way that made your chest ache.
a surprised sound escaped you against his lips, but you kissed him back anyway. immediately, his grip on your face softened in relief.
you could feel him smiling into the kiss.
the feeling made heat rush straight to your face, and your hand tangled into his hair without thinking. keonho shivered beneath you at the sensation, his hand slipping from your cheek down to your waist, holding you against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between you.
there was nothing casual about the way keonho kissed you.
not hesitant in the way someone experimenting would be.
more like someone finally getting something they’d been wanting for a very long time.
slowly, without either of you really noticing it happening, the kiss deepened. unhurried, messy in the way first kisses tended to be. your noses bumped once, drawing a breathless laugh from you that he swallowed with another kiss.
by the time his other hand settled carefully against your thigh, you’d both completely forgotten where you were. blankets rumpled around your waist, and you, straddling him like you belonged there.
it wasn’t until you tugged lightly at his hair, earning a soft groan from him, that reality came crashing back down.
“keonho?” you pulled away just enough to whisper his name.
he opened his eyes slowly, looking at you like you’d just interrupted something he never wanted to end.
your chest tightened.
“more,” he mumbled immediately, already trying to lean back in like he hadn’t gotten nearly enough of you yet.
your hands squished his cheeks before he could get far, stopping him mid-attempt.
a pout formed on his lips instantly.
an actual pout.
his brows pulled together slightly as he looked up at you in clear offense, and you had to bite back a laugh.
“don’t look at me like that,” you whispered, failing miserably to sound unaffected.
“yn,” keonho only whined softly and tried to chase your lips again. “one more.”
your heart did something genuinely embarrassing.
“you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though there was no real bite behind it.
he looked entirely too pleased by the fact that you still hadn’t moved away. his eyes kept flicking down to your mouth like he physically couldn’t help himself.
unable to resist him any longer, you leaned down and pressed one last soft kiss against his pout as an apology.
the change in his expression was immediate. the tiny crease between his brows disappeared, replaced by a lazy, satisfied smile that made him look unbearably smug and far too kiss-drunk for his own good.
right as he opened his mouth to say something, the growing sound of your friends’ voices drifted closer to the living room, cutting him off.
your eyes widened in panic. “oh my god.”
keonho barely looked concerned. if anything, he looked far too pleased with himself as he lazily blinked up at you.
meanwhile, you were staring at him in absolute horror.
his hair was a mess, cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen red from kissing, and his eyes still looked all hazy.
there was absolutely no hiding what had just happened.
“you look ridiculous,” you whispered frantically, already reaching to fix his hair.
he caught your wrist before you could. “i think i look cute.”
you stared at him for a long second before narrowing your eyes. “you’re actually the worst.”
his grin only widened.
the sound of approaching footsteps got louder. without another word, you grabbed the nearest blanket and threw it directly over his face.
“hey—”
“shut up.”
you shoved him fully down into the pile of blankets just as your friends walked back into the room, carrying snacks and drinks.
seonghyeon paused mid-step, staring at the suspiciously keonho-shaped lump beside you.
“…why is he buried alive?”
you grabbed a bag of chips from his hands and shrugged casually. “he was being annoying.”
from underneath the blanket came a muffled, offended, “this is abuse.”
SYNOPSIS :: To be born a pureblood means you are hounded to pick a perfect suitor of similar position in the wizarding society. Juhoon suggests a simple solution to get your parents off your back: date him, just make sure you don’t catch any feelings.
W.C :: 11.9k
CONTAINS :: slytherin!juhoon, fake dating, both purebloods, slow burn, both emotionally inept and oblivious, not a lot of dialogue (more storytelling), mini harassment (reader being touched without permission), blood/injury, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Pretty boy - The Neighbourhood; The complete knock - Blood Orange; Sweater weather - The Neighbourhood; Knee socks - Arctic Monkeys; Sad girl - Lana Del Rey; She’s my collar - Gorillaz, Kali Uchis
Everyone had assumed you and Juhoon were together long before your arrangement ever began.
To the rest of Hogwarts, the two of you made perfect sense. Two Slytherins from old pureblood families, always standing beside one another at functions, always paired together during gatherings, always carrying yourselves with the same composed elegance expected from families like yours.
A match made in heaven, according to the whispers that followed the two of you through the halls.
The irony was that your families could barely tolerate one another.
They played polite well enough during pureblood gatherings, all sharp smiles and expensive robes and poisoned compliments hidden beneath crystal glasses. But beneath the carefully maintained civility lay years of rivalry neither side ever bothered to truly conceal.
Still, neither family could exactly complain.
After years of relentless pestering about finding a “suitable” partner, the two of you had solved the problem yourselves.
No unbearable introductions arranged by your parents. No carefully selected heirs from respectable houses being paraded in front of you at dinners. And, most importantly, no risk of either of you ending up with what your mother so delicately referred to as ‘one of those horrid half-bloods polluting wizarding society’.
The arrangement had happened late one evening in the library.
You still remembered the way Juhoon had slid into the seat across from you without invitation, expression unreadable as always. The Slytherin prefect pin gleamed faintly against the dim candlelight.
“You’ve been avoiding your mother’s letters,” he had said plainly.
You glanced up from your book. “And you know this because?”
“She complained to mine.”
Of course she had.
You let out a quiet sigh, shutting your book with more force than necessary. “If this is another conversation about suitable suitors, I might actually throw myself into the Black Lake.”
To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Date me.”
You could only stare at him, the gears shifting as your brain tried to process his words. “What?”
“Pretend to,” Juhoon corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “People already think we’re together. It would solve the problem.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, suspicious. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”
“My parents stop introducing me to insufferable pureblood daughters every holiday.”
“That bad?”
“One of them cried because I didn’t compliment her dress.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
Juhoon continued, calm and composed as though he were discussing homework rather than proposing an entirely fabricated relationship. “We keep appearances up around our families. Attend events together. Act convincing enough that they stop interfering in our lives.” His gaze flickered toward you then, steady and sharp. “In return, they leave us alone.”
It was practical and honestly far less miserable than enduring another year of your parents’ endless matchmaking.
So you agreed, and perhaps that had been your first mistake because the lie came far too easily.
The news spread through Hogwarts within days. Apparently, you were officially off-limits now—though neither of you had exactly struggled with unwanted attention before, both considered far too intimidating for most students to approach in the first place. Still, people looked at the two of you differently afterward, as though the confirmation merely solidified something everyone had believed from the start.
Because in everyone else’s eyes, you and Juhoon fit together effortlessly enough that some couldn’t tell if your relationship was truly for the mere essence of maintaining pureblood expectations or something far more genuine.
Most assumed the latter because how could they not?
You and Juhoon moved around one another with a familiarity too natural to appear rehearsed, too instinctive to feel manufactured. None of how you interacted looked forced enough to be an arrangement crafted purely for convenience.
To many students, it looked painfully obvious: love disguised poorly beneath Slytherin composure and aristocratic restraint.
Even among the more cynical pureblood circles, whispers followed the two of you with something almost resembling admiration. A perfect match between two influential families, yes, but also something strangely sincere beneath all the politics and reputation.
Others found it romantic in an insufferable sort of way. The terrifyingly composed Slytherin heir who looked at no one the way he looked at you and the equally intimidating pureblood witch somehow capable of softening the sharpest edges of Juhoon’s cold demeanor simply by standing beside him.
Though there remained a smaller, far more rational group of students who viewed the situation differently.
They observed the timing too carefully. The convenience of the sudden announcement arriving perfectly alongside increasing pressure from both your families.
To them, it looked less like a love story and more like an agreement between two ambitious pureblood heirs intelligent enough to understand exactly what was expected of them.
And truthfully, they would have been correct, it was a strategic alliance meant for nothing more than for you both to finally get some peace in your life.
Still, no one dared voice such theories aloud.
Not when Juhoon’s gaze alone could silence most people where they stood. And certainly not when the two of you looked altogether too convincing beside one another for anyone to comfortably question it for long.
The two of you had established a set of simple, but necessary rules that night in the library as well.
No real feelings.
Public affection only when required.
Family events would be attended together, appearances maintained carefully enough to keep suspicion away. If either of you wished to end the arrangement, it ended immediately—no questions asked.
It was practical and controlled. Exactly the sort of agreement expected between two pureblood heirs raised on reputation before emotion.
At least, that was what you had told yourself.
The problem was that Juhoon had always been unfairly easy to exist beside even before the arrangement had been established
You had spent years at his side during endless pureblood functions and insufferable dinners, years exchanging sharp remarks across Slytherin tables and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the library. Being around him had never required effort and silence with him had never felt uncomfortable.
Pretending, it turned out, felt alarmingly natural, to the point where almost none of it felt staged anymore.
Not when he would pull a chair out for you before you even reached the table, or when his eyes would find yours across the Great Hall with quiet, terrifying ease. Nor when he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, and certainly not when you began forgetting there had ever been rules to begin with.
The reaction from Hogwarts had been almost insulting.
You had expected surprise, perhaps even outrage considering the nature of your families. At the very least, some degree of shock.
Instead, the majority of the school responded with an almost unbearable sense of satisfaction as though they had all collectively won a bet neither you nor Juhoon had known existed.
“Finally,” Jaehyun had drawled the morning after the rumors spread, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he slid into the seat across from the two of you at breakfast.
Mina looked equally smug. “You were honestly fooling no one.”
You nearly choked on your tea. Beside you, Juhoon remained perfectly composed, lazily stirring his coffee as though the attention surrounding your table did not exist. Which somehow only made the rumors worse.
The professors were no better. Slughorn, in particular, looked positively delighted by the arrangement.
In his eyes, the two of you were practically the embodiment of everything he adored: prestigious pureblood heirs, academically gifted Slytherins, socially influential students with families woven so deeply into wizarding society it existed beyond the ancient historical texts.
You suspected he had been waiting for this development longer than the rest of Hogwarts combined.
“Well, well,” Slughorn beamed during Potions one afternoon, eyes flickering between the two of you knowingly. “Young love among noble houses. How very classic.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
You stared at him in horror. To your right, Juhoon looked mildly appalled for perhaps half a second before his usual composure settled back into place.
Unfortunately, several students had witnessed it and that resulted in the teasing afterward being relentless. Not that either of you reacted strongly enough to discourage it.
That was the problem.
At first, maintaining the act required actual effort, though you had expected that much. The first few days were painfully awkward in ways neither of you anticipated. Every movement felt overly deliberate, every touch carefully calculated beneath the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.
Juhoon offering you his arm before entering the Great Hall, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve during pureblood gatherings, sitting together during meals, quiet conversations close enough to appear intimate.
It felt staged at first, like two people attempting to imitate a relationship they did not fully understand.
And then, somehow, it stopped feeling unnatural altogether. The shift happened so gradually neither of you noticed it immediately.
One day Juhoon was offering you his arm because people were watching and the next, he was doing it automatically without glancing around first.
You stopped choosing the seat beside him consciously. Your body simply carried you there out of habit now, settling comfortably into his presence before your mind caught up.
He began fixing your collar absentmindedly whenever it sat crooked, his fingers just grazing your throat as you maintained a straight face, though the goosebumps littering your skin almost gave you away.
You started stealing pieces of fruit from his plate during breakfast without asking.
Shared notes became shared textbooks, whispered conversations stretching late into the night within the Slytherin common room while green candlelight flickered against the dungeon walls.
And then there was the touching. Subtle enough to escape notice if one wasn’t looking carefully, yet somehow constant all the same.
Juhoon’s hand began to rest against the small of your back in crowded hallways and your knee started brushing his beneath library tables.
None of it should have felt significant yet each touch lingered far longer in your mind than it ought to have. Perhaps because Juhoon was not naturally affectionate, especially with everyone else.
He tolerated very few people willingly, less so physical contact. Most students avoided standing too close to him altogether, intimidated by the sharp calmness he carried so effortlessly.
But with you, the distance between your bodies seemed to disappear more and more each day.
And the truly dangerous part was that neither of you seemed to notice anymore when you were pretending and when you were simply… being yourselves.
The realisation came slowly.
So slowly, in fact, that you hardly noticed it at all.
It settled quietly into the spaces between lingering glances and absentminded touches, weaving itself into your routine before either of you had the chance to stop it. Somewhere along the way, Juhoon had ceased to feel like a performance and instead become something constant, expected even.
You found him beside you in every corner of Hogwarts without needing to ask.
In the mornings at the Slytherin table, already pouring tea into your cup before you had even sat down, the steam curling softly between the two of you as though he had done it his entire life. During lessons, where his chair always seemed to end up angled subtly toward yours no matter where the professors placed you. Across from you in the library during late-night study sessions, silver rings tapping idly against the wooden table while he skimmed over your essays with quiet criticism.
“Your conclusion is weak,” he remarked one evening without looking up.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve said that for the past three of my essays.”
“Because it continues to be true.”
And then, not five minutes later, he slid a fresh piece of parchment toward you with several rewritten sentences already scrawled neatly across it.
Even outside of lessons, Juhoon simply… appeared.
Waiting outside classrooms between periods, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while groups of students parted around him instinctively. Falling into step beside you through the corridors without greeting, as though your company had long since become assumed. Occupying the seat beside yours in the common room before anyone else could take it.
There was no discussion or hesitation, only certainty.
And perhaps the most dangerous part was that he noticed things no one else ever bothered paying attention to.
He knew when you were irritated before you spoke, recognising the slight tightening in your expression long before anyone else caught on. Knew exactly which desserts you avoided in the Great Hall and quietly traded them off your plate whenever they appeared. Knew the difference between your genuine smile and the polite, practiced one reserved for pureblood gatherings.
Sometimes it felt as though Juhoon observed you too carefully. As though he had spent years memorising every version of you long before either of you called this a relationship.
It seemed almost instinctive, the sort built through diving to see more than what appeared at the surface.
You began noticing it everywhere once you allowed yourself to look.
He’d automatically shifted closer whenever conversations in the common room became too loud, subtle enough that no one else would recognise the gesture for what it was. His eyes searched for you first whenever he entered a room, immediately locating you within seconds as though it were unconscious now.
And Merlin, the staring.
You did not know when that had begun.
Perhaps he had always looked at you that way and you had simply never paid enough attention before.
Juhoon’s gaze had always been intense by nature—sharp, assessing, difficult for most people to hold comfortably. He looked at people as though dissecting them quietly in his mind, cool and unreadable in a way that made even older students nervous.
But with you, it was different. Softer, somehow. Not openly affectionate. Juhoon was not the sort for obvious displays of emotion.
Still, there were moments when you caught him looking at you from across the Great Hall or over the top of a book in the library, expression unreadable yet strangely focused, as though he had momentarily forgotten anyone else existed.
And every single time, your stomach betrayed you because Juhoon was composed by nature. Controlled down to the very way he spoke. Nothing about him was careless.
And yet, around you, cracks had begun appearing in that perfect restraint. Small, nearly invisible ones.
The subtle tightening of his jaw whenever another student lingered too close to you. The way his gaze darkened almost imperceptibly whenever someone flirted too openly. The instinctive way he would place a hand against your waist while guiding you through corridors that were not even vastly populated, fingers lingering just a second too long against the fabric of your robes.
Protective.
Possessive, perhaps.
Though you weren’t entirely sure you minded, and that alone should have terrified you. Instead, it settled warm beneath your ribs like a secret you were too afraid to name. And it only became worse after Potions.
Slughorn’s classroom smelled overwhelmingly sweet that morning, thick curls of shimmering steam spiraling upward from the cauldron positioned at the center of the room. Students leaned forward curiously as the potion glimmered beneath the candlelight, its surface shifting in pearlescent swirls.
“Amortentia,” Slughorn announced proudly, gesturing dramatically toward the cauldron. “The most powerful love potion in the world. Quite distinctive, of course. It smells different to each person according to what attracts them most.”
A chorus of amused reactions spread throughout the room almost immediately. Several students laughed whilst others leaned forward eagerly, excited to reveal their own.
You had barely paid attention until the scent reached you.
Rain against stone.
Cedarwood.
Mint.
Old parchment.
Your stomach dropped instantly because it smelled exactly like Juhoon.
Not vaguely similar or close enough to dismiss. It smelled undeniably, unmistakably like him—like the lingering scent left behind whenever he shrugged his robes over your shoulders after Quidditch practice, and sitting beside him in the library beneath flickering candlelight while rain battered softly against the dungeon windows.
Heat crawled painfully up your neck but you forced your expression to remain neutral, staring firmly ahead while panic curled violently in your chest.
Surely no one else noticed.
Slowly, carefully, you shifted your gaze downward toward your notes, pretending sudden fascination with your parchment.
Then silence settled beside you, the atmosphere surrounding the two of you growing far too heavy for you to ignore. Against your better judgment, you glanced sideways to find him already looking at you. And for the first time in as long as you had known him, Juhoon looked unsettled.
Only slightly.
A nearly invisible tension lingered in his expression before disappearing just as quickly, gone so fast you might have imagined it entirely had you not spent months learning the smallest shifts in his composure.
But you knew him too well now to miss it.
He had smelled something too.
Someone.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered on you afterward: thoughtful, quiet, almost unbearably intent, you had a terrible feeling you already knew who.
Neither of you spoke about it afterward, both far too emotionally inept to even consider attempting such a conversation. Instead, the two of you did what Slytherins did best: you avoided it completely. Painfully so.
The moment class ended, you gathered your things far too quickly before standing abruptly from your seat, your robe nearly getting caught on the table. Around the classroom, students continued laughing and teasing one another over the potion while Slughorn rambled enthusiastically about the “fascinating nature of adolescent attraction.”
You wanted to disappear into the Black Lake and never emerge again.
Juhoon, unfortunately, followed you out of the classroom almost immediately because that’s what he always did.
You could hear his footsteps behind you as you moved through the dungeon corridors, measured and unhurried in a way that somehow made your nervousness worse. He said nothing at first, merely falling into step beside you as naturally as breathing.
Usually, the silence between you was comfortable. Now it felt suffocating.
“You’re walking unusually fast,” Juhoon observed after several moments.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
A pause passed between you. Then, quieter: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me since class ended.”
Heat crept instantly back into your face. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“Hm.” The sound alone told you he didn’t believe a word of it.
You risked a glance toward him then, only to regret it immediately. Juhoon was already watching you, and it wasn’t casual, either. It was intent, like he was trying to solve something. It made your stomach twist painfully.
“You’re staring,” you muttered.
“And you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Another pause.
“Hm.”
You hated when he did that.
The worst part was that Juhoon himself did not appear entirely unaffected either, no matter how composed he attempted to remain. His shoulders seemed slightly tenser than usual beneath his robes, jaw tightening faintly every few seconds like he was restraining thoughts he had no intention of voicing aloud.
Which, somehow, only confirmed your suspicions further.
Merlin. Juhoon had smelled you in the Amortentia potion.
You nearly walked directly into another student before a hand closed instantly around your wrist, pulling you smoothly out of the way before impact.
“Careful,” Juhoon murmured.
The touch burned far hotter than it should have. His fingers remained around your wrist for one second too long before releasing you, though whether he noticed that fact himself, you couldn’t tell.
Neither of you moved immediately afterward.
The corridor around you buzzed with distant conversation and footsteps, students brushing past without a second glance, yet the space between you suddenly felt strangely still.
Dangerously still.
Juhoon’s gaze dropped briefly toward your face, lingering there with unsettling focus, and for one reckless moment, you thought he might actually say something. Maybe ask or even acknowledge it.
Instead, he simply adjusted your cloak where it had slipped from your shoulder during your near collision, movements careful and composed despite the tension crackling quietly between the two of you.
Then he stepped back.
“There’s a Slytherin meeting tonight,” he said smoothly, as though neither of you were internally unraveling. “Don’t be late.”
And just like that, the moment vanished like any other time you had come close to branching further than just an arrangement.
Days passed as such, and you continued your… whatever it was you and Juhoon had become.
Not quite fake. Not entirely real. Something dangerously in between.
The awkwardness following the Amortentia incident never truly disappeared, though neither of you acknowledged it aloud. Instead, it settled quietly beneath your interactions, lingering within prolonged glances and near touches that suddenly felt far too intentional.
If Juhoon noticed the shift between you, he gave no indication of it. But afterward, he seemed even more attentive than before.
His hand found the small of your back far more often in the corridors, not that you had been keeping track though. His gaze lingered longer whenever you spoke. Sometimes, during late evenings in the common room, you would glance up from your book only to find him already watching you with that same unreadable expression that made your stomach twist painfully every single time.
It was unbearable.
Worse still, it was becoming impossible to tell where the act ended anymore.
Perhaps that was why the letter from your mother unsettled you as much as it did.
The envelope arrived during breakfast one icy December morning, bearing your family crest stamped neatly into dark green wax. You already knew it would be unpleasant before even opening it.
Across from you, Juhoon glanced up briefly from his tea as you broke the seal.
Your mother’s elegant handwriting greeted you immediately.
You and Juhoon are expected to attend the Rosier Winter Solstice Ball during holiday recess. Considering recent developments, your appearance together will be beneficial for both families.
Do try not to embarrass us.
You stared at the letter for several long moments before sighing deeply and handing it across the table.
Juhoon scanned the contents silently. “The Rosier ball,” he murmured.
You groaned softly. “I was hoping to avoid that this year.”
“So was I.”
That alone was enough to tell you exactly how insufferable the event would be.
The Rosier Winter Solstice Ball was infamous amongst pureblood society—less celebration and more political performance disguised beneath expensive robes and orchestral music. Old families gathered beneath enchanted chandeliers to exchange alliances, gossip, and carefully concealed threats while pretending it was all perfectly civilized.
Children of noble houses were displayed like prized assets.
And now, apparently, the two of you would be attending together officially.
Wonderful.
“You realise everyone’s going to stare at us the entire night,” you muttered.
Juhoon folded the letter neatly before setting it back down beside your plate. “They already do.”
Annoyingly enough, he wasn’t wrong.
The Rosier estate looked almost unreal beneath winter snowfall.
Ancient stone walls towered against the dark sky, every window glowing with warm golden light while enchanted snow drifted elegantly through the air without ever touching the ground. Inside, the manor glittered beneath towering crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and gold-trimmed walls lined with moving portraits older than Hogwarts itself.
The ballroom itself was already crowded upon arrival.
Pureblood heirs draped in expensive fabrics moved gracefully through clusters of conversation while orchestral music echoed softly throughout the hall. Jewel-toned gowns shimmered beneath candlelight, dark tailored suits embroidered subtly with family crests and ancient runes.
Politics disguised as elegance.
Exactly as exhausting as you remembered.
The moment you entered beside Juhoon, attention shifted immediately.
Not openly, of course, pureblood society was far too practiced for something so crude. But you felt it all the same: eyes following the two of you across the ballroom, whispers murmured quietly behind crystal glasses as your arrival spread through the crowd.
Because this was the first time many of them had seen you together publicly since the announcement.
And Juhoon played the role far too well.
His hand settled against your waist almost instantly upon entering the ballroom, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress as he guided you smoothly through the crowd. The gesture appeared effortless, natural enough that no one would question it for a second, yet the touch lingered in your mind far longer than it should have.
You became painfully aware of him throughout the evening.
The way he pulled your chair out before you could sit during dinner, and he leaned down slightly whenever speaking near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. Even how his fingers brushed absentmindedly against your own while passing you a drink.
Every action was perfectly measured. Perfectly convincing.
That should have reassured you.
Instead, it unsettled you more with every passing hour because Juhoon was terrifyingly good at acting like he adored you.
At one point during the evening, an older witch smiled knowingly as the two of you crossed the ballroom together. “You make a beautiful couple,” she remarked warmly and your polite smile nearly faltered.
Juhoon’s hand tightened subtly at your waist.
“Thank you,” he replied smoothly before you could answer. As though he meant it.
That haunted you for the remainder of the night.
Especially once the dancing began.
His hand rested against your waist while the other held yours carefully, guiding you effortlessly across the ballroom floor beneath glittering chandeliers and floating candlelight. Every movement felt controlled, elegant, practiced from years of aristocratic upbringing.
And all the while, people watched the two of you.
You could feel their attention constantly. Admiration, curiosity, approval for the perfect pureblood pair. Exactly what your families wanted.
The thought should have disgusted you, but your attention remained fixed on Juhoon.
His gaze never truly left your face while you danced and he instinctively guided you away whenever couples drifted too close. There was an almost protective way he carried himself beside you throughout the evening, calm and watchful like he was aware of everything happening around you at all times.
None of it felt forced or fake, and somewhere between his hand against your waist and the quiet sound of his voice near your ear, a dangerous thought began settling heavily into your chest.
How much of this was actually pretending anymore?
The thought lingered uncomfortably for the rest of the evening.
You tried to dismiss it. Tried to blame the atmosphere instead—the golden candlelight, the orchestral music swelling softly throughout the ballroom, the overwhelming intensity of old pureblood traditions wrapped so elegantly around the two of you.
But every time you convinced yourself you were overthinking things, Juhoon would do something small and devastating.
A witch from the Parkinson family attempted to pull you into conversation near the refreshments table, speaking animatedly about Ministry affairs while several older purebloods listened nearby. You barely managed a polite response before feeling Juhoon’s presence settle beside you once more.
He didn’t interrupt, he was never rude enough for that. But somehow the conversation ended less than a minute later regardless and his hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you away through the crowd.
“You looked miserable,” he murmured.
You glanced sideways at him. “And you decided to rescue me?”
“You say that like it’s unusual.”
The response came so naturally that your steps faltered slightly before you recollected yourself.
At some point during the evening, your mother approached the two of you with a satisfied expression that immediately made you wary.
“You look lovely together,” she commented, gaze flickering approvingly between you and Juhoon. “People have been speaking very highly of your relationship tonight.”
You resisted the urge to grimace. Beside you, Juhoon remained flawlessly composed. “That was the intention,” he replied smoothly.
Your mother seemed pleased by the answer, though her attention lingered suspiciously on the hand resting against your waist before she eventually disappeared back into the crowd.
The moment she left, you exhaled quietly. “I think she’s planning our wedding already.”
Juhoon took a slow sip from his drink. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”
You nearly choked. He glanced at you then, one eyebrow lifting faintly as though amused by your reaction.
“You’re joking.”
“Mostly.”
That was not reassuring whatsoever.
The longer the evening continued, the more impossible Juhoon became to ignore. You noticed the way people reacted to him around you.
How conversations shifted whenever he stepped closer and other pureblood heirs kept a respectful distance without needing to be told. His eyes would follow you instinctively anytime someone else attempted to monopolize your attention for too long.
Protective. Always protective.
Though there was something sharper threaded beneath it tonight.
You first noticed it properly when Eunwoo Carrow approached you near the ballroom balcony.
Eunwoo was charming in the polished, aristocratic sort of way most pureblood sons were taught to be: handsome enough, socially graceful enough, and entirely too aware of both facts.
“Enjoying the evening?” He asked pleasantly, offering you a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Trying to,” you replied lightly.
Eunwoo smiled. “I must admit, your relationship came as quite the surprise.”
You hummed softly. “Did it?”
“To everyone else? Perhaps not.” His gaze flickered briefly across the ballroom before returning to you. “To Juhoon’s admirers, however, it was devastating news.”
You almost laughed. The idea of Juhoon inspiring admiration rather than fear within Hogwarts remained endlessly amusing.
Still, before you could respond, Eunwoo stepped slightly closer. Not enough to be improper, just enough to be noticed.
“You know,” he continued smoothly, “if things between you and Juhoon ever become… less serious, I’d be very interested in—”
A hand settled suddenly against the small of your back. Warm, steady and wholly possessive.
Juhoon.
You had not even seen him approach.
“Carrow,” Juhoon greeted calmly beside you and Eunwoo’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Juhoon.”
There was no hostility in his tone, and that somehow made the tension worse.
Juhoon’s hand remained firmly against your waist as his gaze settled on Eunwoo with quiet composure. “I believe she was just about to join me for the next dance.”
You blinked. You had not been aware there was another dance but Eunwoo clearly recognised the dismissal for what it was. Still smiling faintly, he inclined his head. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep your partner.”
Then he left.
The moment he disappeared into the crowd, silence settled briefly between the two of you.
Juhoon’s hand had not moved. In fact, if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten slightly against your waist before relaxing again.
“You disappeared,” you said eventually, mostly because the tension had become unbearable otherwise.
“I was speaking with my father.”
“You looked thrilled.”
“I considered poisoning my drink halfway through the conversation.”
You laughed softly before you could stop yourself and the sound seemed to catch his attention immediately. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward you then—fully toward you—and for one strange, suspended moment, the noise of the ballroom faded entirely into the background.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Then his eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd behind you, expression cooling almost instantly. “Eunwoo was standing too close to you.”
The words startled you. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Controlled
Jealous.
You stared at him.
Juhoon, meanwhile, seemed to realise only afterward what he had admitted aloud.
A strange flicker crossed his expression before his composure slid immediately back into place.
“He has a reputation,” he added smoothly as though that explained anything. As though your pulse had not just quickened violently at the implication hidden beneath his words.
Before you could respond, the orchestra began another slow waltz somewhere across the ballroom. Juhoon held your gaze for one lingering second before finally speaking once more. “Dance with me.”
It was not phrased like a question.
Juhoon was already extending his hand toward you, expression calm and unreadable beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers overhead. Around the two of you, couples began drifting back toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra swelled into another slow waltz.
For a moment, you simply stared at him.
Then, against every sensible thought currently screaming through your mind, you placed your hand in his.
The ballroom blurred softly around you as Juhoon guided you back onto the dance floor, one hand settling once more against your waist while the other held yours with practiced ease. The movement between you felt almost instinctive now, frighteningly natural as he led you effortlessly through the crowd.
You hated how easily your body responded to him and how naturally you fit beside him.
The music echoed softly throughout the hall while candlelight flickered against polished marble floors, shadows dancing across expensive fabrics and glittering jewelry. Pureblood heirs moved elegantly around you beneath floating chandeliers, every step carefully perfected through years of aristocratic upbringing.
Yet somehow, despite the sheer number of people surrounding you, your attention remained painfully fixed on Juhoon alone and how his gaze lingered on your face with unnerving intensity every time you looked up.
“You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his expression. “And yet you continue letting me.”
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly and you looked away immediately, but that only seemed to amuse him further.
You weren’t embarrassed merely because Juhoon was flirting, but because he did it so rarely that every small remark carried far too much weight.
Especially when directed at you.
For several moments, neither of you spoke again, you simply danced. The orchestra played softly around you while the rest of the ballroom faded into meaningless noise, your attention narrowing dangerously to the person standing impossibly close before you.
You became painfully aware of every tiny detail: the faint scent of cedarwood lingering against his clothes, the smooth fabric beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his hand through the layers of your clothing.
And perhaps worst of all was the look in his eyes, because Juhoon looked at you like someone trying very hard not to say something.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You’re quiet,” he observed eventually.
“So are you.”
“I usually am.”
“That’s true.”
There was a brief lull between you as you attempted to avoid his eyes, it becoming far too overwhelming.
“You’ve been avoiding me since Potions.”
Your stomach dropped instantly. Of course he would notice that, Juhoon notices everything. “I have not.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You walked into a suit of armor yesterday because you were too busy pretending not to look at me.”
Heat rushed immediately to your face. “That happened once.”
“You apologised to it.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
To your horror, the corner of Juhoon’s mouth twitched faintly upward.Not quite a smile, but worse. Fond amusement.
Juhoon was enjoying your embarrassment far too much for your liking.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“So I’ve been told.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly and the sound seemed to affect him instantly. Something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly, the usual sharpness in his gaze easing for half a second before his composure returned.
But you saw it, and suddenly the air between you felt far too warm.
The dance slowed gradually as the music neared its end though neither of you moved apart immediately afterward. Juhoon’s hand remained against your waist, your own still resting lightly against his shoulder while the final notes echoed softly throughout the ballroom.
People continued moving around you yet the moment felt strangely isolated all the same. Dangerously intimate.
Then someone called Juhoon’s name from across the ballroom and the spell shattered instantly.
His expression cooled back into practiced neutrality as he glanced toward the source of the interruption: his father standing near a cluster of Ministry officials, already looking impatient.
You felt the shift immediately. The reminder of where you were. Who you were. What this arrangement was supposed to be.
Juhoon exhaled quietly through his nose before lowering his gaze back toward you. “I need to speak with him.”
“Go,” you replied, perhaps a little too quickly.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression. Then, slowly, his hand slipped from your waist and the absence of it felt far more noticeable than it should have.
“I’ll find you afterward,” he said, and before you could properly process the implication hidden within those words, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
You remained standing there for several moments after he left, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs.
Across the ballroom, people continued watching you. Whispering quietly behind jeweled glasses and polite smiles. A perfect pair, a future alliance, apureblood success story.
If only they knew.
Though, standing there beneath glittering chandeliers with the ghost of Juhoon’s touch still lingering against your waist, you were no longer entirely certain what the truth actually was anymore.
The ball ended late into the night.
Snow drifted softly outside the manor as guests gradually disappeared through the Floo network one by one, the grand ballroom slowly emptying of music and conversation. By the time you finally stepped outside onto the manor steps, exhaustion had settled heavily into your bones.
Cold winter air bit instantly against your skin.
Beside you, Juhoon adjusted his gloves silently before glancing toward you.
“You’re cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Hm.”
Before you could question the sound, he removed the heavy dark cloak draped over his shoulders and settled it carefully around yours.
Your breath caught slightly. “Juhoon—”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
The familiar scent of cedarwood and mint wrapped around you immediately beneath the warmth of the cloak, making your chest tighten painfully all over again.
Neither of you spoke for several moments afterward. Snow fell quietly around the two of you while golden light spilled from the manor windows behind you, soft orchestral music still faintly audible through the walls.
“You handled tonight well,” Juhoon finally spoke, cutting through the silence.
You blinked softly. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”
“It is.”
You looked at him then, seeing the slight exhaustion beneath his composed expression and the careful way he stood beside you despite clearly wanting to leave the event hours ago. Even the way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever it rested on you for too long.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, one realisation settled heavily in your chest above all others.
You liked this version of him far too much.
The thought terrified you, because this was never supposed to become real.
The return to Hogwarts following that night was as regular as it could have been.
You maintained what had already been present between the two of you: quiet touches, shared glances, the familiar ease that had long since settled into your routines. If anything, the aftermath of the Rosier ball only seemed to deepen the strange intimacy growing steadily between you and Juhoon.
Though neither of you acknowledged it, why would you? That would have required emotional honesty, something both of you had been raised to avoid almost professionally.
Instead, life simply… continued.
Mornings at the Slytherin table, late nights in the library, walking side-by-side through crowded corridors while students instinctively moved aside to let the two of you pass.
He still looked at you in that quiet, dangerous way that made your pulse stumble embarrassingly every single time, and it was becoming a problem. A rather significant one.
Especially because Juhoon himself appeared entirely unaffected, at least outwardly.
Though there were smal moments where his composure slipped just enough to make your chest tighten painfully.
Like after Quidditch matches.
Juhoon rarely lingered after practice or games. Once finished, he usually disappeared quickly with the rest of the Slytherin team, expression unreadable beneath windswept dark hair while students crowded noisily around the pitch.
And yet, recently, you had developed the unfortunate habit of waiting for him afterward.
You weren’t entirely sure when that started.
Maybe after one particularly brutal practice where he had shown up in the common room with blood running down his jaw from a stray Bludger hit and still calmly asked if you had finished your Potions essay. Or maybe after realising he always searched the stands for you before matches began.
Either way, it became routine.
So when the Slytherin versus Gryffindor match ended beneath a cold grey February sky, you found yourself lingering near the edge of the pitch while students poured noisily from the stands around you.
Slytherin had won by the skin of their teeth.
The atmosphere buzzed loudly with excitement and irritation alike as students argued over fouls and close calls while snow crunched beneath moving crowds.
You spotted Juhoon almost immediately.
He stood near the locker room entrance speaking briefly with another teammate, broom tucked beneath one arm while his Quidditch robes clung slightly to his frame from exertion. Even from a distance, he carried himself with the same composed sharpness he always did, though a faint flush lingered across his cheeks from the cold.
And, as though sensing your attention instantly, his gaze lifted, finding you immediately. Something subtle softened in his expression before he nodded once toward you, small enough that no one else would notice.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
“You know,” a voice drawled beside you suddenly, “he’s terrifyingly possessive for someone pretending to date you.”
You turned to find a Gryffindor boy leaning casually against the wooden railing nearby, red-and-gold scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
Cormac McLaggen.
Wonderful.
You had spoken to him perhaps twice in your entire life, both interactions equally unpleasant.
“You Gryffindors spend an odd amount of time thinking about Slytherin relationships,” you replied flatly.
Cormac grinned, entirely unbothered. “Hard not to when your boyfriend looks ready to kill anyone who breathes too close to you.”
Your eyes flickered instinctively toward Juhoon.
Unfortunately, Cormac was not entirely wrong. Even across the crowded pitch, Juhoon’s attention remained fixed on the two of you now, expression unreadable from this distance.
You sighed internally. “He’s not going to murder you, McLaggen.”
“Shame,” he mused. “Would’ve made this conversation more entertaining.”
Before you could respond, he stepped slightly closer.
“You know,” he continued lightly, “I still think it’s strange.”
“What is?”
“You and Juhoon.” His mouth tilted faintly. “He doesn’t exactly seem like the romantic type.”
You folded your arms. “And you’re an expert on romance?”
“Not particularly. But I am excellent at recognising when someone looks one inconvenience away from homicide.”
Despite yourself, you nearly laughed, and unfortunately that only encouraged him.
“You could do better, you know.”
The comment immediately soured your expression. “And there it is.”
Cormac shrugged. “I’m serious. Half the school’s terrified of him.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
“Hm.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Juhoon again. “You know, I think he’s glaring at me.”
“He glares at everyone.”
“Not usually like that.”
Before you could respond, Cormac’s hand landed suddenly against your waist. Lightly, casually and entirely intentionally.
The reaction was immediate.
A hand closed sharply around Cormac’s wrist.
“Remove your hand.”
The temperature around you seemed to drop instantly.
Juhoon stood beside you now, expression perfectly calm despite the dangerous stillness settled beneath his voice. Snow drifted softly around the three of you while nearby conversations gradually began faltering one by one.
Because everyone had noticed.
Cormac looked almost entertained. “Well,” he drawled slowly, “you almost sound jealous.”
Juhoon did not answer immediately which somehow only made the silence infinitely worse. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, his expression unreadable and his eyes cold.
“Don’t touch what’s mine.”
The entire pitch seemed to fall silent. You felt the shift ripple outward through the surrounding students almost instantly. Shock. Interest. Tension.
Because pureblood men did not say things like that lightly.
Not publicly. Not unless they meant them.
And Merlin—
Juhoon had sounded terrifyingly serious.
Cormac’s amusement finally faltered slightly beneath the weight of Juhoon’s stare. After one long moment, he raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped backward.
“Relax,” he muttered. “Didn’t realise the act had become so convincing.”
Act.
Right.
Your stomach twisted painfully.
Juhoon said nothing as Cormac disappeared back into the crowd.
He simply remained beside you, jaw tight beneath his calm expression while snow drifted silently between the two of you. Then, after several long seconds: “Are you alright?”
The question startled you because despite everything that had just happened, genuine concern still threaded quietly beneath his voice.
You stared at him, seeing the cold fury lingering carefully restrained behind his eyes, feeling the hand still hovering faintly near your waist as though resisting the urge to touch you again.
And suddenly one horrifying thought repeated loudly through your mind over and over again.
That didn’t sound fake at all
Students were still staring, but were pretending not to, of course.
But you could feel it all the same: the curious glances, the whispered conversations beginning almost immediately now that Cormac had retreated somewhere into the crowd looking considerably less smug than before.
Beside you, Juhoon appeared entirely unaffected by the attention.
Though you knew him well enough now to recognise the tension lingering beneath his composure. His jaw remained slightly tight with his shoulders rigid beneath dark Quidditch robes.
He was still angry.
Juhoon finally looked down at you properly, expression cooling slightly once he confirmed you were unharmed. “You should head back inside,” he said calmly. “It’s freezing.”
The normalcy of the statement almost made you laugh. As though he had not just publicly implied ownership over you in front of half the school. “You threatened him.”
“I told him to remove his hand.”
“You called me yours.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them and for the first time since arriving at the pitch, Juhoon went still. Not visibly enough, most people would not have noticed it.
But you did. Always.
A strange pause settled between the two of you while snow drifted quietly around your shoulders. Then, in that carefully neutral tone you recognised all too well as him attempting to keep composure: “Would you have preferred I let him continue touching you?”
That was not an answer. You knew it and he knew it. Still, the quiet sharpness beneath his voice made your pulse stumble embarrassingly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
His gaze lingered on your face for one long moment. Then he looked away first.
“I dislike people treating you disrespectfully,” he said finally, tone measured. “McLaggen was aware of what he was doing.”
Again, not an answer.
And somehow, that only made things worse because Juhoon was many things, but careless with words was not one of them.
If he truly had not meant what he said, he could have—would have—corrected himself easily.
Instead, he had sidestepped the issue entirely.
Coward.
The realisation should have annoyed you more than it did. Unfortunately, all it really accomplished was making your heartbeat increasingly difficult to ignore.
The walk back toward the castle passed in unusual silence.
Students parted around the two of you instinctively as you crossed the grounds, several Slytherins glancing toward Juhoon with poorly concealed amusement while others looked faintly alarmed.
The story was already spreading.
Mina nearly looked delighted when the two of you entered the common room later that evening.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” she announced immediately from her spot near the fireplace. “People are saying Juhoon nearly hexed McLaggen’s hand off.”
“I did not,” Juhoon replied flatly.
Jaehyun looked up from the armchair beside her, expression unbearably smug. “Pity. That would’ve been romantic.”
You dropped into the sofa opposite them with a tired groan. “It was not romantic.”
Jaehyun snorted softly. “Right. Because publicly claiming someone in front of half the school is completely casual behavior.”
Beside you, Juhoon removed his gloves with slow precision, appearing utterly unbothered by the conversation despite the faint narrowing of his eyes. “He touched her intentionally,” he said simply.
Mina’s grin widened immediately. “And you cared enough to threaten him over it.”
“I told him not to touch what belongs to me.”
Your stomach flipped violently. Apparently hearing the sentence repeated aloud was somehow even worse.
Only then did Juhoon finally seem to realise how his words sounded to literally everyone else in the room. A strange flicker crossed his expression, brief and unreadable.
Then his composure returned almost immediately. “You’re all being dramatic.”
“No,” Mina replied cheerfully, “you’re just painfully repressed.”
You made a choking sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough while Jaehyun outright lost composure beside her.
Juhoon, meanwhile, looked moments away from leaving the room entirely, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that they had struck a nerve. Unfortunately for him, Mina was nowhere near finished.
“You do realise,” she continued, still entirely too pleased with herself, “that half the school thinks the two of you are practically engaged now?”
“Half the school already thought that,” you muttered.
“Yes, but now they think Juhoon is one mild inconvenience away from committing murder over you.” She paused thoughtfully. “Honestly, it’s very romantic in a concerning sort of way.”
Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
“But I’m still correct.”
The room dissolved into amused conversation afterward, though you barely registered most of it. Your mind only consumed one thing.
Don’t touch what’s mine.
The words repeated themselves relentlessly, lodged somewhere deep beneath your ribs in a way that made concentrating nearly impossible. Every time you replayed the scene in your head, your stomach twisted all over again.
None of it had sounded fake. And perhaps worse still was the fact that a part of you desperately wished it wasn’t.
Across the common room, conversation carried on around you almost normally now, though several students still occasionally glanced toward the two of you with poorly concealed curiosity.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected. At least outwardly.
He sat beside you with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, expression calm as Jaehyun continued provoking Mina into increasingly dramatic arguments near the fireplace.
Yet every so often, you caught him briefly looking at you like he was thinking too hard about something, and it made your pulse unbearably uneven.
Eventually, sometime past midnight, Juhoon stood abruptly from the sofa. “I have something to deal with,” he said simply.
Jaehyun frowned faintly. “At this hour?”
“It won’t take long.”
Something about the answer unsettled you immediately, though before you could ask anything further, his gaze shifted briefly toward you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then he left and the common room suddenly felt colder afterward.
That night, you lay awake far longer than usual.
Moonlight filtered dimly through the Slytherin dormitory windows while the Black Lake cast shifting shadows against the stone walls, the distant sound of water echoing faintly throughout the silence.
Sleep refused to come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back toward the Quidditch pitch. Toward Juhoon’s voice. Toward the possessiveness threaded through it so naturally it frightened you.
You rolled over with an irritated sigh, you were being pathetic honestly.
Somewhere in the distance, the castle clock chimed quietly.
Then came the knock. Barely audible.
Your brow furrowed immediately. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you crossed the dormitory carefully so as not to wake the others before opening the door slightly—
And froze.
Juhoon stood in the corridor.
For one horrifying second, your mind struggled to process what you were seeing.
His dark robes were disheveled, damp with melting snow near the hems, and a thin line of blood traced down from beneath his sleeve onto his hand. A bruise had already begun darkening along the sharp line of his jaw.
Your stomach dropped instantly. “Juhoon—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
The lie would have been more convincing if blood wasn’t actively dripping onto the dungeon floor.
You grabbed his wrist immediately and pulled him inside before anyone else could see. “What happened?”
“Nothing serious.”
“That is objectively untrue.”
He said nothing as you shut the door behind him.
Only once the room fell quiet again did you realise how exhausted he looked.His usual composure remained intact, but thinner somehow, stretched carefully over something heavier beneath the surface.
And suddenly you remembered Jaehyun’s question earlier.
‘At this hour?’
Pureblood business. You hated the phrase because it always meant something unpleasant.
“Sit down,” you ordered softly.
To your surprise, Juhoon obeyed without argument, and that alone worried you more than the injuries.
You retrieved your wand quickly, murmuring a healing spell beneath your breath as you knelt carefully in front of him. The cut along his hand sealed slowly beneath the glow of magic, though bruising still lingered stubbornly across his knuckles.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist while adjusting his sleeve. He went very still.
“What did your father send you to do?” You asked quietly.
A long silence followed until he eventually answered. “It doesn’t matter.”
Which meant it mattered very much.
You looked up at him properly then, and Juhoon avoided your gaze, which was another first.
Anger flared suddenly beneath your concern, though not at him. At the fact that someone had hurt him badly enough for him to show up at your door in the middle of the night pretending he was fine.
“You should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey,” you murmured while examining the bruise near his jaw carefully.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
The question hung quietly between the two of you. Juhoon finally looked at you then and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression became painfully visible beneath the careful restraint he wore so constantly around everyone else.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
“I trust you more.” He spoke quietly, and the words hit harder than anything else possibly could have.
Your breath caught instantly, the air suddenly feeling far too thin inside the quiet dormitory.
Because Juhoon did not trust people.
Ever.
Not professors. Not classmates. Not even most of his own family.
Trust, to someone like him, was not given lightly. It was not something carelessly handed out through affection or familiarity. You had spent years watching him keep everyone at arm’s length with that cold, perfect composure of his, allowing people only carefully measured versions of himself and nothing more.
He trusted strategy, logic and control.
People were another matter entirely.
And yet somehow, somewhere along the way, he had begun seeking you out first. Standing beside you instinctively. Looking for you in crowds. Coming to you tonight instead of anyone else despite the blood staining his sleeve and exhaustion carved quietly beneath his expression.
Trust from Juhoon was not soft.
It was dangerous. Intimate. Rare.
And he had handed it to you so simply it nearly shattered something inside your chest.
The silence afterward felt unbearably fragile.
Your hand still rested lightly against his wrist, fingers curled faintly against the fabric of his sleeve while moonlight spilled silver-blue across the room around you. Outside the dungeon windows, the Black Lake shifted restlessly against the glass, shadows dancing faintly along the stone walls.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily, dark eyes quieter than you had ever seen them before. Not guarded or unreadable.
Just tired, maybe even honest. Somehow that vulnerability unsettled you more than all his sharpness ever had.
Because Juhoon was terrifying when controlled. But this version of him: exhausted enough to lower his walls around you, felt infinitely more dangerous to your heart.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his free hand toward your face. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he was unsure whether he was allowed to touch you like this and this mattered enough to make even him nervous.
That realisation alone made your pulse stutter painfully.
He gave you every possible opportunity to pull away, but you didn’t.
His fingers brushed gently against your jaw, warm against your skin despite the cold lingering from outside. The touch was careful, almost reverent in a way that made something tight unravel slowly inside your chest.
You had never seen Juhoon uncertain before. Never. Yet now, looking at you, there was the faintest trace of hesitation beneath his composure. Like this frightened him too.
“Juhoon…” you whispered softly.
His name left your lips almost unintentionally, barely louder than the shifting water outside.
But the effect it had on him was immediate. Something in his expression changed instantly, subtle but unmistakable.
The final crack in his restraint.
His eyes lowered briefly toward your mouth before returning to your gaze again, as though searching for any sign you wanted him to stop.
You didn’t.
He was still watching you.
Even now—even with his face inches from yours and his breath warm against your lips—Juhoon's gaze searched yours one final time. Looking for hesitation. Looking for the smallest sign that you wanted to pull away, that this was too much, that the months of careful restraint had been there for a reason.
You held his stare and didn't blink.
And something in him broke.
Not dramatically. Juhoon was not built for dramatics. But you felt it in the way his exhale shuddered almost imperceptibly against your mouth, in the barely-there tremble of his fingers where they pressed against your jaw.
Then his eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes that saw everything, that had been watching you for years, closed and he kissed you.
The first brush of his lips was impossibly soft, almost reverent, he seemed afraid you might dissolve beneath his touch if he pressed too hard. His mouth moved against yours with devastating care, slow and searching, as though he was memorising the shape of you one breath at a time.
You felt everything.
The slight roughness of his lower lip. The warmth of him, spreading through you like something slow and honey-thick. The way his thumb traced a gentle arc along your cheekbone as he tilted his head, changing the angle, finding the place where you fit together best.
A small sound escaped you that was barely a whisper, barely anything at all, and Juhoon swallowed it like it was something sacred.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading carefully into your hair. Just holding and grounding himself in the reality of you.
The kiss deepened by millimeters.
Still slow. Still careful. But surer now: his lips parting slightly against yours, the barest brush of warmth that made your breath catch and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve.
He smelled like cedarwood and mint and something underneath that was simply him, the scent you had been catching across library tables and common room sofas for months, that had haunted you after the Amortentia until you couldn't smell it without thinking of him.
Now it surrounded you completely.
Your hand slid from his sleeve to his chest without conscious thought, palm flat against the steady beat of his heart beneath his robes. It was racing. Juhoon's heart was racing.
The realisation struck you like a stunning spell, that beneath all that careful composure, beneath the exhaustion and the blood still drying on his sleeve and the bruised knuckles he hadn't explained, he was just as affected as you were. Just as undone.
The tension bled from his shoulders slowly, minute by minute, as the kiss continued. What had started almost tentatively softened into something more certain, more trusting. Like he had finally stopped waiting for you to push him away.
When his lips gentled against yours, soft and lingering, you felt the question in it.
Is this alright?
You answered by leaning into him, by letting your fingers curl against his chest, by kissing him back with everything you had been too afraid to name for months.
His breath caught.
And then, finally and impossibly, he smiled against your mouth.
Just a small thing, barely there. But you felt it in the curve of his lips beneath yours, and something warm and devastating bloomed behind your ribs.
When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven in a way you had never heard before.
Neither of you spoke. The dormitory was silent around you, just the distant ripple of the Black Lake against the windows and the soft, shared warmth of two people who had stopped pretending.
His thumb traced once more along your jaw. For the first time in as long as you could remember, Juhoon looked entirely at peace. His eyes lingered on yours for several long seconds before he exhaled softly, almost like he was still processing what had just happened himself.
“So,” you whispered weakly, still slightly breathless, “this is becoming a problem.”
To your surprise, the faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face. “A significant one.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself, the sound soft in the silence between you.
And suddenly, with his forehead still resting against yours and warmth lingering against your skin, one devastating realisation settled fully into your chest at last.
This had stopped being fake a very long time ago.
The days following that night changed something between you.
Not visibly. To everyone else, very little seemed different.
You and Juhoon still moved through Hogwarts exactly as before: side by side through crowded corridors, seated together at the Slytherin table, existing within each other’s orbit with the same quiet inevitability that had long since become normal.
But now there was an awareness neither of you could ignore anymore. Every touch lingered longer than before, every glance felt heavier.
Kissing Juhoon had turned out to be a catastrophic mistake for someone attempting to remain emotionally detached because now you knew how careful he could be. How gentle and devastatingly soft he became only with you. It ruined you completely.
The worst part was that neither of you discussed what happened afterward.
The kiss had not magically transformed the two of you into people capable of openly discussing emotions. If anything, it only made the tension between you sharper, quieter, more intimate in ways that felt almost unbearable.
Still, there were moments.
Late evenings in the common room where his fingers absentmindedly traced against yours beneath the table. Lingering touches in empty corridors. The way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever you laughed now, as though he no longer bothered hiding it properly.
And Merlin, the staring had somehow become worse.
You noticed it constantly, it was as if he was still trying to understand how this had happened. As though he found himself just as dangerous to you as you did to him.
Perhaps that was why the realisation settled so heavily inside your chest one quiet evening near the end of term.
The two of you sat alone in the Astronomy Tower long after curfew, the castle silent beneath you while cold night air drifted softly through the open arches. The sky above stretched endlessly dark and glittering, moonlight spilling silver across the stone floor where you sat beside one another.
Juhoon rested against the wall beside you, one knee drawn slightly upward while absentmindedly turning one of his silver rings between his fingers.
Comfortable silence settled naturally between you as it always had.
You glanced toward him eventually. “You know,” you murmured quietly, “this arrangement has become complicated.”
The words were light, attempting humor, but your chest tightened anyway because suddenly the weight of it all felt painfully obvious. The fact that somewhere along the way, Juhoon had become the first person you searched for in every room.
He went still beside you, then his gaze shifted toward yours slowly, moonlight catching faintly against the sharp line of his jaw.
“It was complicated the moment I asked you.”
Your breath caught instantly. The world seemed to narrow painfully around those words. You stared at him and suddenly every moment replayed itself differently in your mind.
The way he had looked at you before the arrangement ever started, how quickly he proposed it, how natural everything between you had always felt from the very beginning.
“You already liked me.” Your voice came out quieter than intended.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily for several long seconds.
Then, finally, he spoke: “Yes.”
The simple honesty of it nearly unraveled you and your heartbeat turned uneven instantly.
“How long?” You asked softly.
A faint crease appeared between his brows, as though considering the question carefully. “I don’t know.”
Which meant a long time.
Merlin.
You looked away briefly, overwhelmed by the realisation settling slowly into place inside your chest. All this time, you had thought Juhoon adapted too naturally to pretending, but he had never really been pretending at all. Not entirely.
“I thought you hated most people,” you whispered weakly.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I do.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you and the sound softened his expression immediately. There it was again.
That look he only ever seemed to have around you now: quieter than his usual sharp composure, stripped of all the careful distance he maintained with everyone else.
Then, after a long pause, Juhoon quietly spoke again. “You were the only person I wanted beside me.”
The words settled heavily between you, devastatingly sincere, somehow making them infinitely worse.
Because Juhoon did not ever say things he didn’t mean.
Your chest ached painfully beneath the weight of it. He had chosen you long before any arrangement existed, before you had even considered Juhoon to be your own. Through all his restraint and careful control, it had always been you standing at the center of his attention.
You swallowed hard. “Juhoon…”
His eyes remained fixed on yours steadily, patient in a way that felt almost unbearably intimate now.
There were no masks or pretending, it was just him. And maybe that was the moment you finally understood the true danger of loving someone like Juhoon, because once he gave someone his trust, his loyalty, his care—
He gave it completely.
Below the Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts slept quietly beneath moonlight and drifting clouds, distant torchlight glowing warmly through castle windows while cold night air curled softly around the stone arches.
Neither of you moved away from each other.
Juhoon still sat close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever either of you shifted slightly, his presence warm and steady beside you in the chill of the tower.
And suddenly, absurdly, you didn’t know what to say.
Because what response even existed for something like that?
You were the only person I wanted beside me.
The words continued echoing somewhere deep inside your chest, dangerously gentle in a way that made your throat tighten painfully.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely calm again. Though by now you recognised the signs well enough to know better: the slight tension in his fingers where they rested against his knee, and the way his gaze avoided yours for perhaps half a second longer than usual afterward.
He was waiting for your response.
For all his composure, Juhoon was still giving you something fragile here. Trusting you with pieces of himself he clearly offered to almost no one. And that mattered more than any dramatic declaration ever could have.
“You know,” you said quietly after a long moment, “you’re terrible at communicating.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him unexpectedly. “You’re not particularly good at it either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m choosing denial intentionally.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “If that is what you want to believe.”
Your chest tightened embarrassingly at the sight.
Merlin. You had become far too attached to the rare moments when Juhoon looked openly amused around you.
You found yourself smiling faintly back at him without thinking and his expression softened almost immediately at the sight.
Dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous now.
Another quiet pause settled between you before you finally spoke again. “So,” you murmured carefully, “when exactly were you planning on telling me?”
“I wasn’t.”
You blinked. “What?”
Juhoon looked entirely unbothered by your confusion. “The arrangement was useful,” he replied calmly. “You were comfortable. I had no intention of complicating things further.”
“You mean more than fake dating me for months while secretly being in love with me?”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes.” He answered.
You stared at him in disbelief while he remained perfectly serious. “That is deeply concerning behavior.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you still continued?”
His gaze shifted toward you again then, quieter now. “You were happy.”
The simple sincerity behind the answer stole every sarcastic response directly from your mouth.
Because that was the problem with Juhoon. Beneath all the sharpness and composure and carefully restrained emotion, he cared with terrifying intensity once someone mattered to him, and that felt infinitely more intimate than grand gestures ever could have.
Your voice softened before you could stop it. “You really were just going to keep pretending forever.”
“If necessary.”
“Merlin.”
A faint trace of amusement flickered across his face again at your horrified expression. Then his eyes lowered briefly toward your hand resting against the stone floor between the two of you.
You barely noticed the movement before his fingers brushed lightly against yours tentatively, as if he was still uncertain whether he was allowed to do that now despite everything.
The thought alone nearly ruined you.
Without thinking, you turned your hand slightly beneath his, allowing your fingers to slide carefully between his.
Juhoon went still beside you, though not because he disliked it. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. You felt the subtle way his hand tightened around yours almost immediately afterward and your pulse stumbled softly.
“You know,” you murmured after several seconds, unable to stop yourself, “you’re significantly softer than people think you are.”
Juhoon looked unimpressed. “Don’t spread that around.”
You laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly through the tower, swallowed quickly by the night around you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke again. You simply sat there together in comfortable silence, fingers intertwined while moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. It felt strangely peaceful.
At some point, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your knuckles. The tiny gesture nearly stopped your heart entirely.
“How unfortunate,” you murmured weakly.
His brows lifted faintly. “What is?”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The words slipped out before you could reconsider them, and silence followed immediately afterward. You stared straight ahead at the night sky, suddenly unable to look directly at him.
“Well,” you continued awkwardly, “that sounded less humiliating in my head.”
For one terrifying second, Juhoon said absolutely nothing. Then you felt his hand tighten around yours.
When you finally forced yourself to glance sideways, his expression had gone strangely soft again—that same rare look he reserved only for you, stripped entirely of sharp edges.
And very quietly, like something precious, he replied: “I know.”
Your breath caught. “You know?”
“You look at me the same way I look at you.” The devastating thing was that he sounded so certain about it, like he had noticed long before you had because of course he had. Juhoon noticed everything about you.
“You’re frighteningly observant.”
“Hm.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long second before he leaned forward slightly, pressing another slow kiss against your mouth.
This one felt different from the first. It was certain now. Neither of you needed to question what this was anymore.
And beneath the silver glow of the moon high above Hogwarts, with Juhoon’s hand warm around yours and years of restrained affection finally unraveling quietly between you, you realised something almost laughably simple.
You had been his long before the fake dating arrangement ever began.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ─── seonghyeon, who quietly yearns for you ever since he laid eyes on you, and watching you became his favorite habit
★ seonghyeon × fem!reader
word count ── 4.7k
˖᯽ ݁˖ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 coco speaking here! I ALWAYS LOVED THE IDEA OF A GUY YEARNING FOR A GIRL SO I DECIDED TO WRITE SEONGHYEON PERSPECTIVE OF HIM YEARNING FOR Y/N SINCE WE DONT GET ENOUGH GUYS PERSPECTIVE OF FALLING IN LOVE 𖧧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
Seonghyeon thought he was exceptionally skilled at concealing things. Years of carefully manufactured nonchalance had turned secrecy into second nature.
He concealed fatigue behind indolent, crooked smiles after grueling basketball practices. Buried frustration beneath sarcastic remarks sharp enough to provoke laughter from his teammates. Even the bruises mottling his knuckles disappeared beneath oversized hoodie sleeves, hidden alongside burdens he never verbalized aloud.
No one ever looked closely enough to notice, and Seonghyeon preferred it that way.
He preferred remaining untouchable, easygoing, unserious, effortlessly admired. The kind of boy everyone thought they understood despite never truly knowing him at all.
So when he realized he liked you—truly liked you—he assumed this would remain hidden too. A transient infatuation, something fleeting.
He was so wrong, because somehow, against all logic, his attention gravitated toward you with humiliating consistency.
It began subtly enough for him to dismiss it. A passing observation during class, nothing more.
You sat near the window two rows ahead of him, perpetually arriving several minutes before the bell rang. Morning sunlight filtered through the glass behind you, spilling molten gold across your desk until it looked almost cinematic. Your earbuds were usually tucked beneath your hair, expression serene and unreadable while pages turned beneath your fingertips.
You rarely spoke voluntarily, yet when teachers called upon you, your voice emerged soft but unwavering, composed with an intelligence that never sounded rehearsed. Simply quiet in a way that felt intentional.
There was an immeasurable distinction between silence born from insecurity and silence born from self-possession.
You embodied the latter effortlessly. Seonghyeon noticed things others overlooked entirely.
The rhythmic tap of your pen against the desk whenever concentration overtook you. The slight furrow between your brows during difficult equations, as though mathematical concepts had personally offended you. The way your lips moved faintly while reading paragraphs beneath your breath.
Small details, but somehow they embedded themselves inside his memory with alarming permanence, and that was the problem. Seonghyeon kept looking, far longer than necessary. Long enough for it to become dangerous.
“Dude.” Keonho’s voice shattered his trance one sluggish afternoon.
The classroom buzzed faintly with post-lecture conversation, chairs scraping against the floor while students packed belongings into bags. Seonghyeon blinked slowly, dragged back into reality.
“What?” he muttered.
Keonho didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze followed Seonghyeon’s line of sight toward the front of the classroom—toward you.
You were laughing softly at something your friend had whispered, shoulders relaxing in a way Seonghyeon rarely witnessed during lessons. Sunlight illuminated the curve of your smile, warm and effortless enough to make his chest tighten unexpectedly.
Keonho turned back toward him with dawning realization. “Oh,” he said.
Keonho looked unconvinced. “You’ve been staring at the same girl for ten minutes straight.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
Seonghyeon scoffed, leaning back lazily in his chair despite the sudden tension coiling beneath his ribs. “You’re imagining things.”
“No,” Keonho replied slowly, amusement beginning to creep into his expression, “I’m definitely not.”
Seonghyeon reached for his notebook too quickly, shoving it into his bag with unnecessary force.
Keonho’s grin widened immediately. “Oh my god.”
“Shut up.”
“You literally smiled at her out of nowhere.”
That silenced him instantly, because apparently he had, and judging from the sheer disbelief written across Keonho’s face, it must have looked devastatingly obvious.
Seonghyeon felt heat crawl uncomfortably up the back of his neck. Impossible. He was careful, always careful.
Keonho stared at him like he’d uncovered classified information. “Seonghyeon,” he whispered dramatically, leaning across the desk, “you like someone, a girl in our class specifically.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I really don’t.”
“You looked at her like she personally descended from the heavens.”
“Okay so that’s not even-.”
“Don’t even lie bro.”
Seonghyeon rolled his eyes instinctively, but the reaction lacked its usual sharpness. His gaze betrayed him again, flickering unconsciously toward you. Still smiling, still talking. Completely unaware of the catastrophe unfolding several rows behind you.
An unbearable fondness settled heavily inside his chest, and suddenly he understood why poets wrote insufferable things about yearning, because liking you felt strangely catastrophic.
The terrifying realization that his attention sought you instinctively in every crowded room. That his mood inexplicably improved whenever your laughter drifted through hallways. That even mundane moments became memorable solely because you occupied them.
Keonho watched his expression transform in real time. Then he groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Dude, you’re actually gone gone oh my fucking god.”
“I hate you.”
“No this is amazing.” Keonho laughed quietly. “The great Seonghyeon finally losing his mind over a girl who probably doesn’t even know he exists.”
At that, Seonghyeon’s jaw tightened slightly, because that was the cruelest part. You probably didn’t.
To you, he was merely another familiar face in overcrowded hallways. Another student passing by between classes. Another athlete surrounded perpetually by noise and admiration and effortless attention.
Meanwhile, Seonghyeon noticed everything about you with terrifying precision. The sweaters you wore repeatedly when exhausted. The books tucked beneath your arm. The infinitesimal lift of your lips whenever someone held the door open for you.
You existed quietly, but somehow you occupied his thoughts with deafening intensity, and no matter how desperately he attempted to suppress it. Wherever you were, his eyes followed instinctively, as though drawn by something far beyond his control.
You confused him, not in the exasperating, incomprehensible way people often described attraction. No—this was far more insidious.
You bewildered him in the sort of way that cultivated curiosity so profound it bordered on obsession. The kind that compelled him to memorize trivial details without intention. The kind that made him wonder what songs played through your earbuds every morning, what thoughts occupied your mind during long silences, what kind of life existed beyond the quiet exterior you presented to everyone else.
Seonghyeon had encountered beautiful girls before. Plenty of them.
Girls who lingered after basketball games beneath fluorescent gymnasium lights, offering compliments laced with practiced flirtation. Girls who laughed too loudly at mediocre jokes and touched his arm too frequently during conversations. Girls who competed shamelessly for his attention because attention from Seonghyeon had somehow become valuable currency within the school.
But you, you never pursued him, never hovered nearby hoping to be acknowledged.
Half the time, Seonghyeon wasn’t even certain you recognized the effect you had on people around you, and perhaps that was precisely what rendered you so impossible to ignore.
Your indifference unsettled him. Not because it bruised his ego, but because it felt authentic in a world saturated with performance. You existed without demanding to be perceived.
There was something almost ethereal about that quiet self-assurance, something infinitely more captivating than loud charisma could ever hope to achieve.
Then one afternoon, he witnessed a version of you he had never seen before, and it ruined him completely.
Classes had just ended, releasing students into the golden haze of late afternoon. Warm spring air drifted lazily through the school courtyard, carrying fragments of conversation and distant traffic beyond the gates. Leaves rustled overhead in soft murmurs while clusters of students flooded the sidewalks in restless currents.
Seonghyeon stood near the entrance with Keonho, absentmindedly spinning a basketball against his palm while only half-listening to whatever story Keonho was animatedly telling beside him.
Something about practice schedules, or a teacher, or food. He couldn’t remember afterward, because then he heard it.
Your laughter.
Not the restrained, polite smile you wore during lectures. Not the soft exhale of amusement he occasionally caught when friends whispered comments beside you in class.
This was entirely different. It rang through the air unexpectedly bright—clear and effervescent enough to slice cleanly through the surrounding noise. Genuine amusement illuminated every syllable, unguarded and vibrant in a way that made his pulse falter instinctively.
Seonghyeon’s head turned before he consciously processed the movement, and there you were.
Across the street near the convenience store, surrounded by three friends beneath shifting sunlight filtering through tree branches overhead. A cold drink rested loosely against your chest while laughter bent your body forward slightly, shoulders trembling beneath the force of it.
Your eyes crinkled beautifully at the corners. Your smile lingered radiant and unrestrained. You looked alive. Not that you hadn’t before, but this was different.
In class, your quietness resembled still water: composed, elegant, difficult to read. Yet standing among people you trusted, you transformed entirely. Every movement became animated with warmth. Your expressions softened openly; your gestures carried effortless affection as you nudged one friend teasingly while another nearly doubled over laughing beside you.
It was astonishing, like watching sunlight suddenly break through heavy clouds.
Seonghyeon forgot how to breathe properly for a moment. Forgot Keonho’s voice. Forgot the basketball rotating lazily against his fingertips. Forgot the entire world surrounding him.
His attention narrowed with humiliating precision until all he could perceive was you. You, smiling so brightly it physically ached to witness. You, tilting your head back while laughter spilled freely into the open air.
You, looking lighter somehow—as though whatever burdens weighed upon you during quiet classroom hours vanished completely beside the people you loved.
Beautiful.
The word surfaced instinctively within his mind, but even that felt insufficiently devastating, because beauty implied something distant. Something merely admired.
This felt infinitely more dangerous. Something warm unfurled slowly inside his chest, spreading with frightening inevitability. Not sudden or explosive, but gradual—like sunlight creeping across frozen skin after enduring winter too long.
And Seonghyeon realized, with startling clarity, that he wanted to become someone capable of making you laugh like that.
He wanted to exist within the orbit of your happiness. Wanted to know which jokes dissolved you into helpless laughter. Wanted to learn the stories hidden behind your smiles. Wanted to witness every version of you concealed beneath the composed silence you carried through hallways each morning.
The realization struck him with terrifying force, given that this wasn’t superficial attraction anymore. This had surpassed that long ago.
Seonghyeon barely registered the comment. His gaze remained fixed across the street as though magnetized beyond his control.
You reached forward suddenly, brushing crumbs from your friend’s sleeve while grinning at something else being said. The gesture was absentmindedly affectionate, so natural and tender that it tightened something unbearably delicate within his ribcage.
God.
You were gentle, even your happiness looked gentle.
Keonho followed his line of sight before exhaling dramatically. “This is getting embarrassing.”
Still, Seonghyeon said nothing, because how could he possibly explain this feeling?
How could he articulate the strange ache blooming beneath his sternum simply from witnessing you happy? It made no rational sense.
Yet there he stood beneath amber sunlight and rustling trees, surrounded by noise and conversation and movement.
Completely undone by the sight of your smile lingering long after the laughter itself had faded away, and perhaps that should have frightened him more than it did.
Since Seonghyeon finally understood something dangerous then. He could spend hours watching you exist and never grow tired of it.
After that, Seonghyeon began encountering you everywhere, or perhaps encountering wasn’t the correct word.
Noticing felt more accurate, because you had likely always existed within those spaces long before he started paying attention; he had simply become incapable of overlooking you anymore.
At least, that was the excuse he repeated to himself whenever his gaze sought you instinctively in crowded corridors or across bustling streets.
It wasn’t intentional, it couldn’t be. But, somehow you materialized constantly within the edge of his existence, appearing so frequently it began to feel almost cruel.
He saw you in hallways between classes, weaving gracefully through congested crowds with textbooks pressed protectively against your chest. Students flowed chaotically around you in loud clusters and hurried conversations, yet you moved with quiet composure untouched by the surrounding disorder.
He noticed you in the library too.
Curled cross-legged on the floor beside low bookshelves because every table had already been occupied, papers spread carefully around you while soft music leaked faintly from your earbuds. Fluorescent lighting cast pale illumination across your features as you highlighted passages with meticulous concentration, occasionally pausing to rub tired eyes before continuing again.
And during rainy mornings, he spotted you at the bus stop outside campus, shoulders tucked inward against the cold while sleep still lingered visibly across your expression. Sometimes you yawned softly into your sleeve. Sometimes your head tilted back toward the grey sky as though mentally preparing yourself for the exhaustion awaiting you inside the school building.
Each sighting embedded itself inside his memory with alarming permanence, like fragments of a life he desperately wanted access to.
Then one evening, entirely by accident, he discovered where you worked. The convenience store near the gym, and suddenly Seonghyeon understood why fate was dangerous.
The realization struck him immediately upon entering. He froze so abruptly near the automatic doors that one of his teammates nearly collided into his shoulder from behind.
“What’s wrong with you?” someone muttered.
But Seonghyeon barely heard them, because there you were.
Standing behind the register beneath sterile fluorescent lighting, wearing an oversized store uniform that swallowed your frame slightly. Your nametag hung crookedly near the collar of your sweater as though you’d pinned it on hastily before your shift began. A few strands of hair had escaped whatever weak attempt you’d made to tidy it earlier, leaving them scattered messily around your face.
You looked exhausted. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, subtle evidence of accumulated fatigue no amount of polite professionalism could entirely conceal.
But somehow you still looked devastatingly beautiful. Not in the polished, intimidating way magazines portrayed beauty. Yours felt softer than that, human. Real enough to ache over.
Seonghyeon’s chest constricted painfully. His teammates continued deeper into the store, loud voices echoing carelessly between aisles, but he remained rooted near the entrance like an idiot.
Then you looked up. Your expression shifted instantly into polite customer-service warmth. “Welcome.”
The single word obliterated him. It wasn’t special, logically, he knew that.
You probably greeted dozens of customers exactly the same way every shift, offering identical smiles and identical politeness until closing hours exhausted you completely.
But hearing your voice directed specifically toward him made something malfunction catastrophically inside his brain. His heartbeat stumbled hard enough to feel physically disorienting.
“Seonghyeon?” One teammate frowned from the snack aisle. “You planning on standing there all night?”
“Yeah,” he answered immediately, or attempted to. His voice emerged rougher than intended, startling even himself. Humiliation crawled beneath his skin.
He forced himself to move forward, trying desperately to resemble a normal human being rather than someone seconds away from cardiac arrest over a girl scanning convenience store items.
Unfortunately, proximity only worsened everything, suddenly he became acutely aware of details he should not have been noticing so intensely.
The absentminded way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear while operating the register. The faint sheen of lip balm catching harsh fluorescent light whenever you spoke. The exhaustion softening your features whenever no customers required your attention. The tiny crease forming between your brows while counting change.
Seonghyeon felt insane, completely and utterly insane. He purchased an energy drink first.
Then he lingered near the refrigerators pretending to contemplate additional options before returning with chips. By the time he approached the register a third time holding gum he didn’t even like, his teammates had stopped pretending not to notice.
One of them snorted loudly from nearby shelves. Another looked seconds away from tears from trying not to laugh.
You, meanwhile, stared at him with growing suspicion. “…Did you forget something?” you asked carefully.
Seonghyeon wanted the floor to split open beneath him. “I just—”
Then his mind blanked entirely, because you were looking directly at him. Patiently, quietly.
Your eyes reflecting pale convenience store lighting while waiting for his answer. Pretty, dangerously pretty. Every coherent thought abandoned him instantaneously.
“I like gum,” he finished weakly.
Silence.
Then one teammate nearly collapsed against the counter laughing.
“Shut up,” Seonghyeon muttered through gritted teeth without looking away from you.
And then—Your lips twitched, not fully. Just the slightest upward curve threatening briefly at the corners of your mouth before disappearing again.
But Seonghyeon noticed it immediately.
Of course he did.
He noticed everything involving you. That tiny almost-smile replayed inside his mind for the rest of the evening with devastating clarity, and somehow, impossibly, his feelings only deepened afterward.
Day after day, like warmth gradually permeating cold skin until eventually you realized you no longer remembered what freezing felt like.
Liking you became interwoven with the fabric of his routine so seamlessly he stopped recognizing where ordinary observation ended and yearning began.
Without intending to, he memorized your habits. You always purchased strawberry milk on Thursdays after your longest lecture.
Before examinations, you remained inside the library later than everyone else, surrounded by color-coded notes and exhaustion.
Whenever concentration overtook you completely, you chewed lightly against the inside of your cheek.
And every Friday evening after your shift ended, you sat alone outside the convenience store for exactly ten minutes before leaving.
Those ten minutes became sacred to him. Not because he spoke to you, usually he didn’t. He simply liked witnessing you without the careful composure you carried during school hours.
You sat beneath flickering streetlights with your bag resting beside your feet, shoulders finally relaxed after hours of work. Sometimes you stared absently at passing cars. Sometimes you closed your eyes briefly like you were savoring the silence after an exhausting day.
Seonghyeon found those moments unbearably tender. There was something intimate about being allowed to observe another person existing quietly when they believed no one was paying attention.
Then came the rain, violent and sudden.
One Friday evening, dark clouds ruptured overhead without warning, releasing sheets of rain heavy enough to drench sidewalks within seconds. Water battered against pavement mercilessly while neon reflections shimmered across puddles gathering near the curb.
Seonghyeon had been across the street with Keonho when he noticed you standing beneath the store’s narrow awning.
Your cardigan looked pitifully thin against the cold. You hugged your arms closer around yourself while staring unhappily toward the storm.
Something inside him reacted before logic intervened.
“Where are you going?” Keonho called after him.
Seonghyeon ignored him completely. Rain soaked through his hoodie almost immediately as he crossed the street quickly, shoes splashing through shallow puddles accumulating along the pavement.
You looked startled when he appeared beside you beneath the awning. “Hi,” you said softly.
And somehow that single syllable tightened his chest embarrassingly fast. “Hi.”
For several moments, neither of you spoke. Rain hammered relentlessly around the small shelter, cool air carrying the scent of wet asphalt and distant traffic lights reflecting against slick streets. Thunder murmured faintly somewhere far away.
Seonghyeon glanced upward toward the darkened sky. “You waiting for someone?”
You shook your head gently. “I forgot my umbrella.”
Without hesitation, he extended his toward you.
Your eyes widened. “What?”
“Take it.”
“You need it too.”
“I live close.” A complete lie, his apartment was nearly twenty minutes away.
You frowned slightly. “But you’ll get soaked.”
Seonghyeon almost laughed at the concern in your voice, because if you asked him to stand beneath freezing rain for hours just to keep you company, he probably would have done it willingly.
“It’s fine,” he murmured.
Then you looked at him—really looked at him, and suddenly the atmosphere beneath that tiny awning shifted unbearably.
You were standing far too close. Close enough for him to notice droplets of rain clinging delicately to your lashes. Close enough to smell your shampoo beneath petrichor and damp fabric. Close enough to see exhaustion lingering faintly beneath your eyes despite your gentle expression.
His heartbeat became erratic. Unsteady enough to embarrass him.
“You’re nice,” you said quietly after a long pause. The statement sounded almost astonished. As though kindness directed toward you was something unfamiliar.
Seonghyeon swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. “You make it easy.”
The words escaped before he could restrain them. Immediately, panic surged through him. Too honest—far too honest.
Your eyes widened slightly.
So did his.
For one horrible second he considered throwing himself directly into traffic, but then your expression softened. Warmth unfolded slowly across your features until it settled there so gently it physically ached to witness.
“…Thank you,” you whispered.
And Seonghyeon realized with terrifying certainty that he was already far beyond saving. He had fallen hopelessly in love with you.
After that, things between you and Seonghyeon shifted. There was no singular, cinematic moment where the atmosphere transformed overnight, no abrupt confession unraveling beneath moonlight or reckless declaration shouted across crowded hallways.
Instead, the change emerged gradually, like dawn seeping through curtains before anyone consciously realizes darkness has disappeared.
You began waving at him whenever your paths crossed between classes. Small gestures, brief moments. Yet they altered him embarrassingly fast.
At first, your waves were tentative—slight lifts of your hand accompanied by soft smiles that appeared almost instinctive whenever your eyes found him in crowded corridors. But eventually those moments became natural, woven seamlessly into the fabric of daily routine.
And every single time it happened, Seonghyeon felt something warm unfurl beneath his ribs. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic.
Keonho noticed immediately, of course. “You smile like an idiot whenever she looks at you,” he remarked one afternoon while walking toward practice.
Seonghyeon shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious. It’s disgusting.”
Yet despite the ridicule, Seonghyeon couldn’t stop himself, there was something devastating about being acknowledged by you so effortlessly.
You looked for him now. That realization alone nearly ruined him. Sometimes you paused beside his desk before class to ask harmless questions about assignments. Other times you stopped him near stairwells just to complain quietly about upcoming exams or difficult professors.
The conversations themselves were insignificant, However, Seonghyeon replayed every single one afterward with humiliating precision.
Your voice lingered in his head long after you walked away. He remembered specific inflections. Particular expressions. The exact cadence of your laughter whenever he said something unexpectedly funny.
And god, your humor. No one warned him about that. You weren’t loud about it. Your jokes arrived subtly, concealed beneath soft observations and perfectly timed comments delivered with an almost absentminded sincerity that caught him entirely off guard.
The first time you made him laugh hard enough to bend forward slightly, he stared at you afterward in disbelief. You looked startled too, then pleased. The sight nearly stopped his heart.
He liked hearing you talk. Not because you filled silence constantly, but because you chose your words carefully. Thoughtfully. There was intention behind everything you said, as though conversations mattered to you in ways most people overlooked.
Perhaps what unsettled Seonghyeon most was the realization that you saw him differently too.
Not as the basketball captain. Not as the effortlessly popular boy everyone else seemed determined to reduce him into. You looked at him like he was simply Seonghyeon.
A boy who got tired after practice. A boy who liked stupid convenience store snacks and terrible music. A boy whose sarcasm concealed softness more often than not.
The simplicity of that recognition affected him more profoundly than applause after games or admiration from strangers ever could. With you, he never felt like he needed to perform.
One evening after practice, exhaustion clung heavily to his body as he wandered toward the library in search of quiet.
The campus had begun settling into dusk, golden sunlight stretching languidly through tall windows while shadows lengthened slowly across polished floors. The library itself remained nearly empty, hushed silence interrupted only by the occasional turning of pages somewhere deeper inside.
Then he saw you, and immediately forgot how exhausted he’d been.
You sat tucked into a secluded corner near the back shelves, surrounded by open textbooks and loose papers scattered chaotically across the table. Highlighters rested uncapped beside notebooks overflowing with meticulous handwriting.
Somewhere amidst studying, sleep had overtaken you completely. Your head rested against folded arms, pencil still loosely secured between relaxed fingers. Strands of hair spilled carelessly across your face while the setting sun enveloped everything around you in molten amber light.
Beautiful.
The word struck him with painful force, not because of polished perfection, not because of aesthetics. But, there was something unbearably tender about the sight before him.
You looked exhausted, real in a way that made his chest ache violently.
Seonghyeon stopped walking, then stayed there far longer than he should have. Simply watching, admiring. He expected nothing from you. Didn’t require your attention or affection to justify the intensity of his feelings.
Looking at you had simply become his favorite thing in the world. The realization should have terrified him more than it did.
Warm sunset light illuminated the curve of your cheekbones softly, dust particles drifting lazily through the air around you like fragments of gold suspended in time. The library’s silence wrapped around the moment delicately, intimate enough to make his heartbeat slow.
You stirred slightly in your sleep. Your brows furrowed faintly as the oversized sweater hanging from one shoulder slipped lower.
Before thinking, Seonghyeon moved closer carefully, almost reverently. His fingertips brushed the fabric gently as he adjusted it back into place, movements slow enough to avoid waking you, like touching something infinitely precious.
The contact lasted barely seconds, yet his pulse reacted catastrophically anyway.
Then your eyes opened. Sleep lingered visibly within them as your gaze lifted immediately toward his face, unfocused for half a second before recognition softened your expression entirely.
And then you smiled.
God.
That smile would destroy him someday.
“Practice ended?” you asked quietly, voice roughened by sleep and exhaustion.
The sound settled directly beneath his ribs. “Yeah,” he answered softly.
You pushed yourself upright almost immediately, embarrassment flickering across your face as you glanced at the mess of notes surrounding you. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You looked cute.”
Silence.
Seonghyeon froze, he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
Your eyes widened slightly. Heat rushed violently across your cheeks, and judging from the warmth burning beneath his own skin, he probably looked equally horrified.
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, gaze darting anywhere except your face. “I mean—not cute like—I just meant—”
You laughed quietly. Affectionate enough to unravel him instantly.
Seonghyeon looked up automatically, and there it was again. That brightness, that impossible warmth existing only for him in moments like these.
You studied him silently for several seconds, expression gentler than he’d ever seen before. Then, almost shyly, you spoke. “I like when you look at me like that.”
His breath caught immediately. “What?”
“You always look at me like I’m…” You hesitated briefly, fingers tightening slightly around your pencil. “Important.”
The confession struck him harder than any impact he’d ever endured on the court, you sounded genuinely uncertain, as though the possibility had never occurred to you before.
Seonghyeon stared at you helplessly, completely, devastatingly helpless.
You were important, more important than basketball. More important than popularity, expectations, victories, reputation. More important than anything occupying his life lately.
You had woven yourself into every corner of his thoughts without permission. Into mundane routines and fleeting moments and quiet evenings he once navigated without noticing how lonely they were beforehand.
He stepped closer before fear could stop him. The fading sunlight between you turned everything softer somehow.
“You are,” he admitted quietly.
Your expression transformed instantly. Something fragile appeared there. Tender enough to make his chest tighten painfully.
He loved the sound of your laughter drifting unexpectedly through crowded hallways.
Loved the concentrated crease forming between your brows while studying. Loved your quietness, your kindness, your subtle humor hidden beneath soft-spoken words. Loved the way every room shifted whenever you entered it, as though his entire body recognized your presence before his mind could process it.
He loved discovering you everywhere. Loved memorizing details no one else considered significant. Loved every fleeting interaction you offered him so casually, unaware of how precious he considered each one.
He loved you entirely.
Also, judging from the way you were looking at him now—with warmth unfolding slowly across your features like sunlight after endless rain
🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 you think that katsuki bakugou cares too much. he obsesses over the little things. whether or not you've eaten, whether or not you're seeing someone else, whether or not you even like him. you can't understand why he cares so much about someone like you. after all, he isn't even your boyfriend. (6.2K)
🏁 safety car ! ⋆ not safe for work ⋆ suggestive & angst ⋆ eighteen plus only. pro hero au, characters are depicted as adults. friends with benefits, brief smut scenes, daddy kink mention, situationships, insecurity, simp katsuki, avoidant attachment styles, reader and katsuki are bad at feelings, unhappy ending, open ending. pro hero katsuki bakugou, toxic avoidant & fem reader.
🏁 team radio ! ⋆ happy birthday to me!! sharing another fic for my bday bc it is my gift to you!! for all the memories n the love n awl!! this year its blasty boy, based on this post i made ages ago. been workin on this for a while and it felt so good to explore katsuki in this way!! there may be a part two lol. thank you so much as always! hope you all enjoy and click for more.
bakugou has always been good at sensing oncoming danger. no, he didn’t have a quirk for it and no, he didn’t have to train at it. he’s always just had a penchant for knowing when peril was prowling along the horizon, he thought quick on his feet and under pressure, his instincts were killer. there’s a reason why he’s the best at what he does. saving people, stopping threats.
but then, there’s you.
they’d call you a hero level threat if they knew you, a little more then personally. an enigma that sucks the good-hearted nature out of someone and turns them into something hollow. a villain by matters of the heart rather than that of society — although a string of failed relationships and an obvious lack of commitment would argue otherwise. katsuki never sees it coming, the fatal blow you land on him, the one that shatters his very vision of how love works.
he doesn’t expect to meet you through a friend of a friend and hit it off straight away, his walls crumbling down as if they were made from nothing but sand. a somber stooge to thrashing imperial shaded waves and saltine sea water. he doesn’t anticipate falling fast, hard enough to scrape his knees on shingly tarmac. abrasive on the palms of his hands. all this, even though dynamight has never tripped or lost his cool before.
you’re disarmingly funny, smart-mouthed when it counts but you’re dedicated to your craft and fiercely loyal to the people you care about. by all means, you’re the girl of his dreams, there’s not a day that goes by where you’re not the first thing on his mind after a gruelling patrol and meetings with the hero commission.
katsuki seeks you out like a blossom winding up to find the sun, desperate to spend free time with you — dates that aren’t really dates in places hidden away from prying public eyes. late nights that lead to your legs tangled at the short end of his couch, your cheek smooshed into his chest and a hand low the small of your back. heaviness there that doesn’t seem burdensome, natural.
the two of you are too far into the comfort zone after such a short time, he doesn’t even pick up on the blaring warning signs. the dating app notifications that still pop up on your phone, the way your head dips when he leans in a little too close to kiss you.
he doesn’t see it clearly enough, the dangerous thorns that wrap around you like the stems of a blood red rose. his friends know better, you’re the type of girl who drank the blood of her enemies and ate the bones of her past lovers, stripping them bare like a carcass lost in the wastelands. they know the map of bakugou’s being well, the subtle craving for attachment and endearment that lies behind walls of flesh, muscle and a hardened exterior made up of a bit of trauma with a dash of near death. for all his gruffness and grandeur, there is a human within katsuki bakugou. one who carnally craves the simple promise of forever with someone else.
those friends who pledge a lifetime by katsuki’s side aren’t enough to satisfy his appetite and yearning inner-ego, they know that, but still — they look out for him.
“oh, relationships? i don’t do those.” you’d laughed, then, waving a hand dismissively when mina corners you on the way into the dynamight agency. a favour. a good friend willing to ask what the other can’t.
her shoulders had risen in anxiety, treading carefully as the pink haired pro prodded and pried. “then what about katsuki?”
“what about him?” you quipped, tone clipped, unwilling to fall open to her investigation. katsuki’s friends weren’t yours by any means — you were new, fresh meat in their eyes that had somehow withstood of concerned childhood classmates. “we’re not dating. just messing around?”
mina’s expression soured then. “does he know that?”
“he should. he’s a grown man, i’m sure he knows what kind of relationship he can handle.”
“a situationship.”
“a friendship that comes with added benefits.” he recalls you supplying. quick to the punch and cold like ice.
katsuki stays long enough to hear mina give you the low down. katsuki bakugou doesn’t do casual, he doesn’t mess around — his heart only goes out to some and when it’s yours, you’re supposed to take care of it. mina gives you the chance to walk away, leave him be and you fail to take it. with that minacious sense of esurience you possess.
the first time you sleep together happens after your first fight. he wants something you can’t give him, permanence, the sturdiness that reminds one of an oak tree that’s grown proud and tall over time. katsuki wants something that lasts and his heart is set on you — someone who disappears into the rolling smoke and only exists for a split second, a momentary fraction of time like when the sun and moon meet for an eclipse. you’re evanescent, almost imaginary, fleeting like a nomad who never stays for too long.
he can’t have you. not in the way that he needs to feel stabilised.
everything blows up, when you tell him that. sitting on the other side of the bed, wearing his clothes, comfortable in his penthouse where your shoes ( an impressive collection of sneakers to high heels ) are lined up by the door and you’ve got a favourite mug on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinets where only he can reach. there’s a piece of you everywhere in bakugou’s home but not a single piece you can part with long enough for him to call you his own. the fight is full of rage and pent up frustration and a hurt that’s nearly incurable — katsuki should have made you leave right then and there, emotions rising like hot air above cool. with tears building behind his red eyes that burn brightly with fury, but he can’t because you’re so intertwined with his life, it’d be like having a lung missing if you’d gone.
it’s not love, it shouldn’t be — but his heart feels anchored to you even if it’s holding you back. you let him say it, that he loves you so much it could kill him in his youthful age. he loves you while pushing into you deep, chest rising and falling in tune with yours, much like a habit you’ve picked up from one another. he loves you with your legs hiked high on his shoulders, at the weight of his shaft pressed up against your sensitive walls with his teeth and tongue marking you like you belong to him. the sex that night had felt like a confession, a love letter written in hickies and scratch marks — penned and signed into your body by rough-padded fingertips that find your clit between rolling waves of trusts, hips that hit yours like the turning tide hits the shore.
in the moment, you reciprocated. sung his praises kike they were the lyrics to your favourite song, coated in wistfulness. howled his name, katsuki, at the moon whilst the stars bore witness to the union of your souls and your bodies. struck claw marks between the muscles in his back, leaving him with a scar. a heavily ironic reminder of your presence in his life — even if you left him physically, you’d still be there in the root of his heart and in every breath he’d take from then on. he couldn’t get rid of you, not that he wanted to, not even if he tried. in every sense of the word — mind, body and soul, katsuki had decided he belonged to you. willed you to understand through every stroke of his cock into you, every gentle kiss that deepened to share hungry moans, every caress over your battle wounds and fatal flaws… that he was yours, however you wanted. whatever that looked like. he would take it.
in the morning, you were different — colder, sharper, as if the sinful hells from which your desire had risen from, had now frozen over. like the heat and passion you’d shared were nothing but a mutually beneficial exchange. pleasure for pleasure, not to be mistaken for beating hearts coming together as one. in the morning, you’d tossed katsuki aside, smiling sweet, your lips pressed against his cheek, your clothes from the night before wrinkled against your love-bruised frame. “thank you,” he remembers you saying. “same time next week?”
it’s a joke that lands as a sucker punch. worse than any hit he’s ever taken on the field.
despite that, bakugou had never wanted you more. something he couldn’t keep. a hurricane in a glass jar that he couldn’t contain. free as a bird that could fly away at a moment's notice — too dazed with desire and devotion to see the cruel limbo you were leaving him in. even then he’d have called you the girl of his dreams, perfect in every way except for your knack for avoidance. he should have walked away then.
he should walk away now. as his tired, blood red eyes look to you with a rose tinted lens. watching you sleep soundly amongst sheets you’d complain cost more than a month’s rent and won’t let katsuki buy for your own apartment. still thinking that you’re perfect for him, that you fit right into his world where you’ve made him so intrinsically part of your own. thriving in this weird symbiotic relationship where you get your needs taken care of and he gets a taste of what it’s like to be longed for. as more than a hero. as less than dynamight. just katsuki. you’d taken a sledgehammer to the pro hero’s concrete shell and sent his shield packing, now he’s no longer to build up his walls without fear of shutting you out.
friends with benefits, lovers but not quite — bakugou doesn’t care as long as he’s with you. he’d pick fights for you until he turned black and blue, rescue you from the competition because he knows it means having his way with you afterwards, let you call him your boyfriend high on life and liquor just to piss another man off. now you’re in his shirt, the warm charm of the sun spilling through his curtains to illuminate the soft slopes of your thighs and highlight every perfect imperfection on your skin. the scars you try to hide, the tiger stripes you sometimes let him love.
you look softest when you’re asleep, like you wouldn’t dare destroy someone’s self worth and ability to love. you don’t look dangerous.
he still doesn’t believe that you are.
“suki,” stretching high and wide like a little harmless — maybe even blameless — kitten lounging under the blessing of the afternoon sun. your voice calls to him — wafting through the aerosols that catch light under golden rays. they act as a smog, a performance of smoke and mirrors that hides your true intentions from the blonde. even if he were to wave his hand through the smoggy disguise, katsuki still wouldn’t be able to see your desires clearly. “my head hurts.”
“yeah?” bakugou’s bare chest rises and falls with somewhat of a brusque titter, the sound curling inward like a wisp of smoke caught within his lungs — cemented into their small branches of bronchi. it’s soft, barely noticeable, if you weren’t listening. almost as if he’s been trying to keep it a secret from you. as though his fondness were to scare you away. “want me to kiss it better?”
“mhm…” more of you emerges from cotton hills and stiff peaks of linens — a hand rubbing through the crust corned at your eyes and lips. “god it kills, what even happened last night?”
even then, despite the sleep caked into your skin and the lines carved out by creases in the sheets struck against your cheeks, disregarding the bitterness to your morning breath and the drool staining the fabric of his your sleep shirt — you’re still the most beautiful person in the world to katsuki bakugou. with all your flaws and icks and green flags he can’t help the uptick in his pulse and the pull of gravity that lures him into smiling almost school-girlishly at the sight of you rubbing the ache from your forehead, lost in the waves of his bed spread.
you’re perfect even if you don’t know it — some kind of lawless and flawless being that could do no wrong in the jewelled eyes of the beholder.
“party. didn’t invite me so i don’t know what you had.”
“it was a party, am i not supposed to drink?” a cheshire grin blooms amongst your features and compliments the mirthy spark to your sleepy stare as you reply bluntly. if there was any inclination as to how deeply katsuki feels for you, it would be the way his focus flits away from your eye contact and the manner in which rich red blood pools underneath the surface of his cheeks. a blush that catches sunlight and spreads like a flame over oil slick, creeping down to the back of katsuki’s neck.
he rubs at it — akin to how one would smooth over a scab they’re not trying to pick in fear of making it bleed — as he speaks. intent and careful. “responsibly, sure,” he’s already reaching to pull the covers back and welcome you to the land of the living. you hide, pouting like you’ve been scolded. “you were so shitfaced last night, ‘m surprised you even managed to call me to come pick you up.”
you don’t like that. the tenderness that sits between curse words and stretching through the comfortable atmosphere of the late morning. to you, katsuki is scary in the kind of way that reminds you of the buzz you feel after watching a horror movie — electric and alive, all fried nerve endings and an impending sense of doom tickling your chest. maybe it’s because he’s so handsome. in the way that causes trouble with the old ladies on floor thirty four of the apartment building or gets the girls tripping over their kitten heels at the agency. maybe it’s because he leans into this natural duty to protect or nurse strays like you back to health.
genuine fear easily takes residence in your being when bakugou cares for you in the ways you feel you don’t deserve. it’s small, fleeting — almost like the subtle beat of a butterfly's wings or the tickle of your own hair at the nape of your neck.
katsuki isn’t someone to be afraid of. he’s not some kind of predator lurking in the dark waiting to turn you into a chunk of meat. his affections lap at you in the same way ocean blue does at a sandy shoreline, in soft waves with bubbling white at the owl waiting to be absorbed into porous substrate. he waits, oh, he waits for you to accept all of him as though he were always meant to be yours.
that’s what frightens you, his gentle dedication. his tired eyes that crystallise when you walk into a room. his heart tattooed in fading ink on his sleeve, waiting for you to take a knife and pierce it with all that you’ve got.
the thought of accepting his love and returning it had your stomach turning. not because you resent the idea, but because you find yourself warming to it like a steel kettle on a hot stove or a freshly potted sapling winding towards the light in order to grow. it’s as frightening coming face to face with an animal that sees you as nothing more than prey. like a hare standing against a wolf where the odds are hardly in its favour.
“it’s too early on in the day for you to parent me katsuki and you sound like my dad,” you bite like a snake that has venom poised behind its teeth, regarding the blonde with devious merriment. “bet you like that though, gets you all riled up telling me what to do. acting like my dad. do you want to be? my daddy, katsuki?”
your banter is usually like this, the kind where the dialect crawls underneath his skin through an open wound and spreads uncomfortably in the form of a viral infection. it sticks meagerly to katsuki’s ego in a similar fashion to a postage stamp placed down wrong — where you can’t pick it up by the corner and peel it back, unable to reposition it correctly. in the moment, you’re funny — light on your feet and quick with quips that come easy and aren’t supposed to mean anything aside from serving the purpose of laughter. except, when the coals cool and the time passes you leave a sting that creeps up on the victim, dead before they even know it. straight faced by the time the day is over.
“don’t be like that.” he leans over you, wafting notes of clean pine and smoked applewood, sparking your senses awake, and pushes the side of your head playfully. his touch slides down, careful as it goes, before bakugou cups your cheeks and squishes them twice.“bein’ fuckin’ mean.”
“sorry daddy.” you grin the same as before. with the air of someone who knows exactly who they are and what they’re doing. you’re a woman who’s made a vexatious habit out of reading people — katsuki is one of them — scouring their worn, aging pages for something that makes them tick.
by now he’s caught on the game that you play, toying with the knotted mess of his feelings like a feline with her bawl of carmine coloured yarn. the iniquitous version of the red string of fate. he returns to his seat at the edge of the bed, turning away before you catch the fall in his face. as though the manner in which icarus flew too close to the sun — only to be scorned — could be captured in his expression, like an artist who carves his wages through stone.
“oh shut up,” bakugou pushes again, no weight behind his hand. controlled because he’s not a man with a temper. the kind you run to when he spends a weekend out of town. “‘m not fuckin’ you ‘n i gotta go to work.”
“that’s never stopped you before.” you purr, never quite having learned how to be subtle.
hero galas and award-show after parties run rampant through katsuki’s mind — the memories without picture frames because you never stay long enough to keep. alcohol bleeds into the ink, leaving them splotchy where he’d remember the happenings if he were sober. lipstip smudge kiss that taste of plasticky makeup and the bitter pop of champagne
undeterred by your little mind games and the puzzles you make of the pro hero’s patience — he glances over at you, just for a moment. registers the presence of you helpless in his bed and then suppresses a fond smile, poking his tongue into his cheek. “you’re hungover, that’ll stop me. told you, i care about you.”
there’s a twang to katsuki’s voice that has always warmed you sweetly. much like honey and buttermilk simmering on a stove. years of drawling and pulling along the vowels braided between their intimidating consonant peers. unhurried and rough around the edges. the way he softly answers you despite the wrath and envy that hides behind the snakelike bite of your words when you speak — he tries not to be loud, in fear his speech may be taken as a curse. the last thing katsuki wants is to scare you away, especially when you make a habit of escaping from his hold like a bird from a net or a gazelle from a hunter.
you turn silent – in a manner similar to the creep of the quiet night that sneaks up on her friend, the day – shifting upright and bringing the duvet with you. “don’t need you to,” your fingers curl in the blankets until crescent moons form in your palms through the thinness. you don’t snap, that is what terrifies katsuki more. “and that doesn’t mean you have to baby me.” it’s a childish retort that you add on, one that lands in the pocket of silence beginning to brew at the center of the room. sour like the punch of a lemon when you sip on something citrus. “i’m an adult, we can fuck if i wanna.”
“but i don’t,” he feels far away when he responds, carefully unveiling his truth to you at a safe distance, to avoid the splinters of your shattering morning. “even if you’re nicer to me when you’re fucked up.”
a rare joke from him turns you into the cheshire cat.
“you think i’m mean sober. so you prefer me subdued.” you ask, a taunting tone intertwined with the cadence of a person who seeks only to get a rise out of their victim. you pass his
the blonde whips round to face you, not to yell or to “listen. you were drinkin’, i wasn’t there to look out for you and there could have been anythin’ in your system. i was worried about you.” something churns in his stomach and ties his intensities together in some kind of fatal knot guided by a sick sense of anxiety. it’s the same kind of feeling you. katsuki sighs, shoulders falling as though the strings that master them have been released. “i don’t wanna argue.”
“me either,” you quip, sensing the defeat. “my head really hurts, kats.”
he softens as you drop the topic. a change in tactics to keep him on his toes, interested in playing the game of chess you’ve laid out for the two of you. his pieces have been stolen, barely anything left on the board since you so eagerly take and take from him. “i know baby,” katsuki supplies in that sugary simple syrup manner that would have any girl twist her ankle in order to get a chance with him. “just, lemme get you some orange juice for your hangover, kay?”
“with bits in it? bleck. you know i don’t like orange juice.” he does. of course katsuki bakugou knows that you hate orange juice with the little floating pieces of fruit flesh and that you prefer the kind of squash you dilate with running water over anything else. he knows that you hate to eat breakfast in the morning because you’re never too hungry, but if he were to cook something up you’d eat it with the same appetite as a grown man. katsuki knows you like the sun burning up high, would know the familiar company of a summer’s day and a clear blue sky — in a way that’s complimentary, two souls tangled by a fine rouge thread, knotted with no loose ends.
except he finds you tugging at them as though you’re a bird caught in a net — fighting ferociously until you’re too fatigued to taste it. freedom. as though you’re frightened of the calm katsuki could offer you. he dwells on the thought, standing too still amongst a hurricane — biting fear cool against his skin because he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do when he loses your presence beside him simply because you’re not ready for something greater.
his eyes drag away from you, polarised to the wall like a magnet that attracts. “well it’s either that or tomato juice, pick your poison,” katsuki supplies, listening for your tantrum amongst cotton sheets. you settle on the bright, more-fruity counterpart ( because you’ve argued about this before at 3AM whilst he’s been in indonesia for a mission and you've been stuck here — using your spare key to get into his apartment when you’d missed him. tomato, despite its many seeds, isn’t a fruit in your eyes ) and the blonde hauls himself up from the edge of the bed to find his juicer in the kitchen. “that’s what i thought, brat.”
katsuki never leaves you without saying goodbye. a text after patrol to let you know that he’s safe, a kiss on the forehead when he moves from one room to the next, a perfectly wrapped morsel of his soul packed up into a brief, flickering moment all for you. something to keep when the regular rhythm of your body starts to fall out of tune without him, no matter how long or short the time spent apart is — katsuki always gives you something.
but this morning he leaves the bedroom with his lips pressed into a thin line and the hard set expression of a man who’s worked so much for too little in return — breaking a sweat to undo crossed wires as though there’s a time bomb ticking relentlessly between you that requires a special agent’s touch to figure you out. katsuki isn’t a spy, he isn’t a mind reader and yes, he’s super-human… but in his line of work there are just some people you can never seem to save. maybe you’re one of them and maybe that’s why he feels as though he might need to give up.
you draw your knees to your chest underneath the sheets in order to add pressure to the panic building within — he doesn’t shut you out in the manner that you do with him. katsuki always comes back to pull you out of your own mess as though you’re a wounded animal in need of tending. he’s good like that. he cares about you like that.
you’re a blender, an emotional one at that, you come with razor sharp, silvering blades that constantly whir like a looming threat. get too close and you’ll lose a piece of yourself, bleed out on cold concrete like a saviour who tried entirely too hard to save someone who didn’t want it. what seems right to him, when it comes to you, is a means to his own demise and death – in this tale, katsuki is a wolf licking crimson blood from a blade poised to kill him, worsening his own wounds inflicted by his own desire for you.
a mere twenty paces away, you listen to him clatter about in the kitchen – juicing fresh fruit for you. from scratch. just to help you feel better. It's a luxury you know that you don’t deserve, a tragedy that you know he’ll play line by line if it means being with you. for a while, you thought yourself invincible, taking advantage of the weakness of men who have hurt you before. yet, katsuki is kind, he warms you, treats you as though you’re flawless to the point where you feel as though you are a physical lie. an apple dealt to adam instead of eve, rotted on the inside and ripe on the out.
bakugou waltzes back into the bedroom not even ten minutes later, freshly squeezed orange juice and two pills in hand to ease away the pain you know doesn’t compare to what lives between each intercostal space protecting his heart and lungs. he says nothing. you say nothing. the room feels like a trap, latent hostility building between the four walls as if it had cemented them together itself.
you inhale, like you’re taking a drag of a cigarette. you don’t want the smoke to clear – you’ll see the heartache in his eyes clearer then.
“are we okay?” you ask with the uneasy focus of someone who feels like her world is out to get her – drown her in the emotional turmoil she’s built. a swig of orange juice and bitter paracetamol clings to the insides of your teeth, causing a similar discomfort to that in the atmosphere. “i feel like… things have been really weird. with you. with me.”
“no ‘m not. you’re being weird.” he delivers the line with a sharp intensity you’re completely unfamiliar with – like he’s taken on the same skillset, the same precise aim of an adroit sniper, and gone straight for your heart – forcing himself to speak over the blockage in his throat that keeps him from spilling emotions like an oil slick on clean water.
a wound to the body can easily heal, but one to the heart that keeps pumping, can last a lifetime. you don’t scream out in agony, a wounded soldier on a battlefield – no – you quickly build a defensive shield and strike a strategic attack, because your ego broils brightly underneath the surface of your skin and never settles enough to let your temper just be.
this time round, you scoff in braggart disbelief. as if you hadn’t expected this, the rain on your make believe parade. “woah okay, childish.”
observant as ever, katsuki does not miss the way you roll your eyes over the glass – the spread of your lips seeping into your cheeks as they take the form of a grim lour. something akin to kindling, a match-stick ready to set light to a bomb. this morning you’d promised not to argue, and yet, one catches in the wind that changes course. imminent and ready to detonate this faux relationship you’ve built.
“oh, like you’re not.” the blonde snaps back, sarcasm snaked between syllables.
“alright then, what’s that supposed to mean, katsuki?”
“you just — ‘m just…” bakugou grapples for a sensible sentence, something to explain away the clouds in his mind that came with you. he hates to admit it, how you unhappiness came into his world soon after you did, bringing with you bouquets of bewilderment and nights where too many things were left unsaid. “it’s okay for you to tease me and not the other way around?”
it’s unclear why that sets you off, perhaps its how accusatory bakugou sounds. when he says it like that – calls you out on how hypocritical you can be, your temper flares like a streak of red in the dead of night. a cry for help to anyone watching, to katsuki not to give up on you before you’ve properly started.
“you’re not kidding around though, it’s not funny,” spitting venomously, you let your response rain down on him like acid rain, searing through the thick and guarded armor he thought he had built strong all these years. “you keep calling me mean when that’s how i’ve always been, firey just how you like it. you treat me like i’m made of glass, like you’ve gone soft and keep looking at me like i’m gonna burst into flames!” it keeps going, this gruesome splurge of awful words used to cut at him, and you can’t stop it because you see it working. the manner in which this big, mountainous and explosive man, shrinks away from you as though it burns to be near. “like me, being here is setting you off. almost as though you don’t want me here. and if you don’t, that’s fine, i’ll go. but in the future don’t bring me over if you’re gonna act all avoidant and shit.”
katsuki sits up now, alert, as if his burns have been doused with cold water. his carmine eyes, devoid of the same cruelty you treat him with, are electrified with everything he doesn’t say. loaded with all the ways you’ve hurt him. tears that refuse to fall. “what? was i supposed to leave you there drunk with that fuckin’ asshole? the one you keep fucking when ‘m not around to give you the attention you crave.” the blonde throws a thumb your way, inculpatory. “you don’t get to do that, call me like ‘m some shitty lapdog. then c-call me that fuckin’ name and then act like it’s weird that i want to take care of you.”
“call you, what, katsuki?”
“course you don’t remember,” bakugou grumbles incredulously, standing from the bed in the same manner someone would flee from the scene of a crime. like he needs to get away from it all. from you. from the jail cell that is your fucked up relationship. “‘m not saying shit. got patrol so ‘m headin’ out.”
the blonde excuses himself weakly and reaches for his hero costume as a shield.
because maybe, right now, he needs to be dynamight instead of katsuki. he needs to be a hero to save himself.
“katsuki,” you growl to make him stay. “call you, what? say it. it’s on the tip of your tongue.”
the look he gives you is wounded and pleading. the kind only a dying animal could give whilst begging to be put out of its misery — whatever katsuki says now will be blood on your hands, his organs violently spilling into your grip since you’re the only person in his life with enough strength to rip his heart out from behind the doors to his psyche. “your boyfriend. you called me your boyfriend last night and i picked you up and i liked it.” katsuki admits from across the room, at a safe distance from you because confessing feelings to you is akin to stepping on a land mine.
he’s been fighting an internal war since figuring out that he feels for you outside of fucking, wishing like a wistful child on every lucky star that perhaps, you would be able to wave your white flag and admit the same. beyond your own facade, you could maybe trade your heart for his like you would for a trading card. if you’d wanted him the way he wanted you, you’d push your pride away just enough to let yourself believe you could love someone outside of yourself.
“i liked that you sat in my backseat, on the verge of throwing up and called me your boyfriend…” he supplies in the same way a child would when they make an attempt to be part of adult conversation — rushed in the sense that syllables land awkwardly and vowels tack themselves to the underneath of his tongue it moves around in his mouth, like there’s too much to say to you and not enough time for telling you. “i feel sick just sayin’ i liked that you let me hold your hair back when you did eventually puke your fuckin’ guts out, ‘nd let me shower you ‘nd change your clothes. let me hold you without making it weird, like we’re not supposed to do that shit just because all we do is have sex!”
with every inch he gives, you take, and the consequences nearly choke katsuki bakugou slowly to an unfair death. “i know you won’t ever let me do it again, now that you’re sober, ‘cause that’s not what you want and it’s not what we agreed to. you don’t like lookin’ like you need someone.”
“but i liked it,” bakugou rasps, vocal chords strained like an out of tune guitar — the notes wail into the tense, thickened air. “even if it was only for one fuckin’ night. when you were mine, for just one night. i liked being your boyfriend.”
he liked being wrapped around your finger, even if it were a noose.
“but you’re not,” the words of your retort are entirely too harsh and brittle, and they slip out like fine sand through fingertips before you have a chance to stop them. “you’re not my boyfriend.”
“exactly.”
“so what do we do?”
for the first time that morning. you sound scared — reality dawning on you as though you’ve woken up to nothing after dreaming about everything you could have ever wanted.
“dunno, do whatever you want,” he’s so tired of going back and forth. if he knew from the very day your eyes first met – in a similar fashion to two worlds colliding, colours mixing, flowers blooming – that this is what you’d wanted, he would have stayed far away. “you can stay. you know where your things are ‘nd i left you breakfast. in the fridge. bottom shelf where you can reach it.”
“katsuki, i–”
he shakes his head, the weight of him in your mind and head and in this very room lifting – as though he were never there. you seal your lips. your true feelings are a sullen, oppressive secret behind your teeth.
katsuki bakugou is stubborn. he always has been. to a fault. “i really gotta go, kay?”
you sink into the sheets, “okay… i’ll call you?”
the pit in the stomach tells you he’ll wait for your call, you know he will. he’s always been self destructive like that. you’re like a ticking time bomb in the centre of his bed, where he’s supposed to feel safest — just waiting to explode and send shards of shrapnel shaped like daggers directly into his scarred heart and he’s got no sense of danger. no telling of when you’re going to go off and decimate him.
“be safe.” you add.
“i will be. i–” katsuki looks back, his tongue pushed to form the shape of love that he quickly abandons as if the weight isn’t crushing his heart in his chest. “… just don’t go anywhere? we’ll talk about this later.”
you nod silently as he leaves. afraid.
you never do talk.
you never do stay.
because he’s certainly not your boyfriend and you’re not his girlfriend either.
there’s no obligation in that anyway.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
Seeing you at Shoto’s celebratory get together for reaching second place in the hero ranks should evoke no feelings from Katsuki, right? Even if he hasn’t seen you in three years. Even if he might just want you back a little
Tags/CW: exes to ???, emotionally constipated Katsuki (just how I like it), angst with happy ending, making up, kissing, conversations about sex but no smut, making out in Katsuki’s car, takes place during MHA: more (but I made it a bit fancier), men who yearn are men who earn
The bathroom is too hot.
Steam still clings to the mirror even though Katsuki cracked the door open nearly ten minutes ago, and now every surface still has that damp, sticky feeling that makes his skin itch. The air smells faintly like eucalyptus from the stupid overpriced shaving cream Kirishima convinced him to buy last month, mixed with clean soap and the sharp metallic scent of running water. His apartment is quiet except for the constant buzz of the fluorescent light above him and the rough scrape of the razor dragging slowly down his jaw.
“Shit—Fuck—”
He hisses through his teeth the second the blade catches unevenly against his skin. A sting blooms near his chin, followed by the bright bead of blood surfacing almost immediately.
Katsuki glares at himself through the fogged mirror like the reflection personally pissed him off.
“Great.”
He looks fine. More than fine, honestly, which somehow only irritates him more.
His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.
Which he doesn’t.
Obviously.
Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.
Not nervous. Definitely not nervous.
He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.
And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.
The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.
The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.
Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.
But you’re gonna be there.
That’s the problem.
For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?
Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.
Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.
Actually seeing you.
As in, In person.
Close enough to touch.
Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.
Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.
Pathetic.
The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.
Maybe you’re angry.
Maybe you barely look at him.
Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.
Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.
That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.
Fair enough, honestly.
He earns that.
The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.
In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.
Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.
Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.
He keeps staring at himself anyway.
Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.
The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.
Less explosive.
Much more exhausting.
He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.
Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.
Fuck that.
The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.
Tonight it all feels too loud.
He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.
Not for you.
Obviously.
The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.
The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.
Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.
His jaw tightens again.
This is ridiculous.
You’re just another person he used to know.
That’s it.
Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.
That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.
Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.
His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.
He ignores it.
The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.
For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.
You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.
Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.
Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.
His throat feels strangely dry.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.
The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.
Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.
Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.
Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.
Or maybe—
Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.
That’s the real problem, honestly.
Because he already knows you will.
Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.
Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.
The sound of your laugh.
The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.
The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.
Katsuki grips his keys tighter.
Nope.
He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.
That should matter.
It does matter.
And honestly, he understands why you left.
Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.
You called him cruel once.
Not loudly. Not even during a fight.
Just tired.
And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met.
Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.
The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.
Casual.
Tonight is casual.
Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.
Then his phone vibrates again.
EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro
A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.
Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.
IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?
His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.
Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—
A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.
______
By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.
Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.
Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.
“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”
“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”
“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”
“You literally were.”
Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.
The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.
Katsuki barely notices any of it.
His eyes find you almost instantly.
Of course they do.
You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.
And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.
Fuck.
You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.
Then Mina notices them entering.
“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”
Several heads turn at once.
Including yours.
Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.
“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”
The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.
Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”
“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”
You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.
The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.
Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.
But Katsuki gets nothing.
At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.
Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.
“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.
His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.
Like he isn’t even there.
Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.
Because you aren’t being cold.
You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.
You’re just indifferent.
Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.
Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.
You don’t even look up.
Jesus Christ.
His chest suddenly feels too tight.
“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”
You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”
The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.
Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.
But Katsuki does.
Of course he fucking does.
Less stress.
Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.
His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.
“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.
You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”
“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”
“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.
“Exactly,” you laugh.
And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.
Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.
Now you just seem… calm.
Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.
Mina notices it first.
Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.
Her smile falters slightly.
Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.
You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.
Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.
“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”
“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.
That’s it.
No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with.
You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.
In another life, it may have been different.
Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.
At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.
This indifference feels like being erased entirely.
______________
The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.
Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.
Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.
A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.
Casual.
Comfortable.
The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.
Which somehow makes this worse.
Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.
Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.
Except it has.
He notices it in tiny things.
You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.
Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.
Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.
It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.
A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.
“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”
“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.
The table immediately erupts.
“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.
“Shut up! It is!”
“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.
“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.
“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”
“I remember that guy at karaoke—”
“He deserved it.”
“You didn’t even know him!”
Katsuki barely listens.
Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.
And you still won’t look at him.
Not really.
Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.
It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.
Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.
The way your rings tap softly against your glass.
The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.
The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.
His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.
This is fucking ridiculous.
“Bakugo.”
His head lifts automatically.
Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”
“No.”
“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”
“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.
Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”
“Because everything sounds terrible.”
“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”
The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.
Even you smile.
But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.
Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.
For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.
It lasts maybe two seconds!?
Three, max.
Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.
“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”
The entire table immediately erupts.
“Oh my god.”
“They were gone for HOURS—”
“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.
“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.
Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.
Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.
He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly.
The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.
Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.
Except you.
You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.
Then, calmly, casually—
“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”
Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.
The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.
Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.
Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.
___________
Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.
Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.
Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.
Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.
Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.
Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.
But he notices.
Every single time.
When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.
And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.
You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.
The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.
A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this.
Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.
Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.
Then your phone lights up beside your plate.
His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.
A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.
It’s a nickname paired with a heart.
It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.
Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.
Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.
Three years.
Obviously there’s somebody else now.
What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?
His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.
Mina notices instantly.
Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”
“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.
“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”
“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.
And somehow that feels worse.
You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.
You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.
Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.
“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”
For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.
The table quiets.
Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.
Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”
“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”
“Why would I?”
When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.
“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.
An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.
“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”
The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.
Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)
Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.
You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.
“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”
The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.
“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”
“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”
“Except me.”
The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.
Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.
“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”
The question catches him off guard immediately.
Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.
“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”
You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.
“I said hi when you walked in.”
“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”
Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.
Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.
Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.
And it’s not sadness.
Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.
Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.
“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”
You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.
“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”
The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.
The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.
Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.
You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.
Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.
You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.
“I wish I never met you.”
Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.
Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”
Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.
Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.
“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”
Everyone.
But not specifically him.
The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words
The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.
Around you, everybody moves at once.
Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.
You stand automatically too.
And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.
You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.
You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.
The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.
You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.
It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..
Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.
You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.
But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.
And honestly that—would’ve been easier.
The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.
And God—you wanted to.
That’s the pathetic part.
The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.
Three years.
Three whole fucking years.
And your body still recognized him instantly.
You hated that.
Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately.
But you knew better now.
You had to know better now.
Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.
You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.
Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.
“You okay?”
The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.
“Yeah,” you answer immediately.
Too quickly.
Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.
You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.
Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.
God.
There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.
And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.
You wonder briefly if he knows.
If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.
Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.
________
The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.
Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.
By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.
Katsuki feels wrung out.
Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.
After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.
“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”
“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.
“Because everything is cursed.”
Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.
His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.
Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.
Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.
The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.
Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.
Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.
“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.
Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.
Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.
You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.
Just there.
Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.
Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.
Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.
“Oh, hi.”
Mina stops talking.
Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.
Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.
You look at him quietly before speaking.
“…Can we talk?”
Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.
Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.
The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.
“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”
“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.
You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.
The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.
Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”
“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”
“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”
“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”
The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.
And then they’re gone.
Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.
The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.
Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.
You still haven’t moved from beside his car.
Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—
“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.
The question lands so directly he almost flinches.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”
“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”
That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.
You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.
“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”
Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.
Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.
“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”
The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.
You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.
“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.
The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.
Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.
Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.
He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.
You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?
The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly. Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.
“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”
His chest tightens painfully.
Because he remembers sending that message.
Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.
“Why would you fucking unblock me?”
Pathetic.
“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”
Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.
He did.
That’s the worst fucking part.
He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.
Same old him as always.
“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.
Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.
“Because you hadn’t.”
The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”
Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.
Had that been the case, he’d known better of.
You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.
You’re nervous.
That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.
“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”
Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t trust himself to.
“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”
Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.
Not ego. Not satisfaction.
Something worse—Hope.
Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—
You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.
“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”
That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.
Because he wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.
But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.
Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.
“You said you wished you never met me.”
Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.
“I know.”
“You meant it?”
“No,” you answer immediately.
Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.
You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.
“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”
The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.
Not just the fight.
Your face.
The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.
And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.
“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.
And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.
“…Yeah.”
You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.
“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”
That one hurts.
Not in a bad way.
Worse.
Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way.
Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.
Neither of you says anything for a while after that.
The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.
Katsuki can hear your breathing.
Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.
The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.
You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.
Real enough to ache over.
To you… Does he look that way too?
“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”
The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”
“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”
“She absolutely is.”
The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.
Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.
Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.
Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.
Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.
You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.
The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.
Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.
By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.
You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.
He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.
Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.
The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.
Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”
Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.
Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”
Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.
A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.
You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Tch. You usually do anyway.”
Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”
The question settles heavily into the space between you both.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.
Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.
“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Of course it isn’t.
You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.
Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”
The space between you afterward feels fragile.
When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.
Fuck, fuck—Fuck.
“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.
There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.
Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.
His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.
He notices immediately when your breathing changes.
Slight.
Barely there.
But enough.
The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.
Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.
Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”
Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.
“You first.”
Fuck. Shit!
The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.
Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.
When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.
Barely.
Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.
Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.
His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.
He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.
And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.
Warm.
Familiar.
Devastating.
You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.
Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.
His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.
Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.
Always has.
Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.
You remember that instantly.
He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.
When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.
Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.
With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.
The kiss turns rough immediately.
Not careless —Never careless with you.
Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.
Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.
Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.
All he can focus on is you.
The warmth of your mouth.
The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.
The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.
His chest feels unbearably tight.
Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.
It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.
A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.
You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.
Your lips still brush his when you speak.
“Katsuki—”
His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.
Because you still say his name the same way.
But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.
Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.
“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.
Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”
“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.
The words refuse to come out cleanly.
You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.
“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”
Yeah. He knows.
And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.
“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”
His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.
The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.
Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.
“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively.
A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.
“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”
Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.
God.
He missed this.
Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)
Just this.
You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.
“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”
Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.
His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.
You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.
The angle is awkward across the center console.
Neither of you cares.
Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.
Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.
Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.
The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.
Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.
“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”
The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.
And honestly? So is he.
Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.
Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..
The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.
“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”
It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore.
Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.
You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.
Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”
Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”
“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”
“Hell nah!”
Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
summary. instead of admitting your feelings, you and martin decide it’s easier to bicker instead
content. frenemies to lovers??, one bed trope, kissing, bickering, ft. seonghyeon keonho and hyein
the whole situation was, in martin’s honest opinion, absolutely ridiculous. it was the kind of chaotic planning fail that only happened when you let hyein organise a trip, and honestly, he should have seen it coming. you were supposed to be on a fun weekend away with a small group; just you, him, your best friend hyein, and his two chaotic partners-in-crime, seonghyeon and keonho. it was meant to be relaxing, full of bad movies and takeout food. but somehow, between booking the cabin and actually arriving, hyein had managed to mix up the reservation, and now there was… a slight issue.
“there are only two beds,” hyein announced, popping her head out of the main bedroom, looking far too pleased with herself for someone who had caused this much trouble. “one king size in here, and one bunk bed in the second room.”
keonho immediately grabbed seonghyeon by the collar and dragged him toward the smaller room. “bunks for us! we get the bunks!”
seonghyeon stumbled along, looking back over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. “have fun, you two! try not to kill each other during the night!”
before either you or martin could protest, they vanished into the other room and slammed the door shut, followed instantly by the loud click of a lock. you turned slowly to look at martin, and he was already looking at you with that familiar, slightly annoyed expression that seemed permanently glued to his face whenever you were around.
this was your dynamic, after all. everyone knew it. you and martin were like oil and water, cats and dogs, you just didn’t mix. you bickered over everything: who got the last slice of pizza, who was right about movie plot holes, who walked too fast, who talked too loud. to anyone watching, it looked like you genuinely couldn’t stand each other. and honestly? you told yourself that was true. you told yourself he was arrogant, annoying, way too smug, and had the worst sense of humour known to mankind.
and martin told himself you were stubborn, argumentative, way too opinionated, and far too pretty for your own good.
wait. no. he tried very hard not to think that last part.
because the truth, the big, messy, complicated secret that neither of you dared say out loud was that you didn’t dislike each other at all. quite the opposite, actually. you liked each other far too much, and it terrified you both. so instead of being nice or normal, you had built a fortress of teasing and eye-rolling and sarcastic comments to hide behind. it was safer that way. if you pretended to hate him, you couldn’t possibly embarrass yourself by admitting you actually really, really liked him.
now, though, your fortress was crumbling. because you were standing in a small bedroom, and there was exactly one very large, very soft-looking bed in the middle of it.
“this is entirely your fault,” martin said immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. “if you hadn’t insisted we stop for coffee on the way, hyein wouldn’t have messed up the booking.”
you gasped, putting your hands on your hips. “my fault?! please! if you hadn’t spent twenty minutes arguing with keonho about which direction was north, we would have been here an hour ago! and besides, i didn’t tell your friends to lock themselves away and leave us with one bed!”
“they clearly did it on purpose,” martin muttered, running a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at the bed. “this is exactly the kind of stupid scheme they would come up with. keonho has been saying for weeks that we ‘need to get along’ or whatever nonsense.”
“hyein has been doing the exact same thing,” you admitted, sighing and dropping your bag on the floor. “she keeps saying we have ‘tension’. which is ridiculous. the only tension i feel around you is the urge to throw something at your head.”
martin actually laughed at that, a short, breathless sound. “right. sure. that’s what it is.”
he moved forward, grabbing the spare pillow from the pile and tossing it onto the far left side of the mattress. “fine. look. i’ll sleep on this side, you sleep on that side. we stay on our own territory. there is a strict no-crossing line down the middle of the bed. do not touch me, do not kick me, do not steal the duvet, and we can get through this night without any issues. go it?”
“crystal clear,” you said, grabbing your own pyjamas and heading to the bathroom to change, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.
when you came back out, the atmosphere had shifted slightly. martin was already in bed, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, lying on top of the covers with his arms crossed behind his head. he looked incredibly comfortable, and also, you had to admit, unfairly attractive. you hated that you noticed that. you hated that your stomach did a little flip just seeing him there.
you climbed into the right side of the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin, keeping as far to the edge as physically possible. there was a good foot of empty space between you. the lights were off, only the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows around the room.
for a long time, neither of you spoke. you stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the night, and tried to ignore the fact that you could smell his cologne, clean and warm and something you secretly really liked. you tried to ignore how his breathing sounded, slow and steady, right next to you.
“you’re not asleep yet,” martin said suddenly, his voice low in the dark, breaking the silence.
“you’re not asleep either,” you shot back, not turning your head.
“can’t sleep,” he admitted quietly. “too aware that you’re three inches away from me, ready to bite my arm if i roll over too far.”
you huffed a laugh, finally turning your head to look at him. he was already looking at you, his face half-visible in the dim light. he didn’t look annoyed or teasing right now. he looked… soft. open. the mask of irritation had slipped right off.
“i wouldn’t bite you,” you whispered, surprising yourself by how quiet your voice was. “unless you snore. if you snore, i will definitely find a pillow and smother you.”
martin smiled, a genuine, lazy smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “i don’t snore. seonghyeon says i sleep like a log. very peaceful. unlike some people who talk in their sleep and mumble about how much they hate me.”
your eyes went wide. “i don’t do that!”
“maybe not,” he murmured, shifting slightly closer, just an inch, but enough that the air between you felt warmer. “but you do talk about hating me a lot. you make it your full-time job.”
you looked away, staring at the wall. “i don’t… hate you, martin.”
the words were out before you could stop them. you froze, heart hammering against your ribs. oh no. that was not part of the plan. that was breaking every single rule you had made for yourself.
beside you, martin went completely still. he didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was lower, rougher, different than you had ever heard it. “you don’t?”
“no,” you said, so quiet you weren’t sure if he heard it. “i mean… you’re annoying. and you’re arrogant. and you think you’re right about everything. and your friends are absolute menaces who clearly set us up tonight.”
martin chuckled softly, and you felt the mattress shift as he moved again, closer this time, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “okay. that sounds like a list of reasons to hate me to me.”
you turned back to face him, and in the dark, you found his hand resting on the mattress between you. before you could think better of it, your fingers brushed against his knuckles. he didn’t pull away. in fact, he turned his hand over, palm up, waiting.
“it’s complicated,” you whispered. “it’s easier to… argue. to pretend. because if i’m busy fighting with you, i don’t have to think about how much i actually… like being around you. even when you’re being insufferable.”
there was a beat of silence, heavy and charged, and then martin’s fingers interlaced with yours, holding your hand tightly.
“god,” he breathed out, sounding relieved and exasperated all at once. “you have no idea. you have absolutely no idea. i spend every single day trying to find new things to tease you about just so you’ll look at me, or talk to me, or pay attention to me.”
he squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your skin, sending shivers up your arm.
“i don’t hate you either,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “i think i’ve liked you since… forever. but you’re so sharp, and so smart, and i was terrified you’d just laugh in my face if i said anything. so i annoyed you instead. it was the only way i knew how to be close to you without ruining everything.”
you shifted closer, closing that final gap between you, until your shoulders were touching. it felt natural. it felt right. all the tension, all the bickering, all the years of pretending, it all melted away in that one moment.
“hyein said we had tension,” you whispered, leaning your head slightly toward his shoulder. “i think she was right. just… not the bad kind.”
martin laughed softly, lifting your joined hands and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, before his gaze dropped to your lips, slow and deliberate. the playfulness in his eyes softened into something much deeper, something that made your breath catch in your throat.
“can i show you what kind of tension it really is?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
before you could even think of a teasing reply, he leaned in closer, his hand coming up gently to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone. then he kissed you. it was soft and sweet and slow, everything you had secretly imagined it would be, and more. it wasn’t rushed or messy; it was gentle, full of every unspoken feeling, every hidden thought, every moment you had spent pretending you didn’t care. his lips were warm against yours, moving with a tenderness that made your heart feel like it was melting right inside your chest. for a few perfect seconds, the rest of the world disappeared.
when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his eyes were shining in the dark.
“yeah,” he murmured, a small, happy smile playing on his lips. “definitely not the bad kind.”
he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “my friends are going to be insufferable about this. you know that, right? seonghyeon is going to high-five me every five minutes. keonho is probably already betting on how long it would take us to admit it.”
“let them,” you said, finally smiling, feeling lighter than you had in months. your fingers lingered against the place where his hand still held your face. “they can be annoying together, as a group. we’ll just… ignore them.”
martin shifted again, this time sliding his arm underneath your pillow and pulling you gently towards him, until you were lying comfortably against his chest, your head resting right over his heart. his other arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close, like he never intended to let go. the invisible line down the middle of the bed was completely gone, forgotten.
“i can work with that,” he murmured into your hair, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “just so you know… this is way better than arguing.“
you giggled before snuggling closer, wrapping your arm around his waist, breathing in that familiar scent that you loved so much. “you’re still annoying, though.”
“good,” martin replied, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter. “and you’re still stubborn. we’re perfect for each other.”
outside the door, you could hear faint whispers and stifled giggles; definitely seonghyeon, keonho, and hyein, listening at the door, making sure to tease you first thing in the morning.
🐼 aya’s note. phew! just something quick for my martin girlies!
Synopsis: The cycle. Sleep, study, eat, and repeat. Every day feels the same, yet somehow, you’re still exhausted. You don’t know why, and that’s what scares you the most. Jungwon, on the other hand, seems to have everything figured out. Good grades, sports, friends, and a life people admire. So why does he still feel so lost?
When two strangers meet at a convenience store at 4 am, both trying to escape the weight of their own lives, a connection begins to form. Through late-night walks, shared silences, and conversations neither of them expected, they slowly realize that surviving life becomes easier when someone finally understands you.
Author's note: This story is a draft I started almost a year ago. It’s been sitting unfinished for the longest time, collecting dust in my notes. Now that I’m basically in my “retirement era” from writing, I finally decided to finish it whenever I get bored at home… and yeah, the rest is history. I honestly thought I’d keep this to myself. I’ve already said I’m not really going to be a writer here in this app and that I'd stop posting. But something about this made me feel like it deserves to be seen. So here it is. My final piece and perhaps a quiet little hello from me ❤️
Caution: This story contains themes of emotional distress, burnout, anxiety, and feelings of emptiness or losing oneself. It also includes scenes of crying, loneliness, and struggles with identity and self-worth. If you ever feel this way, please know that you are not alone. It’s okay to reach out to someone you trust or seek support when things feel too heavy.
Permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20
The morning drags itself, but you don’t notice. Your steps echo in the corridors of your mind long before they reach the school floors. Eat, sleep, school, sleep again, and repeat. That’s your life, or at least, that’s what it feels like. Every movement, every word, every laugh shared with your friend feels automatic. Even climbing the stairs to your classroom leaves you feeling uncomfortable. Somewhere in the crowd, laughter bounces. Locker doors slam, sneakers squeak. You walk past it all, a ghost with a body that remembers the motions but not the meaning. You wonder if this is what living feels like or if you’re merely surviving.
While…
Jungwon’s somewhere ahead, in his own orbit, surrounded by the noise of friends. He smiles, jokes, and excels at everything that’s thrown at him. Sports, clubs, and recognition, and yet, behind the grin, an uncertainty greets him. Who am I, if none of this is me? Then, he moves through his day, letting that thought sink in his mind.
Corridors intersect. You are laughing at something your friend said. He’s talking to someone across the lockers. Your paths brush, a fleeting glance, a shadow crossing in peripheral vision, but neither notices, or perhaps you do, in the way people notice the wind stirring a leaf.
and just like that, you continue. Two separate stories, two quiet struggles, moving through the same world, unaware of how intertwined your orbits will eventually become.
♥️
You trail behind your friend, who’s already a step ahead, swinging her bag with energetic frustration. “Come on, (name)! Don’t just walk like a zombie,” your friend teases. “There’s this new cafe near the park. They have-”
“I don’t feel like it,” you interrupt softly, feeling the words escape before you can stop them. You shrug, hiding behind a small smile. I didn’t even do anything today. Your friend stops, tilting her head, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Seriously? You’ve been stuck in your room all week, and now you’re too tired to get out?”
You shake your head, your fingers brushing against the strap of your bag. “It’s not- I’m just tired. That’s all.”
You walk in silence for a few steps. Your friend hums, trying to break the heaviness blanketing the air. “You know,” she says after a pause, softer now, “sometimes I think you push yourself too hard… or you don’t give yourself credit. You do stuff, you… don’t notice it.”
You swallow. You don’t answer. You don’t know how to explain that everything you do feels meaningless, even the things you’re proud of. The hallway goes on. You notice some guy now, a few steps ahead, laughing with his friends. He seems so certain, so loud, so alive… and yet, you think, he probably doesn’t feel it either.
Your friend bumps your shoulder lightly, pulling you back from your spiral. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, but you feel bad lying to your friend like this. I’m tired, and I haven’t even done anything worth being tired for. They reach the corner of the school, the chatter of other students fading behind you. Your friend glances at you, eyebrows raised, searching. “(Name), I know you’re thinking about something. Wanna talk?”
You let a breath slip. “It’s nothing. I’m tired, like I said.” Your voice falters, but you hide it behind a nod. Your friend doesn’t push further, instead looping her arm through yours. “Okay… well, whenever you want, I’m here. Even if it’s to sit in the park and do nothing.”
Your chest tightens at the words, a strange comfort in the simple offer. Even doing nothing with someone doesn’t feel pointless. That’s… new.
In that moment, for a second, the heavy loop of your day feels a fraction lighter.
♥️
Jungwon moves through the school with his shoulders back and laughter easy. His friends flit around him, teasing while bumping into him with the kind of closeness that feels effortless to outsiders. “Bro, did you see my dunk yesterday? It’s good, right?” one asks, nudging him.
Jungwon chuckles. “Yeah, man, you crushed it,” he replies, because that’s what you say when you’re part of a group. You agree, encourage, and belong. Yet even as they walk, his mind fades, as if his body is there but not him. Every compliment, every cheer, every high-five is a mirror showing someone he doesn’t recognize. Is this me? he wonders, watching his reflection in the polished lockers. He’s doing everything, excelling at everything, yet he feels like a blank canvas where the strokes aren’t even his.
His friends start joking about weekend plans. “You in, or are you gonna ghost like last time?” one teases. Jungwon smiles because he’s expected to say yes, but inside, he shrugs. What am I even signing up for? It’s not laziness. It’s not boredom. It’s the gnawing sense that nothing sticks, that everything done is just… done.
Somewhere in the crowded corridor, a student walks past. A girl, head slightly bowed, energy quiet but deliberate. He doesn’t know the girl. He doesn’t even register her as a person yet. Only a passing figure in the blur of bodies. That’s it. Nothing more.
The group moves on, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls, and the moment disappears entirely. She was gone from his awareness, as if she had never been there.
♥️
The door clicks shut behind you, and the world outside shrinks into nothing. You lean against it, letting the weight of the day settle into your bones. Your bag slides to the floor with a thud. You slowly change out of your uniform, each movement deliberate. The fabric falls away, and with it a part of the mask you’ve worn all day. Standing there in silence, you wonder: Does it even matter?
Finally, you sink onto your bed, the sheets cool against your skin. Your phone rests in your palm, but you don’t scroll. You stare at it, the blank screen reflecting your own tired eyes at you. You talk softly, almost to yourself. “What am I even doing…?” Your voice sounds small in the quiet room, swallowed by shadows. “I wake up. I go through the motions. I sleep. I do it all again and… nothing sticks.”
You prop your head on your hand, the other hand tapping the bed unconsciously. Am I the same as yesterday? The day before? You think about the people you passed in the corridors, the friends laughing, the boy whose face never quite stays in your memory, and a strange feeling of envy and pity settles in your chest. They have… something. I don’t even know what I have.
Your thoughts drift further, spiraling but controlled, like a slow eddy in a wide river. “Do I want anything?” you whisper. The question is dangerous because it has no answer. You imagine possibilities but immediately crush them with indifference. I don’t want. I can’t want. Nothing will change anyway.
A sigh slips out, and you turn your gaze back to the ceiling, looking at the familiar shapes of your room you’ve seen a thousand times before, yet nothing feels like home. Does it even matter that I’m tired? That I exist in this loop?
You shift slightly, hugging your knees to your chest, and finally admit the truth aloud. “I’m existing but not really living it.” Your phone vibrates once, a message from your friend. You glance at it but don’t respond. You know you can’t explain this yet. Not now. Not to anyone. Not even yourself completely.
In the silence that follows, you let yourself sleep, somewhere between thought and nothing, letting the ache of simply being here fill the room.
♥️
The door clicks shut behind Jungwon, but there’s no moment to breathe. He drops his backpack by the side, already reaching for the sports bag slung over his shoulder. Every day has a cycle: practice, training, and study. Even home is just another arena to move through.
He pulls off his shoes, loosens his tie, but the motions are automatic. Every item removed feels like shedding armor rather than comfort. His muscles ache, not from exertion, but from repetition, from the relentless expectation to perform. Who am I beneath all this? he wonders, standing in front of the mirror. This is not him at all.
He flops onto the bed, still in uniform, and stares at the ceiling. His phone lights up with notifications, his friends asking about weekend plans, reminders about club schedules, and messages from family. He scrolls mechanically, reading each line without processing a single word. Every ping reminds him that the world is moving, and he is moving along, but not with it.
He mutters to himself, almost in disbelief, “I do everything… and I’m still not anything.” His voice is low. He imagines all the achievements he’s collected: medals, accolades, compliments, but they’re distant, as if someone else earned them. All of this… and I don’t know who I am.
He sits up, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. Calloused from practice but empty. Am I just this version of me for everyone else? The thought hangs heavy. He wants to scream but there’s nowhere to release it. A sigh escapes him. He tosses the phone aside, letting silence fill the room.
Maybe no one knows me.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling tiles, Jungwon realizes the truth. He has always been moving, always showing, and yet he’s never truly known himself.
♥️
The clock ticks.
click… click… click
The ceiling stares back at you. Sleep refuses you, a stubborn passenger refusing to leave the car. You swing your legs off the bed and move on autopilot, pulling on a hoodie and shoes. The streets are quiet, and you walk without purpose, only following the pull of a neon light in the distance. Going to a small shop that is open all night, full of cheap snacks and drinks stacked on shelves. You like it. It feels like a secret space that exists for people like you. The tired, the wandering, the restless. You wander the aisles, fingers brushing the packaged goods. Your eyes settle on something small, sweet, and cheap. You grab it, ignoring the burn of exhaustion in your legs.
The cashier, a sleepy-eyed young man with a thin smile, nods at you. “Long night?”
You shrug. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep.”
He nods. “It’s always like that at this hour.” His voice is soft. You nod in return, slide the money across the counter, and leave without another word. Outside, you find a corner by the curb, sitting on the cold concrete. The package rests in your lap. You open it, take a bite, and the simple sweetness of it feels almost sacred.
Then it comes. The tears. It felt hot and uninvited. They spill down your face in uneven tracks. You don’t know why. You don’t have a reason. You cry. The exhaustion, the emptiness, the existence without meaning. It all comes out at once. You whisper to yourself between sobs, “I’m so tired… I don’t even know why I’m like this…”
Your hands shake as you clutch the snack, grounding yourself in something tangible, something yours. For a moment, the world stops.
♥️
Jungwon didn’t know where he was going. The streets were empty. His sneakers scuffed softly against the pavement, echoing in the quiet. He didn’t know how long he had been walking. Minutes? Hours? Time had no meaning anymore; the routine of doing everything, achieving everything, and still feeling nothing had stripped it away.
He thought about turning back, about climbing into bed, but sleep had long stopped being a refuge. The night seemed easier to bear than another day of smiling and pretending, but then… he saw you.
You were sitting on the curb. A snack in your hands, your hoodie pulled tight, tears tracing your cheeks. He froze, hesitating a step away. Should I…? The question didn’t even form into words. He didn’t know you. He didn’t know if he should look, move, or care.
Though something, he didn’t know what, pulled at him. He stayed where he was, watching, merely witnessing your existence could somehow matter. The tears, the shaking hands, the solitude, it all felt foreign and familiar at once. Why is she crying? he wondered, though he knew the answer wouldn’t matter. Some pain didn’t need understanding. Some pain only existed.
His hesitation continued, long enough for him to notice how fragile you looked, how small and human. The urge to move closer battles with the caution in his chest, with the unknown barrier of silence. For now, he stays there, strangely aware that this moment means something he cannot yet name. After a while, he finally steps closer, keeping a respectful distance. His voice is unsure, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile bubble around you. “Hey… are you okay?”
You flinch at the sound, turning your head enough to see him. Your hands clutch the snack tighter, your breath catching. You don’t answer immediately. The tears keep coming. Finally, you mutter, almost to yourself, “I… I don’t know.”
You almost regret it the moment the words leave your lips. You could have said you’re fine. You could have said nothing. Let him walk away, leave you alone. You could have maintained the quiet solitude of the night, but you didn’t. You said it, and now it’s out there.
He nods slowly, because that’s all he can do. “Yeah… me neither,” he admits. His own voice is softer now, a mirror of your uncertainty. “Sometimes… I don’t even know what I’m doing with myself. I walk, I move, I… exist, and it’s like nothing sticks.”
You glance at him with recognition, not of him personally but in the way he speaks. Your shoulders sag slightly in relief at being understood, even by a stranger. “You think anyone notices?” you whisper. “Or… cares?”
He shrugs, letting his words come deliberately. “I don’t know. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, but even if no one sees it, even if it doesn’t change anything… what you feel still exists.” You stare down at your hands. For the first time tonight, the emptiness feels slightly less absolute. “Thanks,” you murmur, not knowing why, not even sure you mean it.
He gives a small nod. “Don’t feel like you have to explain it. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
There, on the sidewalk, two strangers sit together in shared solitude. Neither saves the other. Neither fixes anything. For now, all he can do is stay, letting the silence hold them, letting your sniffles reach his ears.
You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand. “I know it’s ridiculous,” you whisper to yourself. “Crying in the middle of the night, holding food.” A shaky laugh escapes you. You take another bite. The tears keep falling, but now there’s a strange relief in it. You haven’t cried like this in a while. Not since everything started feeling like a loop you couldn’t escape. “I don’t even know why,” you admit, almost surprised at yourself. “I’m not sad. I’m just tired. Tired of everything. Tired of feeling like I’m moving and yet not going anywhere. Perhaps that’s it.”
Your hands shake as you hug the snack to your chest. The world is still empty. The streets are still quiet, but for a brief moment, letting it out, letting yourself be completely exposed in this ridiculous, lonely way, it feels… human. Maybe it’s okay to feel this. Maybe it’s okay to exist like this for a moment without pretending.
The soft shuffle of someone approaching makes you glance up. He’s still there, respectful at a distance. He doesn’t say anything. He hears you… and for now, that is enough.
He exhales softly, unsure if his voice will make it worse or better, but the words slip out anyway. “You don’t have to be alone,” he says. “Even if it’s stupid or messy, you don’t have to do it by yourself.” You glance at him, startled. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. Your throat feels tight, raw from crying and unsaid thoughts.
He moves slowly, then sits down on the cold pavement a little ways from you. After a moment, he murmurs again, “I don’t know you. I don’t even know why you’re crying, but I think it’s okay to feel like this. To just let it out.”
“I don’t- I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you admit.
He nods, as if understanding more than words can say. “Sometimes you don’t need a reason. It doesn’t make it any less real or wrong.”
You inhale shakily. He doesn’t say more. He sits there, letting the night hold you both, letting your tears fade into uneven sniffles. You wipe your cheeks again and finally find your voice. “Why are you walking around in the middle of the night?”
He didn’t expect that question. A small silence went between you. Then, slowly, he realizes that maybe he needs to answer. Not for you. Not to explain, but because you let yourself be open first, because the night feels safer somehow, even with a stranger beside you.
“I don’t know,” he admits, almost surprised even to himself. “I just walked. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know how long I’ve been walking. I guess I just needed to move. I needed to feel something that isn’t noise.” His hands rest on his knees, fingers tapping against the fabric of his pants. “I didn’t expect to talk about it… but… you made it feel okay. Weirdly, I feel like I can say it here, now.”
You glance at him, listening.
“I do everything,” he continues. “Sports, clubs, school, friends… and none of it feels like me. I’m always doing, but I don’t know who I am when no one’s watching. That’s why I walk.” He then stares at the ground, not at you. “I didn’t think I’d say this to anyone tonight. Least of all, to someone I don’t even know. Although it feels right, I guess because you… you’re here. And you said what you said. And now I… don’t know. I just felt like I could.”
Silence settles again. For a moment, it’s just two strangers, sitting side by side in the emptiness of 4 am, both unburdening pieces of themselves that the world never asked to see. You sniffle one last time, wiping the corner of your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m (name),” you say quietly.
He is surprised, not by the name itself, but by the ease it brings, the permission it gives him to put a word to you, too, finally. “I’m Jungwon,” he replies, the name awkward in his mouth at first. He glances at you briefly, then looks down. Saying it feels strange, but somehow right.
“You don’t have to say anything else,” you murmur, a small, shy smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I just thought you should know who you’re talking to.” He nods slowly. “Yeah, me too. Makes it feel less like I’m just floating alone out here.”
You hesitate for a moment, then hold it out toward him. “Do you want some?” you ask softly. He freezes, surprised by the offer. Then he shakes his head slowly, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. “You brought food to cry over?” he teases gently.
You snort, covering your mouth with your sleeve. “Hey… it’s… comforting,” you say, cheeks pink.
He laughs, low and unexpected. “Comforting? I guess… I can see that.”
The sound of your laughter fills the quiet street. For a few moments, the weight of the day, the exhaustion, the emptiness all fade just slightly. You sit there, side by side, sharing a simple snack and a laugh, two strangers who have, in a strange, fleeting way, found a tiny fragment of understanding in the middle of 4 am.
You finally set the snack wrapper aside. “I should probably get back,” you murmur reluctantly. He nods, slowly standing, the ache of connection tugging at him. “Yeah, me too,” he says, not moving closer, letting the space between you remain respectful.
For a moment, you both hesitate, the unspoken understanding comforting. You had shared pieces of yourselves tonight, and that was enough. Neither of you needed more. You stand first, brushing the crumbs from your hands, and offer a small wave. “Goodnight Jungwon.”
“Goodnight (name),” he replies.
Then, without another word, you turn in opposite directions.
♥️
The sun felt a little too bright today for your tired eyes. You moved with the same way you always did, feet brushing the floor in the familiar drag of routine. Classes, assignments, the chatter of other students, it all felt slightly lighter, though you couldn’t explain why.
Your mind kept going, unpredictably, to that night. The sidewalk, the cheap snack, the stranger who had listened. You remembered the way he had sat, hesitant but present, the soft timbre of his voice, the way he didn’t try to fix you or demand anything from you. The memory made the heaviness of your days feel a little more bearable.
Across the school courtyard, Jungwon moved among his friends, though even in the middle of the day, between classes and routines, his thoughts wandered unexpectedly to you, the girl on the curb, the one he had sat beside in silence. The image of you, fragile but steady in your vulnerability, had planted itself quietly in his mind.
Neither of you spoke of that night again, well, not that he has any contact with you whatsoever, considering that he just met you once, but it was nice.
You glanced at the clock, chewing your lip slightly. Thinking that he was likely somewhere in some school already, moving through the motions of his own life and yet… you couldn’t stop thinking of him, the memory of his hesitant presence threading through your day.
He, too, felt you. Your absence, your quietness, your honesty. The world felt slightly less empty, slightly more… possible. For a brief moment, in the middle of the monotony of school, both of you, separately, were thinking of each other, feeling that small, inexplicable warmth that comes from being seen, even once, in a way no one else had.
Weeks later…
You ducked into the small school library to escape the noise of the busy campus, hoping for a few minutes before your next class. Shelves lined with books and the faint sound of the air conditioner… this was your refuge, your corner of solitude. You turned the corner near the reference section and froze. Jungwon?….
He was there too, leaning over a table stacked with textbooks, flipping through pages with that precise attention he always seemed to have. He looked up, and their eyes met. For a long moment, neither spoke. Surprise mirrored in their expressions, recognition flashing between them. “You go here?” you asked softly.
He was caught off guard, then a small, half-smile tugged at his lips. “I didn’t expect you here.”
Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your bag. “Yeah… I guess we’ve never… crossed paths before. I mean, the school is huge, but…” You trailed off, laughing softly at the absurdity of it. He chuckled, the sound relieved. “Right. Crazy, I keep thinking about that night, and now… here we are. Same school.”
You nodded, a small smile playing at your lips. “Here we are.”
He closed his textbook slowly and looked at you. “Do you want to go outside for a bit?”
You were surprised by the invitation, but nodded. “Sure… I guess a little fresh air wouldn’t hurt.”
You walked out together, the campus grounds quieter now between classes. The noise of students far ahead felt distant, and for the first time in days, the world felt normal. “So… same school?” he said, trying to keep the conversation light. “I really didn’t expect to see you here.”
You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me neither. Honestly, I thought we’d never cross paths again. The city’s huge, and you seem like you move through it all so fast.”
Jungwon smirked. “I try, but apparently, I move too fast to notice the important things,” he teased, glancing at you. “like library corners with snacks or… unexpected people.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting to meet someone I… you know… shared a midnight snack with, in my own life either.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that was weird, huh? In a good way, I guess.”
You walked along the path in comfortable silence for a moment. Neither of you felt the need to rush, to fill every space with words. “So, do you come to the library often?” he asked. You shrugged. “Not really. Only when I need a place to escape… everything else. Apparently, it works for me except today, since I ran into you.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah, lucky me,” he said, shaking his head. “I was trying to find somewhere to focus. And instead, I found… well, you.”
You tilted your head. “I feel honored.”
Then you muttered, “It’s weird, isn’t it? Running into someone at 4 am on the street… and then here. In the same school. It’s like the universe is messing with us.”
He chuckled. “It just reminds us that the world is smaller than we think.”
You smiled faintly, glancing at him, then looking away. “Yeah, smaller, but still big enough to surprise us.”
You walked in silence for a bit longer, both feeling it. Neither brought up the idea of meeting again, but both knew they’d remember this unexpected encounter. Finally, you stopped near the edge of the campus. “I guess I should head to class,” you said, trying to sound casual, though your heart felt lighter than it had in days.
He nodded, a small smile still on his face. “Yeah, me too. See you around, (name).”
“See you,” you echoed, and with a final glance, you parted on separate paths, but a quiet thread now tied between you both.
♥️
The day had been loud in a way that clung to you long after classes ended. Teachers talking, chairs scraping, friends laughing across tables, well, none of it was bad, yet somehow it felt like too much. By the time the last bell rang, your head felt crowded with thoughts that didn’t have anywhere to go. Instead of heading home, your feet brought you to the quieter side of the science building.
There was a staircase leading to the rooftop, though the door at the top was always locked. Students rarely bothered climbing it because there wasn’t really a reason to, but the landing just below the door had a tall window overlooking the soccer field. That small space was enough.
You sat on one of the steps and leaned your head back against the wall. Outside, the soccer team practiced loudly, their voices distant and carried by the wind. From here, it sounded far enough away not to feel overwhelming. For a while, you stayed there. Your fingers traced the seam of your sleeve as your breathing slowly evened out. It wasn’t happiness exactly, but it was quieter than the day had been.
Then the door at the bottom of the stairwell creaked open. Footsteps echoed upward. The sound bounced lightly off the walls. You lifted your head slightly, listening as the steps climbed closer. A moment later, someone appeared. Huh… Jungwon?
He stopped halfway up the stairs when he saw you sitting there. His hand rested on the railing, surprise seen across his face. For a second, neither of you spoke. “Oh,” he said quietly.
You sat up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
Then he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t know you came here,” he admitted.
You glanced around the stairwell briefly before answering. “I didn’t know you did either.”
He stayed standing on the step for another second. The hesitation was obvious enough that you noticed it. “You can sit here if you want,” you said, nodding slightly beside you. “I don’t mind.”
He seemed a little surprised by the offer, but he walked up the rest of the steps and sat down beside you. His backpack rested between his feet, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. The quiet returned almost immediately. Through the window, the soccer team shouted to each other across the field. Their voices were heard through the glass. You glanced at him after a moment. “Bad day?” you asked softly.
His shoulders lifted slightly before dropping again.
“…Yeah.”
You nodded slowly.
“What happened?”
He stared at the step beneath his shoes before answering. “Nothing specific,” he said after a moment. “That’s the annoying part. It’s like… I keep doing all these things,” he continued. “Classes, practice, hanging out with people. I’m busy all the time, but sometimes, it feels like none of it actually means anything.”
You watched the sunlight shift across the floor.
“I get that,” you said softly.
He glanced at you, a little surprised.
“You do?”
You shrugged lightly.
“Sometimes the day ends, and I feel exhausted,” you said. “Though, when I think about it, I didn’t really do anything that mattered.”
He let out a small laugh. “Yeah. Exactly.” After a moment, he spoke again. “I didn’t even realize I was walking here,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “Here?”
He nodded slightly. “I needed somewhere quiet,” he said. “Guess I accidentally picked the same place as you.”
You looked around the stairwell, then back toward the window. “Well,” you said after a moment, “good accident.” He smiled faintly at that. He shifted slightly on the step, glancing out the window at the soccer field. “So you come here often when you need to think?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Not really. It’s only whenever the day feels too loud. This place is quiet, at least. It doesn’t ask anything from me.”
He nodded slowly, as if understanding more than the words said. “Yeah, I get that. Sometimes I wander without a reason, to not feel… stuck.”
You looked at him then, a little surprised. “You wander a lot?”
“Too much,” he admitted with a small smile. “I don’t always know why I end up where I do.”
You laughed softly, the sound light in the stairwell. “Sounds familiar,” you said. “I do the same thing. Only I don’t usually find people… here.”
He glanced at you. “Yeah… lucky me,” he muttered, almost to himself.
You rolled your eyes playfully, but you weren’t annoyed. “Lucky you? I’m the one who has to deal with your random company.”
He laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “Although, I like it.”
You nodded. “Yeah, I like that too.”
A few moments of comfortable silence passed, neither of you needing to fill it. Then he glanced at you, slightly hesitant. “Do you ever feel like you’re just going through the motions?”
You sighed softly, looking down at your hands. “All the time. Sometimes I even feel invisible. It’s as if I’m here, but nothing I do matters. And then I come here, and it’s like someone might notice, just by being here.”
He studied your expression for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said quietly. “It’s exhausting, doing everything and still feeling like you’re nothing.”
You looked up at him then, caught off guard by the honesty. “Yeah… exactly,” you whispered. He shifted a little closer, not touching you, just sharing the space. “I don’t know why I told you all this,” he said. “But I’m glad I did.”
You smiled faintly. “Me too,” you said softly, feeling the heaviness in your chest lighten ever so slightly.
He leaned back slightly against the wall, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, I don’t usually do this,” he started, “but do you want to… exchange numbers? Maybe talk sometimes? Get to know each other a little?”
You were caught off guard. “Uh… talk sometimes?” you echoed.
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his hands for a moment. “I don’t know… it’s weird to say, but… I feel like… maybe we’re supposed to… know each other better. You know? Since… well, we’ve already shared… that night.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. That night… You hadn’t expected it to matter this much, and yet… the thought made your chest tighten.
“Yeah…” you whispered finally, a small smile forming. “I… I’d like that.”
His face brightened. “Cool. I’ll send you a message later, then. Nothing big, only talking. No pressure.”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “No pressure.”
He glanced at you one last time before reaching for his phone. “I’m glad I found you here today,” he said.
You met his gaze and nodded. “Me too,” you said.
♥️
You got home and dropped your bag by the door. Changing into your soft, worn pajamas, you sank onto your bed and stared at your phone. The day had been tiring, but for some reason, it didn’t feel as heavy anymore. Your phone buzzed. His name flashed across the screen.
Jungwon: Hey! made it home okay?
you typed back
You: Yeah, you?
Jungwon: Same. Long day
You: Definitely. I want to crash now 🙃
Jungwon: Me too ✊
A moment passed. Then,
Jungwon: Random question
Jungwon: Do you wanna go to that store again? Ya know the one that’s open 24/7
You glanced down at your pajamas and laughed quietly.
You: I’m already in my weird PJs…
Jungwon: Same, but I don’t mind. You still wanna go?
You hesitated for a moment, then typed back.
You: Yeah… okay.
Jungwon: Cool
You slipped on your jacket and laced up your shoes, stepping outside for the first time since changing. The night air was cool, brushing against your face. You walked slowly, letting the breeze fill the quiet spaces in your chest. For some reason, the thought of Jungwon, the sudden invite, the randomness of it all, didn’t bother you at all.
Pushing open the door to the store, the sound of the refrigerators and the faint smell of fried snacks, and there he was. Your eyes landed on Jungwon immediately, jacket on over PJs, hair a little mussed, looking slightly out of place but calm. He glanced up, and his face brightened just a little. “Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey,” you replied, feeling your lips twitch into a small smile.
You both wandered the aisles, the faint pop music around you, picking up snacks almost absentmindedly, then paying for it. Chips, candy, maybe something sweet to wash down the small bottles of soda. Nothing extravagant. You carried your snacks toward the small empty table near the window. Jungwon followed, balancing his own choices in his hands. You both sat down, the table feeling oddly like a little island away from the rest of the world. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You opened your bag of chips and nudged them toward him. “Here, if you want,” you said casually.
He picked one up, smirked, and said, “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
“You were the one who suggested coming,” you replied, crunching a chip and leaning back slightly in your chair.
He laughed quietly, a soft sound that made the space feel warmer. “Fair point.”
The two of you sat there for a few minutes, eating and letting the quiet settle comfortably around you. Outside, cars passed by, but here it was just you and Jungwon, and the simple feeling of being somewhere neither of you had to pretend. “You’re actually okay with being in PJs out here?” you asked, glancing at him.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t mind. It feels easier this way.” You nodded, thinking how strange it was to feel this normal, this calm, sitting across from Jungwon, who was a stranger a few weeks ago. You slid the bag of chips toward the middle of the table and glanced at what he bought. “You really picked the sweetest snacks here,” you said, tapping the candy bar he placed down.
He looked down at it and shrugged. “Long day,” he said. “Sugar fixes most things.”
“You’re going to crash later,” you replied, pushing a bottle of water toward him. “At least drink this too.”
He chuckled softly but took the water anyway. “Okay, that’s actually good advice.” Jungwon continued, “So,” he said after a bite of his snack, “what do you usually do when your day gets too much?”
You thought for a second before answering. “I walk,” you said. “Not fast. It’s just until my head clears a bit.”
He nodded, probably storing the idea somewhere. “That’s actually better than what I do.”
“What do you do?”
“I just added more things to my schedule,” Jungwon admitted. “It’s like if I’m busy enough, I won’t think about it.”
You gave him a look across the table. “That sounds like the worst strategy ever.”
He laughed under his breath. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.”
“Maybe try doing less for one day,” you suggested. “You should actually start choosing what you want to do instead of everything at once.”
He tilted his head a little, considering it. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not, but you can try,” you said.
He rested his elbow on the table. “Alright,” Jungwon said. “Then what about you?”
“What about me?”
“If walking doesn’t work,” he said, “what’s the backup plan?”
You thought of his question for a while.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
He nodded toward the snack in your hand. “Maybe start with eating properly instead of sitting on the ground at four in the morning.”
You laughed unexpectedly at that.
“Okay,” you said, pointing at him. “That’s fair.”
“See?” he said, leaning back slightly. “Advice goes both ways.”
The conversation drifted from there. Little things, small suggestions, random stories about school and people you both knew but never really noticed before. Neither of you was trying too hard to keep the conversation going. It just moved on its own. At one point, you reached for the chips again and realized Jungwon had quietly pushed them closer to your side of the table.
You both finished most of the snacks without realizing it. The wrappers sat loosely on the table, and the bottles were nearly empty. You gathered the empty wrappers into one pile and stood up. He followed your lead, tossing the trash into the bin near the counter. The cashier barely glanced up as the two of you stepped back outside. The air felt cooler than before. You zipped your jacket a little higher while Jungwon shoved his hands into his pockets. For a second, neither of you moved, then he nodded toward the sidewalk. “Walk?” he asked.
You shrugged lightly. “Sure.”
So you started walking. The streets were mostly empty at that hour, with only the occasional car passing, and the streetlights across the pavement were visible. Your footsteps matched without either of you trying. He kicked a small pebble along the sidewalk absentmindedly. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I don’t usually stay up this late walking around.”
You glanced at him. “Really? You seemed pretty experienced.”
He laughed. “That was a one-time thing.”
You nodded slowly, looking ahead again. A few steps later, Jungwon spoke again, a little more hesitant this time.
“Do you think we could do this again sometime?”
You looked at him, slightly confused. “Walk?”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or the snack thing or just talking like this.” He gestured vaguely around the quiet street. “Not like a big plan or anything,” he added quickly. “Perhaps sometimes.”
You thought about it for a moment. It didn’t feel like a big decision.
“Yeah,” you said.
He glanced over at you, a small smile forming.
“Yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes is fine.”
Jungwon looked forward again, the smile staying on his face as the two of you kept walking, your footsteps continuing down the road.
♥️
Days started slipping by faster than you expected. Not because life suddenly became busy or exciting, but because somewhere between classes, late-night walks, and conversations, time just moved differently.
You and Jungwon started meeting as if it had always been normal. Sometimes it was the same 24-hour store, sometimes it was walking down the street with drinks in your hands. The night was always calmer than the day, and both of you seemed to understand that without needing to explain it. Most of the time, you didn’t even talk about anything serious.
You’d complain about school, laugh about small things that happened during the day, or point out random stuff on the street. Sometimes he’d tell you about something stupid his friends did, and you’d shake your head while trying not to laugh too loud in the quiet neighborhood.
During school, you’d occasionally run into Jungwon, too. Passing by near the courtyard, sitting somewhere quiet during free time, or walking together for a bit before heading to your next class. It wasn’t planned most of the time, but it kept happening somehow. And after school, when both of you were free, the walking continued.
Side by side, sometimes talking, sometimes listening to the sound of your footsteps and the wind brushing past. The city at night felt slower, giving people space to breathe.
You noticed something after a while.
The heaviness you used to carry around every day didn’t disappear. Your thoughts still wandered the same way, the same questions about what you were doing and where you were going still showed up in quiet moments, but it didn’t sit on your chest the same way anymore. Somehow, sharing time with him made it feel lighter.
It’s not like Jungwon solved anything. Not like he fixed the things you struggled with. Though when the two of you walked together or sat somewhere with cheap snacks and quiet conversation, the weight didn’t feel like it belonged to you alone anymore.
It was late afternoon. You sat on the low concrete steps near the fence in the school courts. Students were scattered around the field, some finishing practice, others watching and talking. You rested your chin on your hand, eyes drifting toward the court where Jungwon was still playing.
He moved quickly across the floor, sneakers squeaking with every pivot. You didn’t really understand all the plays, but you could tell he was focused. Now and then, he’d glance toward the sidelines, as if he were checking if practice was almost over.
When the whistle finally blew, the players started gathering their things. Jungwon wiped his face with the edge of his shirt before spotting you sitting there. His expression changed immediately, from surprised to amused. “You’ve been here this whole time?” he asked as he walked over, grabbing his bag.
You shrugged lightly. “I had time.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder, still catching his breath. “You could’ve texted. I would’ve finished faster.”
“That would’ve been unfair to your team,” you replied.
He laughed under his breath at that, shaking his head a little. “You sound like my coach.”
You stood up from the steps and brushed your hands against your jacket. The sky had started turning that soft orange that meant evening wasn’t far away. “So,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Walking?”
You nodded like it was obvious. The two of you left the school grounds together, stepping onto the sidewalk while the noise from the courts faded behind you. The air outside felt cooler now, and the streets were starting to quiet down as people headed home. Jungwon walked beside you, swinging his bag slightly. “You really didn’t have to wait,” he said after a few minutes.
“I know,” you answered.
He glanced at you briefly, then looked forward again.
“Still did, though.”
You shrugged. “I was already there.”
He let out a small laugh. The two of you kept walking under the dimming sky, your pace naturally matching. The conversation drifted in and out, small things and random observations. Somehow, the walk home felt shorter than usual.
♥️
The room was quiet except for the sound of the clock somewhere in the house. You sat on the couch, knees pulled slightly toward you, staring out the window without really seeing anything. The sky outside had already darkened, the glass reflecting your own still figure at you. Your thoughts moved in slow circles.
Why am I this tired?
It’s not a tiredness that sleep could fix, or something that sat somewhere deeper, but it felt like even small things are heavier than they should. You tried to shake it off, pressing your fingers against your temple, but the feeling stayed. Your chest tightened a little. You wiped your face quickly when you realized tears had already slipped down. “Crying again, huh,” you muttered to yourself, letting out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
Across the city, Jungwon sat on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His room was dim, the only light coming from the lamp near his desk. His basketball bag was still on the floor where he dropped it earlier. It had been one of those days.
Nothing had gone particularly wrong, but something still felt off. He kept thinking about everything he was doing, practice, school, friends, and how none of it seemed to answer the question he kept asking himself.
Who am I actually trying to be?
He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at his phone on the desk. For a moment, he hesitated, thumb hovering above the screen. Then he called you. Your phone buzzed beside you on the couch. You quickly wiped your face again before picking it up, taking a breath before answering. “Hello?” you said, trying to sound normal.
“Hey,” his voice came through the speaker. “What are you doing?”
You looked back at the dark window. “Nothing much. I’m sitting around.” There was a small pause on the line. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you replied quickly. “I’m fine.”
Another silence.
He exhaled quietly. “You’re crying.”
Your grip on the phone tightened a little. “I’m not-”
“You are,” he said gently. Not accusing, but only certain. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Then he spoke again.
“I’m coming over.”
Your head snapped up slightly. “Wait, you don’t have to-”
“I’ll be there in a bit,” Jungwon said.
Before you could protest again, the line went quiet. You stared at your phone for a moment, and somewhere in the middle of the heaviness sitting in your chest, there was a small thought. He noticed.
You stayed by the window a little longer after the call ended, hugging your arms around yourself. Every thought in your head seemed louder than the last, echoing the same question over and over. Why am I so tired?
Minutes passed before a soft knock sounded from the door. You wiped your face quickly, though the tears kept slipping down anyway. When you opened it, Jungwon was already standing there, slightly out of breath, looking as if he had rushed the whole way. The moment he saw your face, your swollen eyes, your trembling lips, his expression fell. Before you could say anything, he pulled you into his arms.
His hug was tight, warm, and immediate. One hand pressed gently against the back of your head, shielding you from the world. For a moment, you just stood there in the doorway, frozen in his hold. “I’m so exhausted,” you whispered against his shoulder, your voice cracking. “I don’t even know why everything feels so heavy lately.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as another sob slipped out. “No matter what I do, I still feel this tired.”
He didn’t interrupt you. Jungwon just held you a little closer, steady and firm, like he was making sure you wouldn’t drift anywhere. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he murmured. “Stay like this for a bit.”
You eventually ended up on the couch, though neither of you remembered exactly how. His arms were still wrapped around you, one around your shoulders while the other rested protectively over your hands. Your face was buried against his chest, your breathing uneven as the sobs kept slipping out. Time passed in a blur.
Maybe it was thirty minutes. Maybe even an hour. You honestly couldn’t tell. The only thing you were aware of was the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the gentle way his hand kept brushing over your hair, slow and patient. You cried the whole time, and he stayed there through all of it, never once pulling away, never once asking you to stop. And somehow, in the middle of all that warmth, the world didn’t feel quite as unbearable as it had a while ago.
You lifted your head from his chest, sniffing, eyes red and puffy. Your voice was small. “I’m scared,” you admitted. “Of… of feeling like this. Of everything being too much.” He moved slightly so he could look at you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “Hey,” he murmured, “it’s okay. You’re not alone.”
You tried to steady yourself. “I… I don’t even know why it hits me like this sometimes. I get up, I do everything, I try… and yet… I still feel like I’m drowning.” He tightened his arms around you just a little more, holding you firmly but not forcefully. “I get it,” he said quietly. “I don’t have all the answers either, but I’m here. You don’t have to face it by yourself.”
You sniffled again. “It’s scary, you know? To feel like this and not have a way out.”
“I know, but sometimes you don’t need a way out. Sometimes you need someone to stay with you. That’s all I’m doing,” he said, voice steady and soft. You let out a shaky breath, resting your head back against his chest. You sniffled again, hesitating for a moment before the words escaped. “…Can you… stay tonight?” you whispered. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
He paused, then nodded without a word. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’ll stay.” You let out a quiet breath, relief settling in your chest even as the tears still prickled your eyes. “Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible, curling a little closer against him.
He adjusted slightly, making sure you were comfortable on the couch, his arms still wrapped around you protectively. “No need to thank me,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a long while, you lay there, the night settling around you. His presence stayed steady, an anchor against everything that had been too loud in your head. You didn’t say anything more, but you didn’t need to.
♥️
You stirred slowly, the first light of morning creeping through the curtains. Blinking a few times, you realized you were no longer on the couch. You were in your bed, and he was lying there next to you, still asleep. For a moment, you just watched him, careful not to move too much.
Thump… thump…
Your chest fluttered unexpectedly at the rhythm of your heartbeat, a strange new feeling prickling. Your face was still swollen from all the crying, and you traced a finger across your cheek, noticing the warmth of tears. Yet somehow… with him there, it didn’t feel heavy anymore. The exhaustion, the worry, the ache…it all felt softer. The sun peeked through the window, scattering pale gold across the room. You exhaled slowly, letting yourself sink back into the warmth. Everything felt like it might just be okay.
He stirred beside you, a low groan escaping him as he stretched lazily, still half in that sleepy haze. His eyes blinked open, meeting yours for the first time that morning, and his gaze somehow made the room feel warmer. “Morning,” he said, his voice low and rough from sleep.
“Morning,” you replied quietly, your fingers nervously twisting the edge of the blanket. Don’t make it weird… just breathe. He moved slightly closer, not crowding you, but enough to make his presence reassuring. “Sleep okay?” he asked gently, his tone careful, as if he could feel your still-fragile state.
You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah… better than last night,” you admitted.
He nodded. “Good,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “That’s all that matters right now.”
You moved a little on the bed, trying not to wake him, then finally cleared your throat. “Uh… do you want breakfast?” you asked, your voice still soft from sleep. He stretched his arms above his head before sitting up slowly. “Breakfast?” he repeated, his voice that same low, heavy comfort you’d gotten used to. “Yeah… I could eat. You making something?”
You nodded. “I think I have some eggs and bread. Maybe we can keep it simple.” He smiled faintly, that lazy, half-awake smile that made your chest flutter. Why does that feel like that? “Simple’s fine,” he said. “After last night, I don’t think I can handle anything fancy.”
You laughed softly. “Okay… simple it is,” you said, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and standing. Your feet felt cold against the floor, and you shivered slightly as you padded toward the kitchen. He followed a moment later, still rubbing at his eyes, hair mussed from sleep. “So… you cook a lot?” he asked, leaning against the counter as you started cracking eggs into a pan.
“Not really,” you admitted, stirring gently. “Mostly when I have to, but I can manage a simple breakfast.” You glanced at him, noticing the way he watched. “What about you? Can you cook?”
He chuckled. “Depends. I can manage ramen or toast. That’s about it.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Figures,” you said, sliding the pan onto the stove. “I’m going to have to teach you some things then.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you volunteering, or…?”
“Of course I’m volunteering,” you said lightly, flipping an egg with a practiced hand. “Someone has to make sure you don’t starve.” He laughed softly, leaning closer to watch you work. “Okay… then I guess I’m in good hands.”
The two of you moved around the small kitchen. You caught yourself glancing at him more than once, noticing how his messy hair caught the sunlight, the way his shoulders relaxed when he leaned against the counter. By the time the eggs were ready, he had pulled a chair over to the small table, sitting down with a smile. “Thanks for this,” he said, almost under his breath.
You set the plates in front of him and took a seat across from him, both of you quiet for a moment. You picked up your fork, feeling that small flutter of comfort again. This morning wasn’t perfect; your face was still puffy from crying, the heavy thoughts from yesterday were still there, but with him here, with this simple breakfast and companionship, it felt easier to breathe. This is nice… don’t overthink it. “Yeah,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “this is nice.”
He looked up at you. “Yeah,” he agreed, smiling softly at you.
The rest of the day went by, almost lazily, with him still there. He wasn’t sure if he was overstaying his welcome. He knew he had somewhere to be, things to do, but every time he glanced at you, it seemed like you genuinely wanted him there.
You moved through your small routines, tidying up a little, putting on music softly, making tea, and he followed along, sometimes helping, sometimes watching. The two of you existing in the same space, talking in little bursts about random things: a show you liked, silly childhood stories. You laughed at a joke he made about his own clumsiness, and he laughed too. Small gestures like him handing you the remote, or you passing him a blanket, felt meaningful without needing explanation.
At one point, you both ended up sitting on the couch again, sharing a comic or a game on your phone. He looked at you then, and he felt at ease. He wasn’t pretending to be anything; he didn’t have to hide his own exhaustion or worries. This is… okay. “You know,” he said after a while, voice soft, “I’m glad I came.”
You glanced at him. “Yeah, me too.”
The afternoon faded into evening, and somehow, just by being there, laughing a little, sharing small stories, exchanging advice, the two of you bonded in ways neither of you had expected. Not everything was solved, and the struggles weren’t gone, but somehow…somehow…the world felt a little lighter when you were together. You hesitated for a moment, then softly said, “Hey…”
He looked up at you, eyes curious. “Yeah?”
You swallowed. “I’m really glad I met you.” Don’t mess this up.
His lips curved into a smile. “I’m glad I met you, too,” he said. Before you could think twice, you leaned in, and he wrapped his arms around you again. It was gentle. Your cheek pressed against his chest. You stayed like that for a long while, holding each other, letting the warmth of the hug speak everything words couldn’t.
♥️
He was watching you move around. Even now, after everything, after all the tears and long nights, Jungwon feels the pull in him that tightens when you’re out of reach. He doesn’t want to be away from you. Not just tonight, not just in this moment, but in general.
I don’t want to be away from her.
He thinks about the nights you’ve spent talking, the walks, the small silences that feel more alive than any conversation with anyone else. Every time you laugh, every time you sigh, every tiny habit of yours, it draws him closer. He realizes that he can’t imagine going through his days without the thought of you in them, without your presence softening the edges of his own struggles.
Why does it feel like this already matters so much?
Even when you’re just sitting there, staring out a window or lost in thought, he feels this strange warmth in his chest, where everything is slightly better simply because you exist in it. He catches himself hoping you’ll look at him, smile, or even just let him sit nearby. The idea of leaving, even for an hour, feels wrong, where he’d be abandoning something he can’t name yet.
If I leave, it feels like I lose something I can’t replace.
It scares him a little.
Because he knows he’s feeling something stronger than friendship, something that makes him stay a moment longer than, something that makes him want to protect you, support you, and be close to you no matter what. He doesn’t say it out loud yet, not even to himself, but every time you glance up and meet his eyes, that silent thought is there: I don’t want to be away from her.
I don’t want this to stop.
The realization settles over him, quiet but undeniable. He isn’t rushing. He isn’t forcing anything, but for the first time, he understands that some connections, like this one, like the one he has with you, are worth staying for, worth guarding, worth letting grow patiently.
Tonight, like every night that follows, he knows he won’t let distance come between you, not if he can help it.
One day, the two of you wandered along the school grounds, sneakers brushing against the concrete as the cool air brushed your cheeks. At one point, he offered his jacket when a breeze swept past, and you accepted without thinking, wrapping it around your shoulders.
Later, sitting on the small steps near the school garden, he nudged you slightly with his shoulder. “You’ve gotten better at smiling,” he said teasingly. “You’ve gotten better at noticing,” you shot back, and both of you laughed softly.
Days passed into weeks, and you noticed something subtle but undeniable. The exhaustion that used to weigh down every step didn’t hit as hard anymore. Waking up wasn’t just a repetitive cycle of “eat, sleep, go to school”. It was moments to actually live in, small choices that mattered, even if only to yourself. Walking to school with Jungwon by your side, chatting in between classes, laughing at small things, it all began to feel like a life you were shaping, not just repeating.
You could look at your day and think, Okay… I did something today. I mattered today. Even if it was as small as helping him with his jacket or sharing a snack, it wasn’t meaningless. Your routines were now intertwined with purpose, connection, and subtle joy.
then there was him. Being with you forced Jungwon to slow down, to reflect, and to really see himself. He realized that all the roles he had taken on. Sports, clubs, and expectations weren’t truly defining him. Watching you navigate your own struggles, seeing your resilience, your honesty, and your small triumphs, he began asking himself questions he had avoided for years: What can I actually do to overcome this? Who am I beyond this?
He learned that he could like things just for himself, that mistakes didn’t make him weak, and that vulnerability wasn’t a flaw. He noticed how his moods softened when he saw you, how your small habits and the way you carried yourself made him feel anchored. The moments, the laughter, the late-night talks, they weren’t just comforting but were mirrors, showing him parts of himself he hadn’t understood before.
She makes things feel clearer… even when nothing is solved.
Slowly, day by day, the confusion that had haunted him began to fade, replaced by clarity that wasn’t immediate but steady. The more he discovered himself, the more he realized he didn’t want to face life without you. You had become his safe place, not in the way he could comfort you, but in how being near you reminded him that he could face himself, too.
Meanwhile, your own struggles, though still present, felt lighter. They didn’t vanish, but now they were shared, understood, and manageable. The cycles of exhaustion and self-doubt that had once trapped you were now punctuated by laughter, walks, small gestures of care, and the knowledge that someone understood you without needing you to explain everything.
It wasn’t perfection. There were still nights when tears came unbidden, or mornings when your chest felt heavy again, but the difference was now there was someone beside you who wouldn’t leave. Seeing Jungwon grow, seeing him face his own questions and fears, you learned that struggles could be overcome, not vanished, but softened, when shared with the right person.
By the time the sun went low one evening, both of you knew, without saying it, that life didn’t have to be a cycle of exhaustion anymore. You were still figuring things out, still learning, still vulnerable, but now, you felt like you were moving forward, together.
♥️
You were sitting on the steps outside school with your friend, the late afternoon sun warming your face. She nudged you and smiled. “Hey, you seem happier these days. I’m glad.”
You looked down at your hands for a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, I guess I am,” you said softly, almost shyly. “Thanks. It’s been better lately.”
Her eyes narrowed playfully, noticing something. “Is it him? The one I keep hearing about?” she teased, a knowing grin spreading across her face. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly, glancing away for a moment. “…Hm,” you murmured, voice quieter, almost shy. “Maybe… sort of.”
Your friend laughed softly. “Sort of?” she pressed. “Come on, spill. You’ve been acting differently. Smiling more, laughing easier. There’s definitely something there.”
You laughed softly, shrugging and trying to play it cool, but your heart was doing its little flutter. “Well… it’s… nice,” you admitted finally, voice low. “Being around him… it feels lighter. You know? Comfortable.” Your friend raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Sounds like someone’s found their safe place.”
You nodded. “Yeah… something like that.” Even saying it out loud made you feel warmer. You didn’t need to label it fully yet; knowing that he was there and that you could be yourself was enough for now.
He really does make things feel easier…
♥️
It was late when your phone buzzed beside you.
Jungwon: Are you awake?
You squinted at the screen, confused. It was 4 am again, the same strange hour when everything always seemed silent. You frowned slightly, remembering how you first met him at the store.
You: Yeah. Why?
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Jungwon: Can we meet? The store.
You stared at the message for a moment. He usually texted casually, but this felt rushed.
You: Right now?
Jungwon: Yeah… if you don’t mind.
A few minutes later, you were pulling on your jacket and shoes, still wondering why he sounded so strange. The streets were quiet as you walked. When you pushed open the store door, the small bell chimed softly. He was already there. Jungwon stood near the instant noodles shelf, hands in his pockets, glancing around, probably waiting for a while. The memory of the first time you had talked, late at night, made the place feel strangely comforting. “You’re early,” you said as you walked up beside him.
He turned quickly, almost startled. “Oh- hey.”
You narrowed your eyes. “…Why do you look like that?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You seem as if you’re about to confess to a crime or something.”
He let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know what? just get the noodles.” You grabbed one cup while he grabbed another. When you both reached the counter, you instinctively pulled out your wallet. “I’ll pay,” he said quickly. You looked at him. “Since when?” He shrugged awkwardly. “Just let me.”
Outside, instead of sitting at the tables, he nodded toward the pavement. “Can we eat there?” he asked. You were surprised at him. “Oh?”
He nodded. You stared for a second before laughing under your breath. “You’re weird tonight.” He grinned sheepishly. “I know,” he said quietly.
Still, you both sat down on the pavement. The noodles steamed softly between your hands as you ate in silence for a moment, but Jungwon kept glancing at you. Once. Twice. Then again, each time you noticed, your stomach fluttered. You stopped mid-bite and looked at him. “…What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Jungwon.”
He sighed softly. For a second, he looked like he might change his mind. Then suddenly, he reached out and grabbed your hand. Before you could react, he placed your hand flat against his chest. Your eyes widened. “…What are you doing?”
You could feel it immediately.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heart was beating fast, ridiculously fast, and you realized how nervous he actually was. He looked away, embarrassed, his ears turning red. “That’s… because of you,” he muttered quietly. You slowly set your noodle cup down beside you. “…What?”
Jungwon exhaled slowly. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding stupid,” he admitted. “Although every time I see you, it just gets worse.” You were still staring at him, your hand still against his chest, heart beating unevenly. “I don’t want to be somewhere you’re not,” he said. “I realized that a while ago.” His fingers tightened slightly around yours. “It’s annoying because now, everything I want to do somehow includes you.”
Your chest felt warm, your mind racing to catch up.
“…Jungwon.”
He looked at you finally, nervous but honest.
“I’ve said this many times, but I’m really glad I met you,” he continued. “That night. The snack. The crying. All of it.” He let out a small, breathy laugh. “Now, I think I’d be pretty miserable if you disappeared.”
You stared at him for a moment, then laughed softly under your breath. “…You dragged me out at four in the morning just to say that?” He groaned, covering part of his face. “See? This is why I didn’t want to say it.”
You shook your head, smiling, then gently squeezed his hand. “I’ve also told you this many times, but I’ll say it again, I’m glad I met you, too,” you said. His eyes lifted again. “I didn’t expect you either,” you admitted. “Somehow, you became part of everything.” You paused slightly, then added softly, “I don’t think I’d like it if you weren’t around anymore.”
He stared at you for a second, stunned.
“…Really?”
You nodded once.
Then he laughed softly, almost in disbelief, running a hand through his hair.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question made your stomach flip. You looked at him, cheeks warm, then gave a small nod.
“…Yeah.”
He leaned forward slowly, still holding your hand, and kissed you gently. It was warm, a little nervous, a little unsure.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, laughing quietly. “…I can’t believe I made you sit on the ground at four in the morning for that.” You smiled softly, letting your fingers squeeze his hand. “…I didn’t mind,” you whispered.
He gave a small, relieved smile, still keeping his forehead against yours. “…Good,” he said softly. “I don’t want to be anywhere else right now.”
You felt your chest flutter. The noodles forgotten beside you, it was only this.
The two of you, together.
♥️
He walked home slowly. For the first time in a long time, his mind wasn’t racing with confusion; it was calm, focused, in a way that felt right. He realized he knew himself better than before, not because everything was solved, but because he had someone who made him notice who he truly was.
I think I’m starting to understand myself because of her.
Thinking of you made him smile without even trying. The way you had squeezed his hand, the way you hadn’t pulled away when he rested your hand on his chest, it all replayed gently in his mind. It wasn’t about grand gestures or words; it was the moments, the subtle closeness, that told him exactly how he felt.
She makes everything feel quieter in a good way.
By the time he got home, he felt lighter, but not in a way that erased struggles. It was shared with someone who mattered. He realized he wanted to do more than be near you; he wanted to build little pieces of life together, small things that mattered to both of you.
The next days were full of ordinary yet meaningful moments, and he cherished them all. He could just be him, with you. You were the part of the world he wanted to understand, the person he wanted to learn from, and the one who made all the small, ordinary moments feel extraordinary.
Even when struggles came, they didn’t feel like he had to carry it all alone anymore. You were there, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting beside him, and he began to understand what it meant to share life. He could laugh at himself, plan little surprises, or walk beside you without thinking too hard, and that simplicity was everything.
♥️
You were sitting on the bleachers, backpack beside you, watching him practice. His movements were focused and precise, but every so often, he glanced toward you, where he wanted to make sure you were still there. He jogged over after finishing a round, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Hey,” he said, a little out of breath, but his eyes lit up when he saw you. “Did you just watch the whole thing?”
You shrugged, smiling softly. “I was bored, and I kind of like seeing you in action,” you admitted, leaning back on your hands. “It’s interesting.” He laughed, then sat beside you, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead. “Interesting, hm? That’s one way to put it,” he teased lightly.
You laughed softly, looking at him, and before you realized, he leaned closer and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to your cheek. “Hey,” you whispered, startled.
“I said I’d show you,” he murmured, grin faint against your skin. “But also…” His tone softened, serious now. “…I just want you to know, you’re…the love of my life.”
You were completely taken aback, cheeks heating instantly. “Excuse me?!”
He shrugged a little, suddenly looking almost shy despite the boldness of what he had just said. “You heard me.” You stared at him, mouth slightly open, trying to process how casually he said it. “…Wait,” you murmured, laughing softly in disbelief. “So… what are we now?”
Jungwon looked at you for a moment before smiling. “We’re us…but yeah. You’re my girlfriend,” he said quietly. He glanced down at your hand resting beside you before slowly intertwining his fingers with yours. “I just know I want this,” he admitted. “You beside me. Walking home together. All of it.”
You looked at your intertwined hands, then back at him, cheeks still warm. “That sounded suspiciously sweet.”
He laughed softly, shoulders shaking slightly. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
You couldn’t help laughing too, leaning lightly against his shoulder. “So this is really happening then,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, turning his head slightly toward yours. “It is.”
♥️
You slumped onto the couch, shoulders tight, books and papers scattered across the floor. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, jaw clenched, and a soft sigh escaped before you could stop it. Jungwon was there before you even asked. He sat behind you, hands hovering over your shoulders, watching you. “You’ve been at this for hours,” he said softly. “You’re tense. Let me.”
At first, you hesitated, a little embarrassed, but when his hands finally pressed into your shoulders, the tension in your body seemed to melt just a fraction. His touch was firm but gentle, and you felt your racing thoughts start to quiet. “School’s been too much,” you murmured, leaning slightly back into him, your voice low.
“I know,” he said quietly, one hand massaging, the other resting lightly on your arm. “You don’t have to do all of it alone.”
You let your head fall back against the couch, the warmth of him pressing into your back grounding you. He moved slightly, pulling a blanket over both of you. “Better?” he asked softly, fingers still working into the knots in your muscles. You nodded, closing your eyes, letting a small, tired smile slip onto your face. “Yeah. This helps,” you whispered.
He didn’t answer with words. He kept going, letting the silence and the comfort speak for themselves.
“I like this,” you murmured.
“I do too,” he replied, lips brushing the top of your head. “We should do this more often.”
You laughed softly. “Yeah. I’d like that,” you said. For a long while, you two stayed like that. You could feel the stress of life slowly give way to a comfort, one that had taken months to grow but now felt unshakable. Jungwon tightened his hold slightly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.
You smiled, pressing your cheek lightly against his chest. “…Good,” you whispered back. “…because I don’t want you to.”
♥️
A year had passed…
though sometimes it didn’t feel that long. The staircase leading to the rooftop still looked the same. You and Jungwon sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing one earbud. A soft song played between you, the sound barely louder than the distant chatter of students somewhere below.
Your legs stretched down the step, your bag resting beside you. You glanced at him slightly. “Do you remember the first time we sat here?” you asked quietly. He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.” That was all he said, but it was enough because you both remembered. The bad days. The nights that felt too heavy. The talks went longer than either of you had planned. “Feels like a lot happened since then.”
Jungwon looked at you for a moment before giving a small smile. “It did.” There was no need to explain further. The music continued playing softly in your shared earphones, and he leaned closer until your shoulders pressed together. His forehead gently touched yours, and instinctively, you leaned in too.
Then suddenly-
The school bell rang loudly.
You pulled back slightly, startled, before laughing under your breath. “Oops.” You stood up, brushing your skirt lightly. “Got class soon.”
Jungwon sighed, tilting his head back against the wall. “Unbelievable timing.”
You picked up your bag and turned to go down the stairs, but before you could take another step, his hand caught yours. You looked back just as he gently pulled you toward him, turning you around. And before you could say anything-
He kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed, but warm and certain.
When he pulled away, he squeezed your hand once. “Alright,” he said casually, grabbing his own bag. “Go. Don’t be late.” You laughed softly, cheeks warm.
“Bye. I love you,” you said.
“I love you too. See you later,” he replied.
And as you walked down the staircase toward your class, you realized something quietly. A year ago, everything had felt heavy, a cycle you couldn’t escape. Now, somehow, life didn’t feel like that anymore. This time, when the bell rang-
SUMMARY After a painful breakup with your boyfriend, a new guy unexpectedly enters your life, offering comfort, attention, and maybe something more as he helps you heal from heartbreak.
PAIRING Ahn Keonho x Yn
FEATURING CORTIS, (H2H) Stella, Juun, Ian
GENRE social media au, written parts, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, crack, angst
WARNINGS not proofread, english is not my first language. just keonho and yn
masterlist | previous next
the moment your teacher tells you to stay after class, you already know your day is ruined.
“phones are not part of the lesson, last time i checked,” she says while collecting papers from the front desk. “so since you clearly had enough free time to text during class, you can spend some extra time cleaning the art room.”
“seriously?” you mutter.
“very seriously.”
you’re still considering whether pretending to disappear would work when the teachers’ room door opens again.
keonho walks in, breath a bit rushed, probably from the stairs, with one hand holding onto his bag strap.
your teacher doesn’t even look up before speaking again, as if already expecting him to show up.
“perfect timing, ahn. you skipped class last week without informing anyone, so you can help too.”
keonho pauses mid-step.
“…right now?”
“yes, right now.”
for a second, he actually looks annoyed enough to argue.
then he notices you there, in front of her desk. something unreadable flickers across his face.
“great,” he says flatly. did you bother him that much?
finally, she looks at the both of you. “the room isn’t going to clean itself. shoo.”
you and keonho share a quick, annoyed glance before leaving.
the art room is worse than either of you expected. paint-stained tables, paper scraps everywhere, brushes left soaking in cloudy water, unfinished projects abandoned across nearly every surface.
you stand in the doorway for a moment.
“i think she hates us.”
next to you, keonho lets out a quiet laugh you weren’t expecting.
it catches you off guard immediately, not because it’s loud, but because it sounds familiar. you hadn’t realized how long it’s been since you heard it directed at you.
for a while, the two of you clean in silence. it wan’t angry silence, just the kind that comes from thinking too carefully before speaking, the silence you learned to anticipate from him lately.
you wipe dried paint from one of the tables while keonho reorganizes shelves nearby. you exchange quick glances without the other one noticing. every now and then, one of you says something small.
“where does this go?”
“probably there.”
“that brush is dead.”
“yeah, i noticed.”
normal. painfully normal. like nothing actually changed between you. except something clearly did.
outside, you can hear distant voices from students leaving campus one by one.
“thanks for the message, by the way.”
you look up instinctively. keonho is stacking sketchbooks into piles without looking directly at you.
“which message?”
“the congratulations thing.”
you nod once. “you did well.”
“you watched it?”
the question is casual enough to pretend it means nothing, but it still lands heavily between you anyway.
you focus too hard on folding a stained cloth in your hands. “yeah. a little.”
“i thought you were busy.”
you know what he means. sean. the game. choosing somewhere else to be.
you swallow lightly. “i was.”
keonho nods once like that answer makes sense to him.
silence settles again. you hate how aware you’ve become of it lately. before, being around him felt easy. conversations happened without effort. now every pause feels visible somehow, sitting between you both like something neither of you knows how to move around anymore.
“how was the game?” he asks after a moment.
you blink slightly.
“it was okay,” you answer. “they won.”
keonho nods once. “that’s good.”
you wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.
for some reason, that disappoints you more than it should.
eventually, you move toward the shelves near the back wall, reaching up for one of the paint boxes sitting too high above you.
before you can grab it properly, keonho reaches over your shoulder and takes it down easily.
“you were gonna drop it.”
“i was not.”
his mouth lifts slightly. “sure.”
the familiar teasing tone slips out so naturally that your chest tightens before you can stop it, because for one second, things feel normal again, and maybe he notices it too, because the small smile disappears almost immediately after.
he steps back. the distance returns so fast it almost feels embarrassing.
“thanks,” you mumble quietly.
“mhm.”
outside, the sky is already turning orange through the classroom windows. you’re wiping one of the sinks clean when the thought slips out before you can stop it.
“did i do something?”
the room goes still. you immediately regret asking.
keonho looks up from where he’s sorting papers.
“what?”
“nothing.” you shake your head quickly. “forget it.”
he watches you for a second too long. “no, what do you mean?”
you focus harder on the sponge in your hand.
“you’ve just been acting weird lately.”
the words sound smaller out loud. less reasonable.
keonho is quiet for a moment.
“i’ve just been busy.”
the answer comes too quickly.
you nod anyway. “oh, okay.”
it shouldn’t bother you. people get busy, you know that. still, something about the explanation feels unfinished. not exactly a lie, simply just not everything.
“i thought maybe you were avoiding me,” you admit quietly, trying to sound lighter than you feel.
keonho pauses for a second before answering.
“…i wasn’t trying to.”
the wording catches your attention immediately.
not i wasn’t.
i wasn’t trying to.
you look down at the utensil in your hands. “it kinda felt like it.”
keonho exhales softly through his nose, leaning back against one of the tables.
“things got weird after sean found out we were hanging out.”
you scoff quietly. “was he mad?”
“not exactly.” keonho shrugs once. “just weird about it.”
you nod slowly. that makes sense, somehow. or maybe it doesn’t.
you and sean aren’t together anymore. keonho knows that too. which makes the next question slip out before you can stop it.
“then why did it matter?”
keonho looks at you. actually looks at you this time, and for the first time since this whole conversation started, he seems caught off guard.
because he doesn’t really have an answer.
you can see him trying to find one anyway.
“i don’t know,” he admits finally. “it just did.”
the room feels strangely still after that.
you don’t know what to do with the answer, and apparently, neither does he.
keonho looks away first, jaw tightening slightly like he’s annoyed at himself for even saying that much.
“i just thought maybe it was better to give you space,” he says after a moment.
the explanation sounds unfinished, as if even he doesn’t fully believe it anymore.
your chest tightens.
he was there for you when things with seonghyeon ended. he listened to you talk. distracted you. stayed around when you were miserable to be around.
maybe that was all this ever was.
maybe you’re the one who started expecting too much from a friendship that was only supposed to help you through something temporary.
the thought settles heavily in your chest.
you force your attention back to the dirty sink.
“right,” you say quietly.
keonho watches you for a second too long, then looks away again.
somehow, that feels worse.
because now you can both feel the distance clearly. neither of you just knows how to cross it anymore.
by the time the art room is finally clean, the sun has almost disappeared completely outside.
you pack your bag slowly while keonho wipes his hands dry beside the sink.
“i think this counts as child labor,” you mumble.
a faint smile appears on his face again.
“probably.”
still, it fades quickly.
you stand there awkwardly for half a second too long before moving toward the door.
“see you tomorrow,” you say.
the words sound strange now. like something careful and unusual.
keonho nods once.
“yeah. see you.”
and even after leaving the room, walking down the hallway alone, you still can’t tell if things between you got better or worse.
-ˋˏ⚘ genre: neighbors to lovers · single dad au · fluff · angst · smut · found family · slow burn
-ˋˏ⚘ summary: You have lived in apartment 3B for two years. You know your neighbors the way you know background characters — familiar, unremarkable, just part of the scenery. Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door and you open it to find not him, but her. Small. Round-cheeked. Duck pajamas. Absolutely certain of herself. You fall for his daughter first. Jake is just the complication that comes after. But god, what a complication.
-ˋˏ⚘ word count: 21.1k
-ˋˏ⚘ content warnings: explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, praise kink, soft dom/sub undertones, strong language, single parent theme, child abandonment (mother leaving), brief parental guilt, an absent parent reappearing, emotional manipulation attempt, jealousy, mention of custody, legal procedure, alcohol, crying, found family theme, a toddler who will ruin your life in the best way
-ˋˏ⚘ song: You Are The Best Thing by Ray LaMontage
-ˋˏ⚘ authors note: i started this fic because i wanted to write a soft single dad jake but the mia took over everything, she was supposed to be a supporting character but how can i make someone that cute not a main. she picked reader first and she always knew and i think that’s the whole story. jake deserved softness. reader deserved to be chosen. mia deserved a mama who showed up. everyone got what they deserved. if you’re reading this — thank you. comments, reblogs, feedback and likes keep me writing and i am so serious about that. enjoy💛
-ˋˏ⚘ my masterlist
You have lived in Apartment 3B of Wattle Grove Building for two years. You know Mrs. Kim in 1A leaves her recycling out on the wrong day every single week without fail. You know the guy in 2C plays guitar badly but enthusiastically every Sunday morning. You know the building super Danny will fix anything you need as long as you leave a coffee outside your door first.
You know your neighbors the way you know background characters in a movie you’ve seen too many times. Familiar. Unremarkable. Just part of the scenery.
Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. You’ve seen him, obviously. In passing. At the mailboxes. Once in the car park when you were both leaving at the same time and did that awkward thing where you both reached for the door simultaneously and then laughed and said sorry at the same time. He’s tall. Dark hair. Has a nice face in the vague way that you register nice faces without really looking at them.
He moved in about eight months ago. Keeps to himself. Quiet. You’ve never heard a peep through the wall you share, which you appreciate deeply after two years of listening to the previous tenant’s aggressive taste in late night television. You know his name is Jake because it’s on the mailbox.
That’s it. That’s the extent of your knowledge of the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You are not a morning person. You are, in fact, the opposite of a morning person. You are someone who sets four alarms and ignores three of them and considers getting out of bed before eight a personal attack. Your first class doesn’t start until ten. You were planning to sleep until at least eight thirty, mainline coffee until nine, and leave with approximately four minutes to spare.
So when someone knocks on your door at 6:58 AM you lie there for a full thirty seconds convincing yourself you imagined it. Then it happens again. Small. Rhythmic. Insistent. knock knock knock
You groan into your pillow. Drag yourself upright. Pull on the hoodie hanging off your desk chair and shuffle to the door, hair catastrophic, eyes barely open, prepared to be deeply unpleasant to whoever is on the other side.
You open the door. There is no one there. You blink. Look left. Look right. The hallway is empty and quiet and— “Hi.”
You look down. There is a child sitting on the floor outside your door. She is approximately three years old, round-cheeked and bright-eyed, wearing a yellow pajama set covered in tiny ducks. Her dark hair is escaping from two lopsided pigtails. She has a serious expression on her face like she has somewhere important to be and is merely pausing here briefly.
She is, without any competition, the most adorable thing you have ever seen in your entire life. You stare at her. She stares back. “Hi,” she says again, very patient, like she’s giving you time to catch up.
“Hi,” you manage. “Um. Who are you?”
She considers this question with great seriousness. “Mia.”
“Okay. Hi Mia.” You look up and down the empty hallway again. “Where did you come from?” She points at the door directly across from yours. 3A. “Are you—” You crouch down to her level. “Did you come out of your apartment by yourself?”
“Mr. Bunny is lost,” she explains, as if this answers everything. And apparently, in her world, it does. She stands up, remarkably steady on her feet for someone so small, and peers past you into your apartment with undisguised curiosity. “Is he in there?”
“Is who— Mr. Bunny? I don’t think so, sweetheart. I haven’t seen any—”
“Can I look?”
“I— well—” She’s already walking past you into your apartment.
You stand in your doorway, blinking slowly, watching a three year old you have never met toddle into your living room and start investigating with the focused energy of a tiny detective. She checks under the coffee table. Behind the couch cushions. She picks up one of your throw pillows, examines it, puts it back. “He’s not here,” she announces, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“I’m sorry.” You’re fully awake now, adrenaline doing what four alarms couldn’t. “Mia, does your dad know where you are?”
She looks at you. Blinks. And then, for the first time, something flickers across her face that isn’t complete confidence. Something small and uncertain. “Daddy’s sleeping,” she says quietly.
Oh no. Oh no.
“Okay,” you say, very carefully, going into full calm adult mode even though internally you are having a minor crisis. “Okay, that’s okay. Let’s go wake daddy up, yeah?”
You take her hand — she gives it to you immediately, tiny fingers wrapping around yours with complete trust, and something in your chest does something weird and unexpected — and you walk her across the hall to 3A.
You knock. Nothing. You knock louder. A crash. Muffled swearing. Footsteps. The door flies open.
Jake Sim, your neighbor from 3A, looks absolutely terrible. He’s in gray sweatpants and no shirt, hair destroyed, eyes wild with the specific panic of a parent who has woken up to find their child missing. There’s a pillow crease down his left cheek. He looks like a man who has just experienced the worst thirty seconds of his life.
He looks down at Mia standing beside you, her hand still in yours, looking up at him with the expression of someone who has done absolutely nothing wrong. The relief that crosses his face is so profound it’s almost painful to witness. “Mia.” His voice comes out wrecked. He drops to his knees right there in the doorway, gathering her up, holding her against his chest. She pats his back tolerantly. “Mia, I— you can’t— how did you—”
“I was looking for Mr. Bunny,” she explains into his shoulder, very reasonable.
“You can’t leave the apartment by yourself, baby, I’ve told you—”
“But Mr. Bunny—”
“I don’t care about Mr. Bunny right now—”
“Daddy.” She pulls back to look at him, deeply offended. “Mr. Bunny cares.”
You press your lips together very hard to keep from smiling. Jake looks up at you over Mia’s head, and he looks so mortified you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. It would be easier to feel sorry for him if he didn’t look — even rumpled and panicked and creased from sleep — really quite unfairly attractive. You file that observation away to examine later, when a child is not present.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, she’s never done this before, I don’t know how she got the door open—”
“She knocked,” you tell him. “Very politely.”
He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh god.”
“I used my reaching stool,” Mia informs him helpfully. “For the handle.”
“We’re getting rid of the reaching stool,” Jake tells her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Daddy, no—”
“Mia.” He pulls back to look at her properly, and his voice goes soft but serious. “You scared me. Really scared me, okay? You cannot leave without waking me up first. Ever. Do you understand?”
She looks at him. Her lip wobbles, just slightly. “I just wanted Mr. Bunny.”
“I know, baby.” He pulls her back in, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I know. But you have to wake me up. Promise me.”
“Promise,” she mumbles into his neck.
He holds her for another moment, and you feel like you’re witnessing something private. Something that belongs to them. You take a small step back. “I’ll let you—”
“Wait.” Jake stands, Mia on his hip, and looks at you with an expression that’s somehow equal parts exhausted and sincere. “I really am sorry. And thank you. Genuinely, thank you for— I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if she’d gone downstairs instead of just across the hall.”
“She was perfectly safe,” you say. “She was very focused on her investigation.”
“Mr. Bunny is lost,” Mia reminds both of you gravely.
“We’ll find him,” Jake tells her. Then to you: “I’m Jake, by the way. Since apparently we’ve been neighbors for eight months and I’ve never actually introduced myself, which is—”
“Terrible,” you supply.
“Yeah.” He winces. “Yeah, it really is. I’m sorry about that too.”
“Y/N,” you tell him. “3B.”
“I know. I’ve seen your name on the mailbox.” He shifts Mia on his hip. She has turned to look at you with renewed interest, the Mr. Bunny crisis temporarily suspended. “I kept meaning to knock and introduce myself properly but then time just—”
“It does that,” you agree.
He smiles. It’s a tired smile, still coming down from the panic, but it’s genuine. It does something to his face that you also file away for later. Mia is still staring at you. “You have pretty hair,” she announces.
“Mia—” Jake starts.
“Thank you,” you tell her seriously. “Yours is very pretty too.”
She reaches up and touches one of her lopsided pigtails, considering. “Daddy did it,” she says, with the tone of someone being very diplomatic about a disappointing situation.
You look at Jake. He looks back at you. The pigtails are genuinely quite bad. “I’m working on it,” he says.
“We could—” You stop yourself. You don’t even know this man. You’ve spoken to him for approximately four minutes. “Never mind.”
“No, what?”
“I was just going to say I could show you. If you wanted. It’s not— it’s easy once you know the trick.” You gesture vaguely. “But you probably have things to—”
“I would love that,” Jake says immediately. “Genuinely. Every morning is a disaster. She came home from daycare last week and her teacher had written a note that said ‘we love Mia’s creative hairstyles’ and I’m pretty sure that was a polite way of saying—”
“Daddy can’t do hair,” Mia explains to you, very straightforward.
“I cannot do hair,” Jake confirms.
You laugh. Actually laugh, fully awake now, standing in the hallway at seven in the morning in your old hoodie with your own hair catastrophic, and it surprises you a little. How easy it is. How natural. “Come over tomorrow morning,” you find yourself saying. “Before daycare. I’ll show you a couple of things.”
Jake looks at you like you’ve offered him something much more significant than a hair tutorial. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” You crouch down to Mia’s level. “I hope you find Mr. Bunny.”
She studies you with those serious dark eyes. Then she reaches out and puts her small hand on your cheek, very gentle, the way toddlers sometimes do when they’re deciding something important about you. “You’re nice,” she declares.
“So are you,” you tell her. She nods, satisfied, like this has confirmed something she already suspected.
Then she tucks her face back into Jake’s neck, done with the interaction, and Jake gives you a helpless sort of smile over her head. “Thank you,” he says again. “Really.”
“Anytime.” You stand up and take a step back toward your own door. “And Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe put a chain lock on. Up high. Before tonight.”
He looks at the door. Looks at Mia. Looks back at you with the expression of a man who has just realized how many things there are to think about when you’re doing this alone. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, good call.”
You don’t go back to sleep. You make coffee and sit on your couch and think about the way Mia put her hand on your cheek like she was taking your measure. The way she gave you her hand without hesitating, tiny fingers trusting yours completely.
The way Jake held her when he found her safe. Like she was the most important thing in the world, which she obviously was, which was obvious in every single line of his body.
You think about his apartment, which you caught a glimpse of through the open door. The small pair of shoes by the entrance. The sticker on the light switch at toddler height. The general chaos of someone who is managing, but only just. You think about the note from the daycare teacher and the terrible pigtails and the way he said I’m working on it without a single drop of self pity.
You finish your coffee. Make another one. You have a feeling that next door is going to become a lot more complicated than background noise and a name on a mailbox.
You’re not sure yet if that’s a good thing. But when you close your eyes you can still feel the ghost of small fingers wrapped around yours and you think— yeah. Yeah, you’re probably already in trouble.
Mr. Bunny turns up two days later. He is in the freezer. Neither Jake nor Mia can explain how he got there.
You laugh about it for five minutes straight when Jake texts you, and then you look at your phone and realize you’ve been texting your neighbor for two days like it’s completely normal and you’ve known him for years. You put your phone down. Pick it up again. Type back: at least he’s preserved.
Jake sends back a string of crying laughing emojis and then: Mia wants me to tell you that Mr. Bunny says thank you for looking for him
You smile so hard your face hurts. You are, you realize, completely and utterly done for. And you haven’t even properly met him yet.
The hair tutorial happens on Wednesday morning. You hear them before you see them — Mia’s voice carrying clearly through the wall at seven fifteen, a stream of cheerful commentary about something, Jake’s lower voice responding, the particular domestic chaos of someone trying to get a toddler ready for daycare on a schedule. Then a knock at your door.
You open it to find Jake holding Mia like a football under one arm, a hairbrush in his free hand, and the expression of a man who has already lost this morning’s battle comprehensively.
Mia is upside down and completely unbothered. “Hi,” she says, from her inverted position.
“Hi,” you say. You step back and open the door wider. “Come in.”
They troop inside, Jake setting Mia down on her feet in your living room where she immediately begins a thorough reinvestigation of the space, picking up where she left off two days ago. She examines your bookshelf. Touches the small succulent on your windowsill very gently with one finger. “Plant,” she observes.
“His name is Gerald,” you tell her.
She looks at you. Looks at Gerald. Looks back at you with the gravity of someone receiving important information. “Hi Gerald,” she says politely. Jake makes a sound that might be him trying not to laugh.
“Okay.” You take the hairbrush from him. “Sit her up on the couch and I’ll show you.”
What follows is twenty minutes that you will think about for the rest of the week for reasons you can’t entirely explain.
Mia sits between your knees on the couch, remarkably patient once she’s settled, holding Gerald the succulent in her lap because she asked and you said yes and Jake gave you a look that suggested he has learned to pick his battles. You work through her hair slowly, showing Jake each step — how to section it, how to hold the hair so it doesn’t pull, how to make the pigtails sit even.
He watches with the focused attention of someone who is genuinely trying to learn this. Not just nodding along but asking questions, asking you to slow down, watching your hands. At one point he leans in close to see what you’re doing and you’re very aware of how near he is and the fact that he smells like clean laundry and something warm underneath.
You focus on Mia’s hair. “The trick,” you tell him, “is that you do both sides before you tie either one off. Otherwise the first one pulls when you do the second.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing wrong,” he says. He sounds genuinely relieved, like you’ve solved something that’s been bothering him for months. Which, apparently, you have. “I couldn’t work out why they always went lopsided.”
“They were very lopsided,” Mia agrees pleasantly.
“Thanks, Mia.”
“You’re welcome, Daddy.”
You finish, tying off the second pigtail with the elastic, and smooth a hand over her hair. Perfect and even and neat. She reaches up and touches them carefully. “Pretty?” she asks.
“Very pretty,” you confirm.
She twists to look up at you, satisfied. Then she holds Gerald out. “You can have him back.”
“Thank you for taking care of him.”
“He was scared,” she explains seriously. “He doesn’t know me yet.” She places him very carefully back on the windowsill, patting the pot once. “It’s okay Gerald. I’m nice.”
Jake is watching his daughter with this expression — quiet and soft and a little undone at the edges — and when he catches you looking at him he clears his throat and looks away. Picks up the hairbrush from the cushion beside him. “Right,” he says. “We should get going. Daycare at eight.”
“Nooooo,” Mia says, without any real conviction. She’s already moving toward the door with the pragmatic acceptance of someone who knows the schedule.
“Thank you,” Jake says to you. He means it. You can tell he means it in that way where the words are bigger than they sound. “Seriously. This was—”
“It’s just pigtails.”
“It’s not just—” He stops. Starts again. “She talks about you. Since Tuesday. You’re the pretty lady from across the hall.”
Your face warms. “That’s very generous of her.”
“She’s got good taste.” He says it simply, matter of fact, and then looks slightly like he didn’t mean to say it quite like that. “I mean— she’s a good judge of character. Generally.”
“Y/N,” Mia calls from the doorway where she is putting her shoes on the wrong feet with great confidence.
“Yeah?”
She looks up at you. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
Something squeezes in your chest. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”
She nods, satisfied, like this is settled. Like you have made a commitment and she is holding you to it. Then she holds her foot up at Jake. “Daddy. Shoes.”
Jake crouches down to fix them, and you lean against your doorframe and watch, and you think about what Liv said to you once about knowing when something is going to change your life. How you can feel it sometimes. The specific weight of a moment that’s about to matter.
You feel it now, watching Jake tie his daughter’s shoes in your doorway at seven forty in the morning while she holds your door handle for balance and hums something tuneless to herself. You feel it, and you file it away with everything else, and you tell yourself it’s too early for any of this and you need coffee.
You leave cookies outside 3A that afternoon. You don’t examine why. You made a batch because you were stress baking about an assignment and you made too many and they were just sitting there and Jake mentioned once — in the mailbox, months ago, one of those nothing conversations you’d forgotten until now — that Mia liked anything with chocolate.
You leave them outside the door in a container with a post it note that says for Mia (and you, if you want) and then you go back inside and finish your assignment and don’t think about it.
At nine fifteen that night your phone buzzes: jake 3a: she ate four before I could stop her and is now absolutely feral and won’t sleep. I’m blaming you
You grin at your phone. you: that’s fair
jake 3a: they were really good though like genuinely really good. Did you make them from scratch?
you: yes
jake 3a: of course you did
jake 3a: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means, that came out weird. I just mean they were better than anything I could make. I’m a terrible baker.
you: how terrible?
jake 3a: I made Mia a birthday cake in August and it came out flat and she cried
you: oh no
jake 3a: not because of the cake. She thought it was funny. She cried laughing. It was actually one of the best moments of my life which probably tells you everything about my standards right now
You’re smiling at your phone like an idiot. you: I’ll make the cake next time. You send it before you’ve fully decided to, and then stare at it. It’s October. You’ve just committed to being in this man’s life until at least next August.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. jake 3a: you really don’t have to
you: I want to. she told Gerald not to be scared because she was nice. I feel like she deserves a good birthday cake.
jake 3a: yeah she really does
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The drawing appears under your door on Thursday morning. You almost step on it when you come out of your bedroom, a folded piece of paper on your doormat. You pick it up and unfold it and find a crayon drawing — several figures of varying heights and proportions, all labeled in Jake’s handwriting because Mia clearly directed and he transcribed.
Mia. Daddy. Gerald. Mr Bunny. And then, on the end, slightly larger than the others, with yellow crayon hair: Y/N. She’s drawn you into her family portrait.
You stand in your kitchen holding a crayon drawing with yellow-haired you standing next to a rectangle that is apparently Gerald and you feel something crack open in your chest so softly and so completely that you have to sit down.
You take a photo of it. You put the original on your fridge. You text Jake a photo of it on the fridge and he doesn’t respond for ten minutes and when he does it just says: jake 3a: she worked on it for an hour last night
jake 3a: kept starting over because she wanted to get your hair right
You stare at that message for a long time. you: tell her I love it
jake 3a: she’s going to lose her mind. also she asked if you want to come to the park with us Saturday
Three dots. Then: jake 3a: I want that too, for what it’s worth. If you’re free.
You look at the drawing on your fridge. Yellow-haired you, standing in a row with Mia and Daddy and Gerald and Mr. Bunny like you’ve always been there. you: I’m free Saturday
Saturday at the park is easy in a way that surprises you. You’d half expected it to be awkward — the three of you, still essentially strangers, trying to fill silence in an open space. But Mia eliminates the possibility of silence entirely. She has opinions about the swings (good), the slide (excellent, requires multiple repetitions), and the ducks by the small pond at the park’s edge (deeply suspicious, do not approach).
“They’re just ducks,” Jake tells her.
“They’re watching,” she says.
“They’re not watching.”
“Daddy.” She gives him a very patient look. “They are watching.”
Jake looks at you. You shrug. “They do look pretty focused,” you offer.
He points at you. “Don’t encourage her.”
Mia takes your hand and pulls you toward the swings, away from the ducks and away from Jake’s protests, and you go because she’s three and determined and her hand is in yours and you’ve decided that’s reason enough for basically anything at this point.
You push her on the swings while Jake sits on the bench nearby, and you watch him watching the two of you. He has his elbows on his knees and his face is open in a way you’re starting to learn is rare for him — in a crowd or with strangers he goes carefully neutral, pleasant but contained. But here, watching Mia go higher and higher and shriek with delight, he looks unguarded. Younger, somehow. Like something in him relaxes when it’s just the three of you. “Higher!” Mia demands.
“You’re already very high,” you tell her.
“Higher.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please.”
“Nice try.”
She cackles. Pure delighted toddler sound, head thrown back. And you find yourself laughing too, pushing her at this very reasonable height, and when you look over at Jake he’s smiling at you with an expression you don’t quite have a name for yet. You look away first.
After the swings, Mia finds a stick, which becomes the most important object in the world for the next twenty minutes. She examines rocks. She makes Jake carry her on his shoulders. She falls asleep on the walk home with her cheek on his head and one fist clutching his jacket, completely unconscious, utterly trusting.
Jake walks carefully, holding her legs, talking to you in a low voice so he doesn’t wake her. “She doesn’t do this with many people,” he says.
“Fall asleep?”
“Trust people.” He adjusts his grip on her. “She’s friendly, obviously, she’ll talk to anyone. But she doesn’t— she doesn’t hold hands with people she doesn’t know. She doesn’t draw people.” He pauses. “She drew you in four days.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you say, “she’s special.”
“Yeah.” His voice is quiet. “She really is.”
You walk in silence for a moment, the easy kind. “How long has it been?” you ask. “Just the two of you.”
He doesn’t tense the way you half expect him to. Just exhales, slow and steady. “Since she was four months old. Her mom left.” He says it flat, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. Like he’s had a long time to practice saying it that way. “Just— left. Packed a bag while I was at work. By the time I got home it was just us.”
“Jake—”
“It’s fine now.” He glances at you sideways. “It wasn’t, for a long time. But it’s fine now. It’s good, actually. It’s really good.” He looks up at Mia’s sleeping face. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.”
You look at him. At the way he holds her. At the careful tenderness of it. “She knows,” you say softly. He looks at you. “That she’s loved like that. You can tell.” You hold his gaze. “She knows.”
Something moves through his expression. Quick and unguarded and gone before you can name it. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
You walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Mia asleep above you, the afternoon sun going golden through the trees lining the street. It is, you think, a very good Saturday.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It becomes a routine without either of you deciding it should. Wednesday mornings, Jake knocks with the hairbrush. You do Mia’s hair while she holds Gerald and narrates her thoughts about the day ahead. Jake makes coffee in your kitchen like he knows where everything is, which after three weeks he does.
Saturdays are the park, or the farmers market two streets over, or just the three of you on one of your balconies eating whatever Jake has cooked because it turns out that while he cannot bake to save his life he is an genuinely excellent cook and he seems to enjoy having someone to cook for.
Evenings sometimes, when Mia’s in bed and Jake knocks quietly and you sit on his couch and watch something and talk about nothing in particular until one of you falls asleep.
It is domestic and soft and easy. It is also, you are increasingly aware, becoming something that would hurt to lose.
Mia calls you her Y/N now. Not just Y/N. Her Y/N, possessive and certain, the way she says her daddy and her Mr. Bunny and her Gerald. You are hers in her taxonomy of the world and the certainty of it does something to your chest every single time.
She tells the woman at the bakery you buy her the jam scroll she likes every Saturday. She tells a child at the park. She tells Mrs. Kim from 1A who coos and looks between you and Jake with an expression that makes Jake find something fascinating to look at on the middle distance.
You’re folding laundry in your apartment on a Thursday evening, three weeks in, when Jake knocks. You open the door. He’s holding two containers of leftover pasta, still warm. He holds one out. “Made too much,” he says.
You take it. Step back to let him in. This is how it goes now. “Mia asleep?” you ask.
“Out cold. She had daycare and then apparently spent an hour reorganizing her stuffed animals by color.” He sits on your couch. “It took everything she had.”
You sit beside him, open the pasta. It’s good — it’s always good. “Did the reorganization meet her standards?”
“She made me come and approve it before bed.” He pauses. “Mr. Bunny is in the orange section even though he’s gray.”
“He has warm undertones,” you say seriously.
Jake looks at you. Starts laughing. Not the polite laugh of someone being friendly but the real one, the one that takes over his whole face, and you’ve been cataloguing that laugh for weeks now, the way it comes out surprised sometimes like he forgot he was allowed to do it.
You’re laughing too, both of you over toddler stuffed animal color theory at eight PM with pasta containers in your laps, and when the laughter settles it leaves something warm and quiet in its place.
Jake is looking at you. Not the quick sideways glances you’ve been trading for weeks. Really looking, steady and open, and you feel it the way you feel a change in weather. The pressure of it. The way the air shifts. “Y/N,” he says.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks down at his pasta container, turning it in his hands. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
He looks at you again and this time he doesn’t look away. “I really like spending time with you.”
You hold his gaze. “I really like spending time with you too.”
“I haven’t—” He exhales. “I haven’t wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. Maybe ever. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The honesty of it lands softly. No performance, no deflection. Just him, telling you the truth. “I don’t either,” you say. “But I don’t think I want to stop.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull back. You don’t pull back.
His mouth finds yours, gentle at first, questioning, and then you lean into it and it stops being a question. It’s warm and unhurried and it tastes like the pasta and something underneath that is just him, and when you finally break apart you’re both quiet, foreheads almost touching.
“Okay,” he says softly.
“Okay,” you agree.
He pulls back just slightly. His expression is open and a little nervous and more serious than the moment requires, or maybe exactly as serious as it requires. “I need to say something,” he says.
“Okay.”
“If we—” He pauses, choosing his words. “Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes. Mia comes first. Always. That’s non negotiable for me. I need you to know that going in.”
You look at him. At the set of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes. A man who has built his whole life around a three year old with lopsided pigtails and a stuffed rabbit and absolute confidence in the people she decides are hers. “Jake,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“I know.” You hold his gaze. “I love her. She’s— she put her hand on my face the first morning and I was gone. I was completely gone.” You shake your head a little. “I think I fell for her before I even fell for you.”
Something moves across his face. Deep and quiet and undone.“Yeah?” he says, and his voice is rough at the edges.
“Yeah.” He kisses you again. Softer this time. Like something has been settled, like the last lock has clicked open. His hand comes up to cup your jaw and you lean into it and outside the window the city is doing whatever cities do at eight o’clock on a Thursday and in here it is warm and quiet and it feels, very specifically, like the beginning of something.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The first time Mia is at the babysitter’s overnight, it’s an accident.
Not the overnight part — that’s planned. Sandy, Mia’s regular babysitter three streets over, has been asking for weeks if she can have Mia for a sleepover because her own grandchildren are visiting and Mia and the youngest, a boy named Theo, have formed the specific intense friendship that only exists between toddlers who have decided they are best friends after forty five minutes together at a playground.
Jake agrees because Mia asks with her whole body, bouncing on her toes, and because Sandy has been his lifeline for two and a half years and he trusts her completely. What’s accidental is what happens after.
He drops Mia off at four on a Friday afternoon. You’re not there — you have a late class — but when you get home at six thirty and knock on 3A because it’s become reflex, Jake opens the door and the apartment is quiet in a way it never is.
You’ve been in this apartment dozens of times now. You know its sounds. The particular creak of the second floorboard in the hall. The way the kitchen tap needs an extra turn to stop dripping. The constant ambient noise of Mia — her commentary, her singing, her negotiations with various stuffed animals about bedtime.
The silence is enormous. “Weird, right?” Jake says, reading your face.
“Really weird.” You step inside. “How long has she been gone?”
“Two hours.” He closes the door. “I’ve cleaned the whole apartment and reorganized the pantry and I don’t know what to do with myself.”
You look at the pantry, which is indeed immaculate. You look at Jake, who is in dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt and looks simultaneously very attractive and genuinely a little lost. “Have you eaten?” you ask.
“No.”
“Cook me something.”
Something in him settles. He moves into the kitchen, and you sit on the counter the way you’ve started doing, and he makes pasta — different from the other night, something with lemon and herbs — and you open the wine you brought from your apartment and it is easy, it is so easy, the way everything with him has become easy without you noticing it happening.
You eat at his kitchen table. You talk about your classes and his current project — branding for a new café opening in the city — and the book you’ve both apparently been meaning to read for months and never have. You talk about Mia, because you always talk about Mia, about the things she’s said recently that have floored you both. “She told me yesterday,” Jake says, “that she wants to be a paleontologist.”
“She’s three.”
“I know. I asked her what a paleontologist was and she said ‘a person who finds old bones’ and I have no idea where she learned that word.”
“That’s— that’s genuinely impressive.”
“She then said she also wants to be a cat.” He takes a sip of wine. “So. Range.” You’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and the kitchen is warm and the wine is good and at some point the laughter fades and you’re just looking at each other in the quiet.
It’s been two weeks since the kiss on your couch. Two weeks of nothing changing and everything changing — the same routine, the same easy rhythm, but with this new current running underneath it. His hand finding yours sometimes. The way he says goodbye now, at the door, that takes longer than it used to. The awareness of him that hums in your chest constantly, warm and insistent.
You haven’t had a night without Mia before. You’re both aware of it. “Y/N,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Can I—” He stops. Starts again. His jaw works slightly, that tell you’ve learned. “I’ve been thinking about this. About us. And I want to— I want to do this properly. Take you on an actual date, not just—” He gestures at the table, the apartment, the comfortable domesticity of it. “Not just this. You deserve—”
“Jake.” You set down your glass. “I like this.”
“I know, but—”
“I mean I really like this.” You hold his gaze. “I don’t need a restaurant. I don’t need— I just want you. This. Whatever this is.” He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he pushes back from the table and crosses to you and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all evening, one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist. You slide off the counter and into him and he makes a low sound against your mouth that does something devastating to your concentration. “Stay tonight,” he says against your lips.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
You end up on his bed.
It happens slowly, the way things happen when there’s no rush, when the whole night stretches ahead and neither of you is going anywhere. He takes his time, unhurried and thorough, like he wants to learn you. Like you’re something worth learning.
He lays you back against his pillows and looks at you for a moment, just looks, and something about being seen like that — careful and wanting and completely focused — makes heat pool low in your stomach before he’s even touched you. “Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you say back.
He leans down and kisses you again, and it’s different from the doorway kisses and the couch kisses. Deeper. More deliberate. His hand slides up your side, pushing your shirt up, warm palm against your skin, and you shiver.“Cold?” he murmurs.
“Opposite.” He smiles against your mouth. Keeps moving, finding the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms and let him pull it off. He sits back to look at you, and his expression is so openly appreciative, so uncomplicated in its wanting, that you feel heat rise to your face.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Look away.” His thumb traces your collarbone. “I want to look at you.” You keep his gaze. He keeps his.
He gets rid of his own shirt and you run your hands up his chest, his stomach, the way you’ve been wanting to since— longer than you’ll admit. He’s warm and solid and he watches your face as you touch him like your expression is telling him something important.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” He catches your hands, pins them gently above your head, leans down to press his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. The soft skin below your ear. “Just thinking about how long I’ve been wanting this.”
“How long?”
He mouths at your pulse point and you gasp, arching up. “Longer than I should admit,” he murmurs. “Probably since the morning with Mia. You opened the door half asleep with terrible hair and you crouched down and talked to her like she was a real person and I thought—” He lifts his head to look at you. “I thought I was in serious trouble.”
“Your daughter was upside down under your arm,” you manage.
“I know. Terrible timing.” He releases your wrists, hands moving to the button of your jeans. “Is this okay?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
He undresses you slowly, pressing his mouth to each new piece of skin like punctuation. The inside of your wrist. Your hip. The soft skin of your inner thigh that makes you grip the sheets and breathe out his name. He looks up at you from there, chin resting on your thigh, expression somewhere between fond and wrecked. “Jake—”
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Okay? I’ve got you.” And then his mouth is on you and your head falls back and you stop being able to think in complete sentences.
He takes his time the way he does everything — with complete attention, reading every sound you make, every shift of your hips, adjusting until he finds exactly what makes you come apart. He slides one finger inside you and then two, curling them just right while his tongue works your clit in slow, devastating circles, and you fist your hand in his hair and try to remember how to breathe.
“Jake— fuck— I’m—”
He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t change what he’s doing. Just keeps that perfect steady rhythm like he has all the time in the world, like getting you there is the only thing on his agenda, and you come with your thighs clamped around his head and his name on your lips and it crashes through you in waves that don’t seem to stop.
He works you through every second of it, only easing off when you tug at his hair, oversensitive and shaking.
He moves up your body, pressing a kiss to your stomach, your sternum, your mouth. You can taste yourself on him and somehow that makes heat flare through you all over again. “Hi,” he says again, soft and amused.
“You,” you manage, “are very good at that.”
“Yeah?” He looks pleased.
“Don’t get smug about it.”
“I’m not smug.” He is a little smug. You find you don’t mind. “You okay?”
“More than okay.” You reach up, pull him down to kiss him properly, deep and unhurried. “Your turn.”
You get his jeans off, and his boxers, and you wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking slightly.“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologize,” you tell him. You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, and he drops his forehead to yours and just breathes. “Tell me what you like.”
“That,” he says roughly. “Exactly that. Just—” He covers your hand with his, adjusts the pressure slightly. “Yeah. Like that.”
You watch his face — the way his jaw goes tight, the way his eyes flutter. He’s trying to stay composed and not quite managing it and you find that incredibly satisfying. “Y/N.” His voice has gone rough. “I want— can I—”
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
He reaches into his nightstand drawer. You take the condom from him and roll it on yourself, slowly, which makes him close his eyes and exhale hard through his nose.“You’re going to kill me,” he says.
“You’ll be fine.”
He settles between your thighs and you feel him there, pressing in, and you both go still for a moment. He pushes forward, slow and careful, watching your face, and the stretch of him makes you exhale hard, fingers pressing into his shoulders. He stops halfway, checking. “Good?” he asks.
“So good.” You shift your hips, urging him on. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop. He seats himself fully and you both breathe through it, foreheads together, and then he starts to move and everything else falls away.
He fucks you slowly at first, deep and thorough, finding the angle that makes you gasp and then staying with it. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you make a sound that you’d be embarrassed about in any other context.“There?” he asks.
“There,” you confirm breathlessly.
He keeps going. Steady and focused and impossibly good, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke while his thumb works you in tight circles, and you can already feel it building again, embarrassingly fast. “Jake— fuck— already—”
“Let go,” he says against your temple. “I want to feel you.”
You come clenching around him, and he groans deep in his chest, the rhythm stuttering, and you feel him follow you over with your name on his lips, buried deep, shaking.
Afterward you lie tangled together in the quiet. He traces absent patterns on your arm. You listen to his heartbeat slow. “Hey,” he says eventually.
“Hey.”
“That was—”
“Yeah.” You tilt your head up. “It really was.” He presses a kiss to your hair. You feel him smile against it.
Outside, the city is doing its Friday night thing, indifferent and ongoing. In here the lamp is warm and the sheets are soft and Jake’s heartbeat is steady under your cheek and you think about the drawing on your fridge and the hand on your cheek and Mr. Bunny in the freezer and all the ordinary extraordinary things that have built this without you quite realizing. “Stay,” he says.
“I’m already here.”
“I mean—” He tightens his arm around you. “Stay. Not just tonight.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “You’re going to have to define that.”
“I know.” His thumb moves slow on your arm. “I’m working up to it.”
“Okay.” You settle back against him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mia comes home at eleven the next morning. You’re still there.
You’re in Jake’s kitchen making coffee, wearing his hoodie and your underwear, when the front door opens and Sandy’s voice floats through — “here we are, my love, home sweet home” — and small feet thunder down the hall.
Mia appears in the kitchen doorway. She takes in the scene. You, in her daddy’s hoodie. The two coffee cups. The general evidence of your presence. Her face does something complicated and then completely simple. “My Y/N,” she says, delighted, and launches herself at your legs.
You crouch down and catch her, and she wraps around you like a koala, warm and sleep-soft and smelling like Sandy’s house, and you hold her and look up at Jake in the doorway and he’s looking at the two of you with that expression again. The one that’s bigger than his face can hold.
“Hi baby,” you say into Mia’s hair. “How was Theo’s?”
“We found a worm,” she says. “His name is Dave.”
“Did you bring Dave home?”
“Sandy said no.” A pause. “I think that was wrong.”
“Dave is probably very happy in Sandy’s garden.”
She considers this. “Okay.” Then, muffled against your shoulder: “Are you staying for breakfast?”
You look at Jake. He holds your gaze, steady and warm. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m staying for breakfast.”
Mia pulls back, satisfied. “Daddy makes good eggs.”
“I know he does.”
“You can sit next to me.”
“I would love that.”
She takes your hand and tows you toward the table with the authority of someone who has decided how this morning is going to go, and Jake moves to the stove, and outside the kitchen window the Saturday morning is doing its soft unhurried thing, and this— this is everything.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The weeks that follow are the best of your life. You don’t say that out loud. It feels too large, too exposed. But it’s true in the quiet way that the truest things are — not dramatic, not announced, just sitting solidly in your chest every time you’re aware of it.
The three of you fall into a rhythm so natural it’s almost hard to remember the before. Jake knocks on your door with the hairbrush and leaves with coffee. You come to theirs for dinner more nights than not. Mia insists on showing you everything — every drawing, every discovery, every development in the ongoing organization of her stuffed animal collection.
The farmers market becomes yours. Every Saturday, the three of you. Mia on Jake’s shoulders, small hands wrapped in his hair, pointing imperiously at things she wants to examine. You buy her a sunflower from the flower stall in week two and she carries it home with both hands like it’s precious, and after that it becomes the thing — every week, a sunflower for Mia, who has decided they are her favorite and cannot be argued with on this point.
Jake watches you with her constantly. You catch him doing it — that soft unguarded look — and he doesn’t stop when you catch him, just holds your gaze until you look away first, which you always do because the directness of it does something to your chest that you haven’t found words for yet.
Mia tells her daycare teacher about you. You know this because Jake texts you a screenshot of a drawing she brought home — the same configuration as before, Mia Daddy Gerald Mr Bunny Y/N, but this time you and Jake are holding hands.
jake 3a: her teacher asked who the people were, she said ‘that’s my daddy and my Y/N they’re in love’
You stare at the message. you: she’s three
jake 3a: three and apparently very perceptive
you: what did you tell the teacher
jake 3a: I said she wasn’t wrong
You put your phone face down on the desk and press both hands over your face and sit there for a full minute. Then you pick it up. you: jake
jake 3a: yeah?
you: are you in love with me
A pause. Longer than usual. Your heart does something complicated in the silence. jake 3a: I’ve been trying to find the right moment to say it properly not over text but yes, very much yes. I have been for a while
jake 3a: is that okay?
You read it three times. you: yes, it’s very okay. also I love you too
jake 3a: yeah?
you: yeah
jake 3a: okay, good. I’m going to say it properly tonight with Mia asleep so she doesn’t narrate it
you: she would absolutely narrate it
jake 3a: she would make it about herself somehow
you: she would bring Mr Bunny as a witness
jake 3a: he’d be very moved
You’re smiling so hard your face hurts, alone in your apartment at two in the afternoon, and you think about the morning you opened your door and found a small person sitting on your doormat in duck pajamas looking for her rabbit.
You think about tiny fingers in yours on the way back across the hall. You think about you’re nice delivered with complete certainty by someone who had known you for four minutes.
That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake says it properly. Standing in the kitchen, cup of tea going cold on the counter, both of you knowing it’s coming and neither of you in any rush because there’s no need to rush anymore.
“I love you,” he says. Simple and direct. “I love you and I love that she loves you and I don’t want to do any of this without you.”
“I love you too,” you say. “Both of you. The whole— all of it. Everything.”
He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like coming home, which is a thing you didn’t know kitchens could taste like until now.
Later, in his bed, you press your face into his shoulder and listen to the particular quiet of the apartment at night — the creak of the building, the distant city, the soft sound of Mia breathing through the baby monitor on the nightstand. “Hey,” Jake says quietly. “You know what Mia asked me today?”
“What?”
“She asked if you were going to live with us.”
Your heart turns over. “What did you tell her?”
“I said I hoped so.” He tilts his head to look down at you. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s okay.” He pulls you closer. You close your eyes. Outside, a siren somewhere. The building settling. Mia’s breathing through the monitor, slow and even and completely safe.
In here, you think. Everything is in here. You never see it coming. That’s the thing about a knock at the door when you’re happy. You don’t brace for it. You don’t clock the risk. You’re just— there. In the warm. Thinking about nothing that isn’t good.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It’s a Sunday. Mia is at Sandy’s. Not overnight this time — just the afternoon, a regular arrangement while Jake works on a deadline.
Except Jake finished his deadline by noon and texted you and you came over and the afternoon became the best kind of afternoon, the kind that starts with coffee and talking and turns into something else entirely when Mia isn’t home, when there’s nowhere to be and no particular reason to leave the bedroom.
You’re in his bed. Late afternoon light coming gold through the curtains. His hand on your back tracing lazy patterns on your spine. You’re boneless and warm and half thinking about nothing and half thinking about whether Mia will want to show you the worm situation at Sandy’s when Jake picks her up.
“Sandy said she asked to bring Dave home three more times,” Jake says, like he’s reading your mind.
“Persistent.”
“She gets it from somewhere.” His hand moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “You hungry?” “Not yet.”
“Okay.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We’ve got a couple of hours before I pick her up.” You hum. He pulls you closer. The afternoon light shifts.
Then someone knocks at the door. Jake’s hand stills on your back. “Expecting anyone?” you ask.
“No.” He frowns slightly. “Sandy would call.” He sits up, reaching for his t-shirt. “Probably Danny about the tap.”
You stretch out across the warm space he’s left, drowsy and content, listening to his footsteps down the hall. The sound of the door opening. Silence.
Not the brief silence of oh hi Danny it’s fine. A longer silence. A loaded one.
Then a voice you don’t recognize — a woman’s voice, careful and slightly uncertain — saying his name. “Jake.”
You go very still.
Jake says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks his voice is completely flat in a way you’ve never heard from him before. Like all the warmth has been removed surgically. “What are you doing here?”
“I just— I wanted to—” The woman’s voice. “Can I come in?”
“No. How did you find me?”
“Your mum. She didn’t— she thought I knew the address, I think. I don’t think she realized—”
“Why are you here.” Not a question. A demand.
A pause. “I want to see her,” the woman says. “I want to see Mia.”
The name lands in the apartment like something dropped. You sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around yourself, and the drowsy warmth of the afternoon has gone completely. In its place something cold and alert.
“You need to leave,” Jake says.
“I know I don’t have the right to—”
“You left,” Jake says, and his voice is still flat, but underneath the flatness there is something enormous being held very carefully in check. “She was four months old and you left. You’ve been gone for three years. You don’t get to knock on my door and say you want to see her like it’s a reasonable thing to say.”
“I know.” The woman’s voice cracks slightly. “I know that. I just— Jake, please, I just want—”
“To see her? Or to see me?” Silence. “Yeah,” Jake says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
You get up. Quietly. You find your clothes in the soft afternoon mess of the room, pull them on, and you stand in the hallway outside his bedroom door and you look at the front door.
She’s standing in the doorway. Tall, dark-haired, pretty in a way that might have been beautiful before whatever she’s been carrying got into her face. She’s looking at Jake with an expression that mixes guilt and want in proportions you don’t have to be a genius to read.
She sees you. Her eyes move over you — your rumpled clothes, Jake’s apartment behind you, the obvious geography of the afternoon — and something hardens in her expression that you recognize. The specific hardening of someone who wanted to find a door open and has found it closed.
Jake turns. He sees you in the hallway. Something moves through his face — protective, apologetic, something else underneath that you don’t have time to read. “Y/N,” he says. “Hi.” You keep your voice steady. “I’ll— I can go.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay.” You look at him clearly, trying to say with your eyes what you can’t say in front of her: I’m fine. I’m not going far. Handle this. “I’ll be across the hall.”
He holds your gaze. His jaw is set, his eyes tight at the corners, but he gives you the smallest nod.
You pick up your keys from the bowl by the door — yours, in the bowl by Jake’s door, which happened so gradually you can’t remember it beginning — and you step past the woman in the doorway without looking at her.
You go into 3B. You close the door. You sit on your couch and you listen to the muffled sound of voices through the wall, and you hold yourself very carefully together, and you wait.
You sit on your couch for forty minutes. You know because you watch the clock. Not obsessively — you’re not counting seconds — but every time your eyes drift to it another chunk of time has passed and the voices through the wall have not stopped.
You make tea you don’t drink. You open your laptop and close it again. You pick up your phone three times and put it down without texting anyone because what would you even say.
My boyfriend’s ex showed up. The one who left when their daughter was four months old. She’s been there forty minutes and I’m sitting in my apartment trying not to think about the way she looked at him.
You put your phone face down on the cushion beside you.
The thing is — and you know this, you do — you trust Jake. That’s not the part that’s making your chest tight. You’ve watched him for months now. You know who he is. You know the way he holds his daughter and the way he laughs and the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. You know he means what he says.
The part that’s making your chest tight is her face when she saw you. Not guilt. Not embarrassment at the intrusion. Something proprietary. Something that said what are you doing in my space even though she is the one who left. Even though she forfeited any claim to this apartment and this life and this man the day she packed a bag while her four month old daughter slept.
You’re familiar with that expression. You’ve worn it yourself, briefly, watching other women talk to Jake at the market or at the park. You know what it means. She wants him back. Mia is the reason she knocked. But she wants Jake back.
You’re still sitting with that when your phone buzzes. jake 3a: she’s gone, can you come back?
You’re across the hall before you’ve fully decided to move. He opens the door before you knock. He looks terrible. Not falling apart — Jake doesn’t fall apart, you’ve figured that out, he goes very still and very controlled when things get bad, which is almost worse — but there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there this morning and his jaw is set in that way that means he’s been holding something in for a while.
He steps back to let you in. Closes the door. You turn to face him and he looks at you for a moment like he’s checking that you’re real, that you’re still here, that the afternoon hasn’t completely dismantled itself. “You okay?” you ask.
“I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine. I was across the hall.” You hold his gaze. “Are you okay?”
He exhales. Long and slow. Runs a hand through his hair. “She wants to see Mia. She says she’s been in therapy. That she’s been— working through things. That she made a mistake and she knows that and she just wants—” He stops. His jaw works. “She was here for forty minutes and Mia’s name came up maybe three times.”
Your stomach tightens. “What did the rest of it cover?” He looks at you with an expression that answers the question without words. “Jake—”
“I told her no,” he says. “To all of it. I told her— Mia doesn’t know her. She’s three years old, she has no memory of her, and showing up out of nowhere and announcing herself as her mother would be— I’m not doing that to her. I’m not letting someone walk in and blow up her world because they’ve decided they’re ready now.”
“That’s right,” you say quietly.
“Is it?” He looks genuinely uncertain, and that more than anything tells you how rattled he is. Jake is not an uncertain man. He’s careful, he’s considered, but when he’s decided something he holds it steady. Watching him doubt himself is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “Because part of me thinks— she’s her mother. Biologically. Does Mia have a right to know her? At some point? And am I—”
“Jake.” You cross to him. Put your hand on his chest, flat over his heart, and look up at him. “You are the most present, devoted, thoughtful parent I have ever seen. You have been both of them for three years. Whatever you decide about this, it comes from that. Not from fear, not from jealousy. From knowing your daughter.” He looks down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours. “She’s not here because of Mia,” you say gently. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “Yeah, I know that.”
“So you handle the Mia question in your own time, with proper advice, on your terms. Not because she showed up at your door on a Sunday afternoon.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “When did you get so—”
“Wise?”
“I was going to say steady.”
“Same thing.” You press your palm flatter against his chest. “You’re okay. Mia’s okay. This is just— a thing that happened on a Sunday. It doesn’t have to be more than that right now.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his face shifts — the held-in thing loosening slightly, the lines around his eyes easing. “I really love you,” he says quietly.
“I know.” You reach up, press your hand briefly to his jaw. “I love you too. Go get your daughter.”
He comes back with Mia at five thirty. You’re in his kitchen making dinner — you’d found pasta and vegetables and half a block of good parmesan and it seemed like the right thing to do, to be here, to have something warm happening when they got home.
Mia comes through the door at full speed, as always, and finds you at the stove and absolutely loses her mind with delight. “My Y/N is here!”
“Hi, my Mia.” She barrels into your legs and you crouch down and catch her, and over her head you watch Jake close the front door and lean against it for just a second, eyes closed. Like he’s taking a breath. Like he’s counting the things still here and finding them all present.
Then he opens his eyes and sees you watching him and something in his face goes soft. “Dave update,” Mia says urgently against your neck.
“Tell me everything.”
“Sandy said he moved.” Her voice is full of significance. “She doesn’t know where he went.”
“Dave is living his life.”
“That’s what Sandy said.” She pulls back to look at you. “I think he went to find his family.”
“That’s a very hopeful interpretation.”
“Worms have families,” she tells you solemnly. “Probably.”
“Definitely,” you agree.
Jake has moved into the kitchen. He comes up behind you — Mia still in your arms — and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Quick and quiet. Gratitude and love in a single gesture. “Smells good,” he says.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Can I help?”
“You can set the table.”
“I want to help,” Mia announces.
“You can put the napkins out,” you tell her, and she accepts this responsibility with great seriousness, and Jake sets her down and gets the napkins and she carries them to the table one at a time with both hands like they’re fragile, and Jake catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths thank you and you shake your head slightly because there’s nothing to thank you for.
You’re exactly where you want to be.
Later, after dinner, after Mia’s bath, after two bedtime stories and one negotiation about the structural integrity of a fort she wants to construct in the living room (tomorrow, baby, it’s bedtime), after small arms around your neck and a kiss pressed very seriously to your cheek and night my Y/N into the dark—
You and Jake sit on his couch in the quiet. He has his legs stretched out on the coffee table. You’re tucked into his side, his arm around you. The lamp is the only light. The apartment has the particular peace of a small child asleep in the next room. “She’s going to come back,” Jake says quietly.
“Probably.”
“I’m going to talk to a lawyer. Get clear on where things stand legally before she does.” His thumb moves on your arm. “She signed over custody voluntarily. I don’t think she has grounds for anything. But I want to know for certain.”
“That’s smart.”
“I don’t want Mia to know about this until I do. I don’t want her picking up on anything.”
“She won’t hear it from me.”
He turns his head to press a kiss to your hair. “I know.” You sit in the quiet for a moment. “She looked at you,” he says. “The way she looked at you when she saw you there.” His arm tightens slightly. “I need you to know that whatever she came here wanting, it was never going to— she left, Y/N. She made her choice. There’s nothing there.”
“I know that too.”
“I just—” He exhales. “I don’t want you to have any doubt. About this. About us.”
You lift your head to look at him. His face in the lamplight, tired and earnest and completely, simply honest. “I don’t,” you tell him. “Not even a little.”
He holds your gaze. “Good,” he says quietly. He kisses you softly, and you let yourself melt into it, and outside the window the night is doing its ordinary thing, indifferent and ongoing.
When you break apart you settle back against his shoulder. “Stay,” he says.
“Obviously,” you say. He pulls you closer.
In the next room, Mia sleeps, completely safe, completely loved, completely unaware that someone knocked on the door today and was turned away.
She’ll know, eventually. Jake will tell her, carefully, at the right time, in the right way. That’s the kind of father he is. But tonight she just sleeps. And you and Jake stay on the couch until you both drift off, warm and quiet and whole.
The lawyer’s name is Ms. Park and she is very thorough.
Jake comes back from the meeting on a Wednesday looking lighter than he has all week. He finds you in his kitchen — where you are most afternoons now, it’s become accepted fact — and he leans in the doorway and says:
“She has no legal standing. She relinquished custody voluntarily and completely. If she wants any kind of access she would have to apply through the courts and demonstrate sustained rehabilitation and it would be a long process with no guarantee.”
You set down the mug you’re washing. “Okay.”
“She came here once and I turned her away and she hasn’t come back.” He exhales. “I don’t think she’s going to pursue it. I think she came here for me and when that didn’t work—”
“She has no reason to stay.” You cross the kitchen to him. Put your hands on his chest. “How do you feel?”
He thinks about it genuinely, the way he does. “Relieved,” he says. “And— sad, a little. That it’s this way. That Mia doesn’t have—” He stops.
“She has you,” you say. “She has Sandy and Mrs. Kim and the daycare teachers who love her and Theo the worm friend and—” You meet his eyes. “She has me. For as long as you’ll both have me.”
Something moves through his face. “Forever, then,” he says simply.
Your heart turns over. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Forever works.”
He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like relief and sunlight and something settled and permanent. From the doorway comes a small voice. “Are you kissing again?”
You break apart to find Mia standing in the hallway in her socks, Mr. Bunny under her arm, regarding you both with the patient exhaustion of someone who has seen this many times and has opinions. “Sorry,” Jake says, not sounding sorry at all.
“It’s fine,” Mia says, generous. “You can kiss. But after can we do the fort?”
“We can do the fort,” you confirm. She nods, satisfied. Turns and toddles back down the hall.
Jake looks at you. You look at Jake.“The fort,” he says. You nod in agreement and follow him and your daughter down the hall.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Three months later, Mia stops calling you my Y/N. She starts calling you mama.
It happens on a Tuesday. Not a special Tuesday. Not a significant one. Just an ordinary Tuesday in February where the sky is doing that flat grey thing it does in late summer when the heat hasn’t broken yet and everything feels slightly sticky and slow.
You’re doing her hair. The Wednesday morning routine has migrated — it’s every morning now, most mornings, because somewhere between October and February the question of which apartment are you sleeping in stopped being a real question. You’re here. You live here, functionally, in every way that matters except the technical one. Your toothbrush is here. A drawer is yours. Gerald the succulent has been relocated to the kitchen windowsill where he gets better light and Mia waters him every second day with great ceremony.
Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Mia is between your knees on the couch, holding Mr. Bunny, and you’re doing two neat braids because she has decided braids are her preference this week and you’ve been practicing. “Tighter,” she instructs.
“If I go tighter it’ll pull.”
“I want tight braids.”
“You want braids that feel comfortable and also look good.”
She considers this negotiation. “Okay,” she concedes.
You keep going. She hums something to herself, swinging her feet, and you work through the second braid, and it’s quiet in the good way, the way that only exists when everyone in a space is completely comfortable. “Mama,” Mia says.
“Hmm?” You tie off the braid.
“Can I wear the yellow dress today?”
You’re reaching for the second hair tie when it lands.
Mama.
She said it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural word in the world. Like she’s been saying it her whole life, which — you realize, with your heart doing something enormous and unsteady in your chest — maybe in her head she has been.
“Yeah,” you manage, and your voice comes out almost normal. “Yeah, baby, we can find the yellow dress.”
She scrambles off the couch and heads to her room, completely unbothered, Mr. Bunny trailing from one hand. You sit there. In the kitchen, the coffee maker finishes its cycle.
Jake appears in the doorway with two mugs, takes one look at your face, and stops. “What happened? Are you okay? What—”
“She called me mama,” you say.
The mugs go onto the coffee table. Jake sits beside you and looks at you with an expression that is doing the same enormous unsteady thing yours probably is. “Just now?”
“Just now.” Your voice is not quite steady. “She asked if she could wear the yellow dress and she called me mama and then she just— walked off. Like it was nothing.”
“Y/N—”
“I’m not upset.” You turn to him, urgent, needing him to understand. “I’m not— I’m not upset, Jake, I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he takes your face in both hands, careful and deliberate, and presses his forehead to yours. “I do,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You say yes. That’s what you do. You just— say yes.”
From down the hall: “Found it!” A pause. “Mama, can you do the buttons?”
You close your eyes. “Okay,” you breathe. Yeah.” You open your eyes. Look at him. “Yeah. Okay.”
He kisses you, quick and soft, and then you get up and go down the hall to do the buttons on a yellow dress, and Jake stands in the living room doorway watching and the expression on his face is the most complete thing you’ve ever seen on a human being.
That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake asks you to move in. Not impulsively. Not as a reaction to the morning. You can tell he’s been thinking about it for a while — there’s a particular quality to his stillness when he’s been working up to something, and you’ve learned it the way you’ve learned all of him, gradually and permanently.
You’re on the couch. Late. The lamp on, the city quiet outside. His hand in yours. “Move in,” he says. You look at him. “Properly,” he says. “Not the drawer and the toothbrush. All of it. Gerald and everything.”
“Gerald’s already here.”
“I know.” The corner of his mouth moves. “Consider it a trial run.”
You look at your joined hands. At the apartment that has been yours in every meaningful sense for months. At the hallway where Mia is sleeping with Mr. Bunny and her color-organized stuffed animals and absolute certainty that you will be here in the morning. “Yeah,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“Obviously yeah, Jake.” You lean over and kiss him. “Obviously.”
He pulls you in and holds you there, and you feel him exhale slowly against your hair. “She’s going to lose her mind,” he says.
“She’s going to tell Gerald first.”
“She’s going to tell Gerald, then Mrs. Kim, then Sandy, then everyone at daycare.”
“In that order.”
“In that exact order.”
You’re both laughing, quiet so you don’t wake her, and it settles into something warm and certain. “Hey,” Jake says. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” You press your face into his shoulder. “Both of you. The whole thing.”
“The whole thing loves you back,” he says simply.
You tell Mia in the morning. Jake does it, at breakfast, with the careful measured approach of a man who has learned that toddlers receive important news better when they’re eating something. “Hey Mia. You know how Y/N stays here a lot?”
Mia looks up from her toast. Looks at you. Looks back at Jake. “Yes.”
“How would you feel if she stayed here all the time? Like, lived here. With us.”
Mia blinks. Puts down her toast. Looks at you with enormous serious eyes. “Like forever?” she asks.
“Like forever,” Jake confirms.
She stares at you for a long moment with the focused intensity of someone making a very important assessment.
Then she gets down from her chair, crosses to you, climbs into your lap uninvited and completely certain of her welcome, and wraps both arms around your neck. “Okay,” she says into your shoulder. “You can live here.”
“Thank you,” you manage, arms tight around her.
“Gerald will be happy,” she adds.
“He really will.”
She pulls back. Looks at your face. Puts her small hand on your cheek exactly the way she did on the very first morning, in the hallway, four months ago when she was looking for her rabbit. “Don’t cry,” she says kindly. “It’s good news.”
“I know.” You laugh, wet at the edges. “Happy tears.”
“Oh.” She considers this. “Okay.” Then, satisfied, she climbs back down, retrieves her toast, and resumes breakfast.
Jake is looking at you over her head with an expression that could power something. “Told you,” he mouths. You shake your head, still smiling, still blinking hard.
The whole thing loves you back. Yeah. Yeah it really does.
The move takes a weekend. It’s not a big move — your apartment was small and you’ve been migrating things gradually for months without meaning to — but there’s something significant about doing it officially. Carrying boxes across the hall. Hanging your clothes properly in the wardrobe. Arranging your books on the shelves beside Jake’s.
Mia supervises. She is a very involved supervisor, offering opinions on where everything should go and occasionally redirecting items she feels would be better placed in her room. You negotiate firmly on the throw blanket. You surrender the small lamp without a fight because she’s put it next to Mr. Bunny and it does look good there, objectively.
By Sunday evening the apartment is a comfortable chaos of rearrangement and you’re all sitting on the living room floor eating pizza from the box because no one has the energy to locate the table under the moving debris.
Mia is in your lap. Jake is beside you, shoulder to shoulder, pizza slice in hand, looking around the apartment that has shifted and expanded and settled into something new. “Looks different,” he says.
“Good different?”
He looks at you. “Yeah. Really good different.”
Mia tilts her head back to look up at you from your lap. “Can we build the fort now?”
“We live in a fort,” you tell her, gesturing at the surrounding box landscape.
Her eyes go wide. She looks around. Looks back at you. “We live in a fort,” she breathes.
“We live in a fort,” Jake confirms solemnly. She is overcome.
You and Jake look at each other over her head, laughing, and it is — this moment exactly, pizza and boxes and a delighted three year old and the lamp in the wrong place and Gerald on the windowsill — it is everything. Absolutely everything.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
A year later
The morning of the wedding, Mia wakes up at five forty-three AM. You know this because she comes and stands beside the bed and breathes on your face until you open your eyes. “It’s today,” she whispers.
“It is,” you confirm.
“I’m the flower girl.”
“You are.”
She absorbs this with great seriousness. Then: “I need to practice.”
“Mia, it’s not even six—”
“I need to practice.”
Jake makes a sound beside you that is him absolutely not laughing. You elbow him. “Okay,” you say. “But quietly. So we don’t wake the neighbors.”
She nods, solemn and focused, and turns and walks very slowly back down the hallway, scattering invisible petals with great ceremony, narrating under her breath — and then I walk here, and then here, and then I find mama—
You lie there in the early morning grey and stare at the ceiling and think about the word mama the way you have thought about it every day for the past year and a half. The way it still does something enormous to your chest. The way you don’t think it will ever stop.
Jake rolls toward you. Presses his face into your neck. “Morning,” he murmurs.
“Your daughter is practicing flower girl technique in the hallway.”
“She’s been planning this since we told her.” His arm comes around you. “She asked Sandy if she could practice at her house. She practiced at daycare. She made Theo be the groom so she could practice walking toward someone.”
“She’s extremely prepared.”
“She’s extremely her.” He presses a kiss to your jaw. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.” You turn to face him. His face in the early light, sleep-soft and certain and completely, permanently yours. “Really good. You?”
“Best day of my life,” he says simply. “After the day she was born. And the day you moved in. And the day you said yes when I asked.” He pauses. “Top five, at minimum.”
“That’s very good company.”
“You’re very good company.” He kisses you properly, slow and warm, and from the hallway comes the sound of small feet completing another practice lap.
“…and then I find mama, and she’s the prettiest—” You pull back from Jake, blinking hard. He looks at you. Reaches up and brushes his thumb under your eye, gentle.
“She’s not wrong,” he says.
“It’s five forty-five in the morning, I look terrible—”
“You look like the person I’m marrying today.” He holds your gaze. “Which means you look perfect.” You press your face into his shoulder and hold on for a moment.
From the hallway: “Okay I’m ready. Can we have breakfast now?”
Sandy comes at nine to take Mia for hair and getting dressed — a situation Mia has been anticipating with the focused excitement of someone who has been told she gets curls and a flower in her hair and has not stopped thinking about it since.
She submits to the process with remarkable patience, sitting very still while Sandy works, only turning her head twice to update you on developments. “It’s getting curlier,” she reports.
“I can see that.”
“Do I look like a princess?”
“You look exactly like a princess.” She nods, satisfied, and returns to stillness.
When it’s done she stands in front of the mirror in her small white dress — simple, with a yellow sash, because she requested yellow and you would move mountains before you’d say no to that — and looks at herself for a long, serious moment.“I look nice,” she concludes.
“You look incredible,” Sandy says.
“Yeah.” She turns to look at you. Her eyes go wide. “Mama. You look so pretty.”
You’re in your dress — simple, exactly what you wanted, nothing complicated — and your hair is done and you’re holding your bouquet and you’re trying very hard not to cry and failing slightly.“So do you,” you tell her.
She crosses to you. Reaches up and takes your hand, the way she did in a hallway a long time ago, completely certain of her welcome.“Don’t be nervous,” she tells you.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Good.” She squeezes your fingers. “Daddy loves you the most.”
“He loves you the most.”
She considers this with genuine fairness. “He loves us the same,” she decides. “Equal. Like a tie.”
“That’s exactly right.”
She nods. Pats your hand once, settling the matter. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go get married.”
The venue is small and warm and full of people who love you.
Mrs. Kim is in the third row in her best jacket, already dabbing her eyes. Sandy is beside her. Jake’s parents flew in from Brisbane — his mother cried when she met you and his father shook your hand for a very long time and said thank you for making them happy and you’d had to excuse yourself to the bathroom for five minutes after that.
Your own family. Your friends. The people who have been the walls of your life. And at the end of the aisle, Jake.
In a dark suit, hands clasped in front of him, hair the way you like it. He’s talking quietly to the celebrant and then someone touches his arm and he looks up and sees Mia in the doorway.
His face does what it always does when he sees her. That open, completely unguarded thing. She waves at him. He waves back.
Then he sees you behind her and his face does something else entirely.
The music starts. Mia goes first. She has been told, approximately as many times as you can tell a four and a half year old anything, that flower girls walk slowly. Measured. Elegant. She lasts four steps.
Then she spots Jake at the end of the aisle and she goes — there is no other word for it — feral with excitement, sunflowers clutched in both fists, petals going in every direction except down, grinning so hard her whole face is the grin, half walking half skipping half something entirely her own.
“DADDY I FOUND HER” she announces at full volume to the entire assembled gathering. “I FOUND HER SHE’S HERE”
The room erupts. Not polite wedding laughter. Real laughter, the kind that comes from somewhere genuine, rippling through every row. Mrs. Kim is crying laughing. Sandy has her hand over her mouth. Jake’s mother is gripping his father’s arm.
Jake is crouching down to catch Mia as she reaches him, scooping her up, pressing a kiss to her chaotic curls, the flower in her hair somehow surviving the sprint. “Good job,” you hear him tell her.
“I practiced,” she says, very serious.
“I know you did, baby.” He sets her down. She takes her position with great dignity, as though the sprint did not happen, as though she has been standing here elegantly the entire time.
And then Jake looks up at you. You walk toward him. The room goes soft around the edges — not blurred, just quiet, the way things go when you’re paying attention to the only thing that matters. The faces on either side are warm and familiar and you see them without seeing them because you’re looking at Jake.
Jake, who opened his door on a panicked Tuesday morning and showed you his worst fear and his whole heart in the same thirty seconds.
Jake, who makes coffee before you ask and remembers every small thing and says what he means with a simplicity that still sometimes catches you off guard.
Jake, who watched you fall in love with his daughter before you fell in love with him and let it happen without trying to manage or protect or preempt it, because he trusted you, because he looked at you and knew.
You reach him. He takes your hand and holds it like he’s been holding it his whole life. “Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” you say back.
Beside him, Mia has taken your other hand. She holds it with both of hers, feet planted, present and accounted for, witnessing this with the gravity it deserves.
The celebrant begins. The vows are Jake’s own words. You knew this. You wrote yours too, separately, privately, the way you’d agreed. But hearing them — in his voice, in this room, looking at his face — is different from knowing.
He talks about the morning Mia escaped into the hallway and how he stood in your doorway afterward watching you crouch down to his daughter’s level and felt something shift that he couldn’t name yet and didn’t try to.
He talks about Wednesday mornings with the hairbrush. About leftover pasta and late night texting and the drawing on the fridge.
He talks about the way you love Mia — not as a condition of loving him, not as an extension of it, but first, entirely and separately first, because that’s who you are.
She picked you, he says, before I had a chance to. And she has never once been wrong about anything important. Beside you, Mia straightens slightly at this. You feel her grip on your hand tighten.
I’m not a man who believed in easy, Jake says. I thought love was supposed to be something you work and worry at. And then you moved in across the hall and you were just — easy. Everything with you has just been easy. Not without difficulty. Not without fear. But easy the way breathing is easy. The way I can’t imagine not doing it. His voice has gone rough at the edges.
I love you. I loved you in October and I loved you in February and I love you today and I’m going to love you when Mia is grown and gone and it’s just us and I’m going to love you in every ordinary Tuesday that comes after this one because that’s where you live. In the ordinary Tuesdays. And I want every single one of them.
The room is very quiet. You are absolutely crying. You decided before today that you weren’t going to cry until after the vows at the earliest and you have failed completely. “Don’t cry,” Mia whispers, helpful. “It’s good news.”
Laughter moves through the room like a wave. Jake laughs too, wiping his eyes, and you laugh through yours, and it breaks the solemnity just enough, the way the best moments always do — serious and true and then suddenly full of light.
Your vows. You talk about duck pajamas and a stuffed rabbit and a small hand in yours in a hallway. You talk about a crayon drawing on a fridge and a child who put you in her family portrait before you knew you belonged there.
You talk about a man who carried his daughter on his shoulders through a farmers market and came home to make dinner and knocked on your door with leftover pasta and showed you what it looked like when someone decided that loving people well was the most important thing they could do.
You taught me that, you say. Both of you. You showed me what it looks like when love is a decision someone makes every single day without drama and without conditions. Mia does it for everyone she meets. You do it quietly and completely and I want to spend the rest of my life doing it back. You look at Jake.
I love you. I love our ordinary Tuesdays. I love Wednesday mornings and Saturday markets and bedtime stories and all the Gerald updates and every single version of this life we’ve built in an apartment across the hall from where I used to live alone. I love your daughter.
You look down at Mia. She is watching you with her whole face. Completely still, completely focused, taking this in with the seriousness it deserves.
She is the best thing, you say. She is the absolute best thing, and I promise her, today, in front of everyone who loves us, that I am here. I am not going anywhere. She is mine and I am hers and that is permanent and unconditional and nothing will ever change it.
Mia’s lip wobbles. Just slightly. You watch her decide, with great effort, not to cry, because she is a flower girl and flower girls are professionals and she has a reputation to maintain. She squeezes your hand instead. Very hard. You squeeze back.
I now pronounce you married.
Jake kisses you, and the room rises, and somewhere in the noise you hear Mia announce to no one in particular and everyone simultaneously:
“THAT’S MY MAMA NOW. THAT’S OFFICIALLY MY MAMA.”
And then, apparently satisfied that this has been adequately communicated, she inserts herself between the two of you and takes both your hands and holds on.
Jake looks at you over her head. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
The reception is everything. Mrs. Kim dances with Mia for forty-five minutes straight and neither of them stops. Sandy cries every time someone gives a speech. Jake’s father gives a toast that makes the whole room laugh and then immediately cry. Your own people hold you and tell you they knew, they always knew, from the moment you started talking about the little girl next door like she’d hung the moon.
Jake dances with Mia first — tradition, he’d decided, she gets the first dance — and you stand at the edge of the floor and watch her stand on his feet, both of them swaying to something slow, her head against his chest, his hand spanning her whole back.
You take a photo. You will look at that photo for the rest of your life.
Then he passes her off to his mother and comes to find you, hand extended, and you take it and let him pull you out onto the floor. “Hi wife,” he says, like he’s trying the word out.
“Hi husband.”
He smiles. Pulls you closer. “How’s it feel?”
“Same,” you say honestly. “Exactly the same. Just— more settled.”
“Yeah.” His hand moves on your back. “Like it’s been true for a while and now the paperwork caught up.”
“Exactly like that.”
You dance. The room moves around you, warm and full of people you love, and Mia is somewhere in it, probably telling someone about Dave the worm or Gerald or the structural integrity of forts, and it is — all of it, every piece — everything. All of it everything.
She falls asleep at nine fifteen. Mid-sentence, apparently — Jake’s mother told you later she was explaining the color organization system for the stuffed animals and then she simply stopped explaining and was asleep, curled in the chair with her flower crown half off and her shoes long since abandoned and the last of her sunflowers still in her hand.
Jake carries her out to the car at the end of the night, limp and certain and completely trusting the way only sleeping children are, and you tuck the seatbelt around her and push the flower crown gently back from her face. She doesn’t wake up.
She won’t remember being carried, won’t remember the drive home, won’t remember being tucked in. But in the morning she’ll wake up and come and stand at the side of your bed and breathe on your face until you open your eyes, and you’ll ask her how she slept and she’ll say good and you’ll ask if she had fun at the wedding and she’ll say yes I was the flower girl with the proprietary satisfaction of someone who performed their role excellently and knows it. And she’ll be right. She was, without any competition, the best part.
Later. Much later. His penthouse — your penthouse, it still catches you sometimes — quiet and dark except for the city light through the windows. Mia asleep down the hall. The flower crown on the kitchen counter. Your bouquet in a glass of water because you couldn’t throw it, it was too pretty.
Jake’s jacket over the chair. Your heels by the door. You and Jake on the couch the way you’ve been a hundred times before, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder, the easy comfortable weight of each other. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
“Mia told Theo’s mum today that she picked you.”
You lift your head. “What?”
“At the reception. Apparently she walked up to Theo’s mum completely unprompted and said—” He’s smiling. “She said I picked her first. Before Daddy even knew.”
You stare at him. “She’s four and a half,” you say.
“I know. She’s extremely perceptive,” Jake says. “Always has been.”
You think about a Tuesday morning and duck pajamas and the end of a hallway. The hand on your cheek. You’re nice. The absolute certainty of it. The way she gave you her fingers without hesitating like she already knew. “She did pick me first,” you say softly.
“Yeah.” Jake presses a kiss to your hair. “She really did.”
The city does its quiet nighttime thing outside the windows. Down the hall, Mia sleeps. You and Jake stay where you are, warm and settled, in the ordinary extraordinary life you built one Tuesday at a time.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Three weeks later, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, Mia sits between your knees on the couch.
You’re doing her braids. Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Gerald is on the windowsill. Mr. Bunny is in the orange section of the stuffed animal shelf. Everything exactly where it should be. “Mama,” Mia says.
“Hmm?”
“When I’m big can I be a flower girl again?”
“When you’re big you can be whatever you want.”
She considers this carefully. “I want to be a flower girl and a paleontologist and a cat.”
“All three?”
“On different days.”
“That seems manageable.” She nods, satisfied. Swings her feet.
From the kitchen, Jake: “Braids today?”
“Braids,” Mia confirms, with the authority of someone whose hair decisions are final. You finish the first one. Start the second. The morning does its ordinary thing around you.
Mia tilts her head back to look up at you, upside down, grinning. “I love you, mama.”
You smooth a hand over her hair. “I love you too, baby,” you say. “So much.” She rights herself. Goes back to swinging her feet.
Outside the window the morning is doing what mornings do, indifferent and ongoing and full of ordinary things.
In here it is warm. In here everyone is exactly where they are supposed to be. This is just the beginning. And it is everything.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Hi lovelies! If you made it all the way to the end I hope you enjoyed. I’ve had a few people ask for a drabble or two based off this. if you want to see this click this and comment below your suggestions and what you want to see.
you get partnered with your nerdy best friend's twin brother for a project
content: smau ⟡ frat!jake x reader ⟡ nerdbestfriend!jake ⟡ profanity
a/n: shamelessly inspired by fratjo and nerdjo i fear...nerd twin x reader coming after this one is completed i promise 🙏
part one ⟡ part two (coming soon...)
@ nishimmortal ⟡ all rights reserved.
a/n: leaving for vacation today so gg...will try to update when i can #we'recooked
─── in which you suck at communicating your feelings and your childhood best friend, jake sim, sucks at reading the room.
oblivious!jake sim x fem!reader ; smau. childhood best friends to ????? college au. lots of miscommunication. they're both lowk idiots. lots of nicknames. seemingly unrequited feelings.
my masterlist.
part 1. | part 2. | part 3. | part 4. | part 5. | part 6.
