a day in the life of sweetheart!reader (with mattheo <3)
— a one year special ♡ 4k words ♡ masterlist
very slice of life, very fluffy ! reader is depicted wearing makeup & hair rollers !!
♡ 7:00 - wake up
You wake up to the soft (you wish, more like blaring) alarm of yours that Mattheo has learned to sleep through by now. You stretch your arms and slowly sit up from your bed, careful not to wake Mattheo who stayed the night.
You peer down at him. It’s rare to see him so unguarded like he is around you. His curls are tousled and untamed. You pull gently at a strand, watching it straighten before it bounces back into a curl as soon as you release it. You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth before going to your bathroom.
You gingerly take your hair out of your rollers and spend the next half an hour getting ready.
It's pointless, you know. No one else in your school really cares to doll up like you do. Regardless, you believe in look good feel good (Elle Woods has always been an inspiration for you); so you spend extra time every morning curling your lashes and applying your favourite sparkly lip gloss.
Just as you're about to start setting your makeup base, Mattheo strolls into the bathroom with his tie loosely hanging around his neck with a lazy half-grin on his face.
“Morning, baby,” he drawls, wrapping his large arms around your torso. “Ready to go?”
You whip around, facing him with wide panicked eyes, more than half of your makeup still incomplete.
He laughs at your expression. “It’s fine, baby, take your time."
"It's only 7:20,” he reassures you, kissing the side of your head before reaching down for his toothbrush.
You sigh in relief, shifting slightly to the side so that you and Mattheo can share the sink.
"What's your first class, baby?" he asks, though it's muffled by the toothpaste in his mouth so it sounds more like: was’ yo firz clas, bavi?
You laugh, glancing at his reflection through the mirror.
"DADA," you answer as he rinses out his mouth. "Without you, unfortunately."
He sighs. "Shame."
He attempts to tame his hair slightly and you stop what you're doing to watch him adoringly, he catches you staring and grins at you.
He turns to face you properly when you reach up expectantly. He bends down slightly while you tiptoe so you can reach his hair, you gently detangle some of his curls.
"Cute!" you compliment when you’re done, he laughs and stands to his full height again.
"Thanks, baby,” he says, before kissing your nose as to not smudge the lipgloss you just applied. “I’ll go get us a seat first, join me when you're done?”
You nod, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.
“Careful not to get caught sneaking out!” you call out when he’s about to leave your room.
“Please, who do you think you’re talking to?" he calls back smugly.
The door shuts and you shake your head, smiling to yourself.
♡ 8:00 - breakfast
Breakfast opens at 7:30, so the great hall is already crowded and lively when you enter at 8.
Luckily, there’s a seat and a plate saved for you at the Slytherin table.
Your friends greet you when you approach the table. Although they all seem half asleep (and half dead), they try their best to smile and greet you very nicely. You greet them with a bright smile and a cheerful "hello!"
Your energy this early in the morning will never not astonish them.
You take your seat next to Mattheo and he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you closer.
“Sweetheart, settle this debate for us will you?” Enzo calls.
Besides you, Mattheo rolls his eyes at the nickname — he coined it for you first — but turns to look at you in anticipation nonetheless. You turn to Enzo. “What is it?”
Pansy rolls her eyes. “Nothing, just their stupid dick measuring contests.”
Your eyes widen.
“Not actually!" Enzo says quickly. "Holy shit, it’s a figure of speech.”
You relax, sighing in relief.
“Alright, then,” you say. “What’s the debate?”
“We want to know who you think would win in a fight between all of us.” Theo says.
“Like, a five-way fight between all of you?" you let out a soft laugh, furrowing your brows. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask, I’m really biased—”
Mattheo smirks.
“Hang on, it’s Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo and I.” Theo says, confused. “Who’s the fifth person?”
“Pansy.”
Mattheo laughs at your statement, understanding immediately where your loyalties and bias lie.
“She’s not a part of this.” Theo says. Pansy rolls her eyes.
“Why not?” you say innocently, picking at your fruit cup. “My money’s on her.”
♡ 9:00 - first classes
Defence Against the Dark Arts (a double lesson!), charms & potions. It would be absolute hell if you didn’t have Mattheo next to you for the latter two classes.
You spend the classes drawing hearts on his hand, playing tic tac toe on the corner of your class assignment worksheet & occasionally listening to the professor, definitely!
You doze off somewhere in the middle of Snape's lecture, head resting on Mattheo's arm. He knows that his arm will be numb after the class but he really can't find it in himself to care.
You blink, waking up slowly. You stare, with bleary eyes, at Mattheo’s wrist watch.
"20 more minutes, angel," he murmurs, low enough so you can hear it, an amused smile on his face.
You pout, sitting up straight. You try your best to make sense of the blackboard, narrowing your eyes at the unfamiliar words.
Mattheo nudges his notebook in your direction.
"You wrote notes?" you ask incredulously.
He smirks. "Figured you'd need them, Sleepy.”
You roll your eyes at the teasing nickname, but catch up on the lesson through the familiar handwriting. You notice a small “hi sweetheart i love you ♡” written on the top corner of the page.
His hand inches closer to your free hand on your lap, interlacing your fingers as his eyes stay trained on the board.
♡ 12:00 - lunch
Per your idea, Mattheo's entire friend group (and now yours, too, really) eats their lunches outside in the grass area — like a makeshift picnic.
"The weather's so lovely, I'm surprised more people don't eat outside," you hum as the group spreads your blanket underneath a shaded area.
"Yeah, who wouldn't want to eat with bugs?" Enzo says sarcastically before wincing when Theo smacks the back of his head over his comment. Your mood is undisrupted, though, as you cheerfully wave to a bird a few inches away from you before it flies away.
Mattheo puts a bowl of freshly washed (by him, of course) strawberries in front of you. Enzo grins and reaches a hand out, it's slapped away by Mattheo.
"What the fuck, Mattheo?" he whines.
"They're for her," he says with a flat look, gesturing to you.
"I don't mind sharing," you say placatingly, ever the peacekeeper. Pansy snorts.
"Bad idea sharing food with Enzo, you turn around for half a second and it's all gone," she says.
Mattheo nods his head. "Exactly."
"Everyone's protecting her and no one's protecting me," he grumbles under his breath, but he decidedly keeps his hands to his own food for the rest of the picnic.
You laugh, grabbing a strawberry and lifting it to Mattheo's mouth.
He raises his eyebrow at the gesture, you laugh and push the strawberry closer to his mouth. He rolls his eyes but parts his lips for you anyway.
You smile, pleased, before squealing when his tongue makes contact with your finger.
"Gross, Mattheo!" you laugh, wiping your finger on his shirt.
He smirks and tugs you closer to him. You pretend to fight him out of his grasp before relaxing on his lap.
♡ 1:30 - back to class
The next few classes are harder to get through as they very much lack Mattheo. At least you have Pansy right next to you as you dutifully finish the classwork assigned to you, despite her insistence on distracting you.
“This girl is just so delusional,” Pansy says, twirling her pen.
“That’s mean,” you say, unfocused, eyes still darting back and forth across the page as you try your best to complete the equation.
She raises her eyebrows.
“She spread a rumour about me and called me a ‘slut’ who wanted her ugly ass boyfriend,” she says.
“Oh,” you say, pursing your lips. “Carry on then.”
She smiles, self-satisfied. You turn to her.
“What’d you get for question 5?”
She looks down at her paper before looking back up at you.
“America?” she says, you frown.
“Pans, this is math.” She shrugs in response.
You huff and put down your pen, deciding you’ve done the best you can do and it’s time for a break.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you bite back a smile. There’s only a few people you haven't silenced notifications from.
matty <3
— sleep over tonight? (15:05)
— i’ve got a surprise for you after quidditch (15:06)
You bite your cheek, texting back under the table as discreetly as you can.
sweetheart ♡
— yes please!!!! <3 <3 (15:08)
Pansy gives you a knowing smirk, spotting the giddiness of your body language.
“I know exactly who you’re texting,” she teases.
“Shut up!” you laugh, shoving at her.
♡ 4:00 - afterschool
Your energy is almost completely depleted by the time you make it back to your dorm room, so you slip into more comfortable clothes and nestle yourself under the covers to take a quick nap.
When you wake up half an hour later, your groggy vision is half covered by ginger fur. You smile, reaching to curl your arm around your (and Mattheo’s) newly rescued and adopted kitten. You figure Mattheo must have dropped her off at your dorm before he went to Quidditch.
“Hi Honey,” you coo her name, petting her fur. She purrs responsively, nuzzling her face against your palm.
Originally, you had named her Sweetheart. But after you turned your head every time Mattheo called her name, you had to change it to something you were not called. Well, frequently called.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you say before teasing. “You like my dorm more than Mattheo’s, don’t you?”
Honey says (or meows) nothing in response. You sigh dramatically.
“I get it, you don’t want to hurt Mattheo’s feelings.”
She meows which you take as a response, you laugh, petting her. “It’s okay, Honey, I think Mattheo likes my dorm more, too.”
You spend the rest of your late afternoon reading your new book, placing post-it notes on the top of one of the pages as a reminder to yourself to tell Mattheo how the love interest reminds you of him.
♡ 6:00 - dinner
You balance two stacked plates on one hand while scooping excessive amounts of food on top with the other. A girl across the dining table from you gives you an odd look, you smile unabashedly at her.
You sit back down in your seat and begin to separate the portions of food onto the two plates.
“Babe, that’s so sad,” Pansy snorts from across from you. “It’s like no one’s feeding you and you have to ration your food.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s for Mattheo.”
“Well, of course I know that,” Pansy says.
Finally, the Slytherin boys trudge through the door — freshly showered after training and still loud and rowdy with boisterous energy. They make their way over to your table.
“Hi baby, miss me?” Mattheo says, placing a haste kiss on the side of your head before sitting next to you.
“Sure,” you say teasingly to him, before turning to the whole group. “How was quidditch?”
“Killer,” Theo says, “Flint was pissed today, so, apparently, we all have to suffer.”
You cautiously eye the brunette a few tables away.
“Yikes,” you say, sliding the plate over to Mattheo. He digs in immediately before pausing to look up at you. He swallows his food.
“Thank you,” he says politely, you laugh and bump his shoulder with yours.
You frown when you realise your bite of food contains something you hate, you look over at Mattheo, scrunching up your face.
He laughs and signals for you to give it to him, so you happily pile it onto his plate.
♡ 7:00 - movie night with mattheo
After dinner, the two of you sneak your way into his dorm. You change out of your robes and into a pair of shorts you left in his room and one of his muggle band t-shirts. It hits just above your knee and it smells like him.
Not for the first time, his scent clinging onto the t-shirt brings you back to the first time you met. Who knew that the scent wafting from that cauldron of amorentia potion would be the same one that would cling to everything you own all this time later.
You lie back in his bed while he gets changed himself, you let your eyes close.
"I'm glad you've made yourself comfortable," his teasing voice rings out. You open your eyes to smile at him, not bothering to get up. He walks over to you and the mattress dips.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you say back smiling, you sit up and lean against his headboard. Suddenly remembering the text message he sent you what feels like ages ago. "What's the surprise?"
He grins at the reminder.
"Remember that old muggle movie you wanted to watch last week... what was it called?” he asks as you try your best to recall. “It starred that actress you love."
You frown in thought before your eyes light up in realisation.
"Oh! Audrey Hepburn," you say.
A week ago, during one of your Muggle Movie Nights (as you call it), Mattheo had admitted that he’d never seen an Audrey Hepburn film and you proclaimed that he absolutely had to start with Roman Holiday. Determined to culture your boyfriend and desperate to rewatch it yourself, the two of you scoured every streaming site to find it — to no avail.
"Did you finally find a way to pirate it?" you ask gleefully, he shakes his head softly before moving to his desk.
"Not exactly."
He opens his desk drawer, pulling out a DVD with the familiar title on the cover. You gasp, reaching to grab it. You trace the red letters on the cover.
"How did you find this? Where did you find this?” you ask in disbelief, looking up at him. “When did you even have time to look for this?"
His grin is soft with affection for you.
"I found it in a store in Hogsmeade,” he shrugs. “No big deal."
Total lie. In reality, he had dragged Theo and Enzo through the entire village, stopping at every CD/DVD store just to browse the titles. Eventually, after the sky had turned dark and his friends were ready to abandon him on his impossible search, he found a copy.
Not that you had to know any of that. Besides, the huge smile on your face made it all worth it to him.
"Shall we watch it?" he asks, already slipping it into the DVD player connected to his laptop.
You nod, curling into his side. “I can’t believe you have a DVD player, you’re such an old man.”
“Hey, this old man is your knight in shining armour, princess,” he argues, wrapping his arms around you.
“You’re right, you are,” you murmur, while the black and white title card of Roman Holiday displays on his laptop.
♡ 9:00 - getting unready for bed
After the movie (and after he consoles you, while trying hard to suppress his laughter, when you cry over the ending), he sits on your bed while you swipe makeup wipes across your face.
As much as Mattheo adores watching you get ready, there’s something he loves so much about watching you get unready.
There’s something so intimate in getting to see you completely bare and completely yourself.
You gently rub moisturiser onto your face and catch him staring at you through the mirror, you breathe out a laugh.
“What?” you ask.
A year ago, you’d be slightly mortified if he saw you like this. You’re confident enough without makeup but you still like that extra boost a good eyelash day or lipgloss can give you.
Now, you finish your routine and walk closer to him. Stepping in between his thighs.
His hands come up to rest on your hips, smiling up at you.
“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just the prettiest thing on earth.”
You laugh and roll your eyes at his hyperbole, but it's not enough for him. He’s certain you’re the most beautiful being in the universe.
♡ 10:00 - late night talking with mattheo
You’re lying on your stomach, half of your upper body lying on his chest. Your pointer finger traces his arm slowly, like his veins are braille and his scars are stars.
“Would you ever get a tattoo?” you murmur.
“I’ve thought about it,” he smiles lazily, eyes half closed.
“Yeah? Tattoos would suit you,” you hum. "What would you get?"
“What do you think I should get?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” you say, deep in thought. “I could see you with one of those barbed wire designs or your initials or—"
“Your name?” he interrupts with a smirk.
You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m not kidding. I'd do it right now,” he says, only half joking.
“Mattheo!” you scold, though the effect is ruined by your giggle. “You’re way too young and that is also a horrible idea.”
“First of all, I’m older than you.”
“By, like, a few months.”
“And I would totally do it, in a heartbeat,” he promises. “No matter what happens, I’m yours forever. You already know.”
You smile. “That’s a little romantic.”
"I'm very romantic, thank you very much," he huffs.
"Yeah, you are."
He glances down at you before looking up at the ceiling again.
“Besides, before you know it, we’ll be eighteen,” he says.
There’s a short lull of silence as you process his words.
“That’s crazy to think about,” you say, leaning your head into his chest again.
“Yeah.”
“I still feel like I'm sixteen years old and six and eight and thirteen,” you admit, hoping he understands what you mean. “I don’t know if I ever won’t.”
“I get that,” he says with a small nod. "I can't imagine you're much different now than when you were six, though."
You gasp half-heartedly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's not an insult," he chuckles. "I just can't imagine you ever being anything but yourself."
You look at him properly now, tilting your head up.
“I know what you mean,” you say. “That’s kind of sweet.”
You scrunch your nose when you imagine your younger self.
“When I was younger, I wanted to be a princess—”
“Very on brand,” he quips.
“I also wanted to be a teacher at some point,” you say. “An English teacher, I think?”
“You’d make a good teacher,” he says.
“Really?” he nods.
“Thanks,” you yawn. “Did you have a dream job when you were younger?”
He answers after a small beat of silence.
“I wanted to be a great sorcerer.” It’s only partly a lie.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that when he was younger, the concept of “dreams” and aspirations were foreign to him. Instead, there were expectations. Heavy expectations placed on him by his parents or Death Eaters.
Though, meeting you when he was sixteen has taught him to dream. Maybe one day he’ll tell you that and thank you for it.
Instead, he adds. “Or a professor — a charms professor, probably.”
“You’d be so good at that,” you say genuinely.
His arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you in closer.
You play with the watch on his wrist, counting the watch hands and realising that it’s almost eleven.
“You never take anything off when you sleep,” you murmur.
He looks down at his hand — at the watch around his wrist, the bracelet you made him, a silver band ring he wears on his middle finger and his signet ring carved with his initials. You fiddle with that last ring.
Mattheo wordlessly slips off his signet before bringing your hand up. He slips the ring onto your thumb.
He kisses the ring on your hand and you let out a breathy laugh. He locks eyes with you for a moment before shifting so that you’re underneath him.
He places the mass of his body weight on his elbows, but you can still feel him pressing close as he plants kisses down your neck.
Your eyes become half lidded as you melt under him. You fight to suppress a yawn, hoping he doesn’t notice. You want him to touch you like this forever.
He chuckles. “Sweetheart.”
"Yeah?" you murmur, fighting to keep your heavy eyelids open. He lifts his head to look at you.
“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he says.
You shake your head quickly, looking at him with wide eyes. “No, no.”
He laughs. “M’just teasing, baby. We should sleep, it’s getting late.”
“But I want to talk to you longer,” you frown, your lips forming a pout.
"We have all of tomorrow," he says warmly. "We've got time."
♡ 11:00 - goodnight, sweetheart
By 11, you’re tucked into his side fast asleep. Your hair rollers poke into his chest ever so slightly but he's used to it by now, it's familiar.
He keeps his phone brightness on the lowest setting as he reads to pass the time. His insomnia keeps him from sleeping most nights and, though sleeping next to you helps him significantly, it’s still always there hindering him.
He doesn’t tell you, though. Because he knows you’d pry your eyes open to keep yourself from falling asleep, just to keep him company. Instead, you get to fall asleep quickly beside him.
He feels his heart swell when he looks down at you. Your lips part as you snore and he laughs, shaking his head fondly.
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”
Mattheo puts down his phone before carefully flicking off your bedside lamp. He prays sleep will come soon as he lets his body relax close to yours.
♡ 1:00 - goodnight, mattheo
In his younger years, Mattheo often misunderstood violence for love.
Growing up in that castle, within those cold walls, he learnt that love was pain. Naturally, he wanted to flee from it.
Throughout his teen years, he feared the day he'd fall in love because he believed it would only give a person the opportunity to hurt him.
Now, he understands he had it all wrong. Love is not loud and frightening like heavy shoes storming through rooms and rough hands slamming doors, love is not the piercing silence between two people.
Love is his rough hand in your soft one, it’s his ring on your finger like a promise he hasn’t made yet, it’s the music the two of you love, it’s the movies you watch, it’s strawberries on a picnic, it's the sound of your heartbeat syncing to his, it’s sleeping beside you — it’s a comfortable thing.
As it turns out, love is a quiet thing that hums louder than real noise. He can feel — more than hear — it everywhere, thrumming through his veins or in his head when he looks at you.
No matter how fleeting, he knows now that loving someone, even at the cost of pain, is always worth it just for this feeling.
But he knows you’ll stay. Maybe forever, if he gets his way. If not? He doesn’t feel that sickening urge to leave claw marks on you to keep you in his grasp, he just wants to be close to you now while he can.
There’s no place close enough to you, though. So, for now, he sleeps with his arms tight around you and hopes it’s enough to mould your souls together for eternity.
thank you to all my readers — whether you've been here since the first fic, the last one or any in between <3. i hope you caught some of the references and callbacks in this fic & i hope you liked it !! know that you can always send in requests for sweetheart!reader & mattheo because i'll probably continue writing for them as long as this blog is alive ♡
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-
Jungwon stares at the notification while brushing his teeth, foam still in his mouth. He glances at the time again with a frown because—of course you are.
You’ve been trying to “fix your sleep schedule” for three weeks now.
Three very unsuccessful weeks.
He spits, wipes his mouth, and immediately types back.
[Won <3]: Why are YOU awake
[Won <3]: It’s 1am
The typing bubble appears instantly.
[You]: because i’m productive rn
[You]: wrote half my essay
[You]: reorganised my notes
[You]: made coffee
His eyebrows shoot up.
[Won <3]:MADE COFFEE?????
[You]: don’t judge me
[Won <3]: Babe you literally said you wanted to sleep early tonight
You leave him on read for a whole minute before replying.
[You]: i tried
[You]: my brain doesnt work at night unless i stay up
Jungwon sighs, flopping onto his bed. He knows this conversation. You’ve had it before. A lot.
You stay awake until disgusting hours of the morning, crash for four hours, survive on caffeine and pure stubbornness, then insist you’re “fine.”
And every time he hears you yawn over the phone the next day, he feels irrationally irritated because how are you both so smart and so bad at taking care of yourself?
[Won <3]: You need proper sleep
[Won <3]: Like actual sleep
[Won <3]: not random naps at 4pm
[You]: says who
[Won <3]: Says science???
[You]: science also says my brain works better at night
[Won <3]: Not enough to function on 3 hours
You send him a blurry photo of your laptop screen and messy desk.
[You]: LOOK HOW MUCH IM GETTING DONE THOUGH
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
[Won <3]: And tomorrow you’ll feel awful again
[You]: worth it
[Won <3]: No it’s not
Another pause.
He can practically picture you rolling your eyes at your phone.
[You]: won you don’t get it
[You]: i literally cant sleep normally
His fingers hover over the keyboard.
He should stop here. He knows he should.
But he’s tired, and worried, and frustrated because every conversation about this ends the same way—with you exhausted and him feeling helpless.
So instead he types:
[Won <3]: I DO get it
[Won <3]: You just refuse to try properly
Seen.
Nothing else.
He keeps going anyway.
[Won <3]: You can’t complain about being tired all the time and then stay up drinking coffee at 1am
[Won <3]: At some point it’s just self sabotage
Still nothing.
His stomach twists a little.
[Won <3]: babe?
No reply.
[Won <3]: Hello
Read.
That’s when he realises.
You’re not asleep.
You’re ignoring him.
Jungwon sits up straighter against his pillows, guilt arriving almost instantly now that the irritation’s gone. He rereads the messages and winces harder every time.
You just refuse to try properly.
God.
That sounded awful.
Especially because he knows you do try. He’s seen you lying awake at 3 a.m. with your eyes squeezed shut in frustration. Seen you stare at the ceiling while pretending not to cry because your brain wouldn’t slow down enough to rest.
And he still made you feel stupid for it.
[Won <3]: baby i didnt mean it like that
Read.
[Won <3]: I know you try
[Won <3]: I’m sorry
Read.
[Won <3]: Please answer me
Nothing.
Two minutes pass.
Then five.
Then ten.
Jungwon sends another message.
[Won <3]: I was being rude
[Won <3]: I’m just worried about you
Read.
His chest sinks a little every single time the word changes to seen without a response.
[Won <3]: don’t do the silent treatment pls ☹️
Read.
[Won <3]: i’m literally apologising
Read.
[Won <3]: love
Nothing.
And then suddenly—
No more reading.
No more seen.
No typing bubble.
Nothing at all.
Jungwon stares at the screen.
You definitely haven’t gone to sleep. There’s no way. Not this fast.
Which means you probably tossed your phone away because you were upset enough to stop looking at it altogether.
“Shit,” he mutters, already throwing his blanket off.
At 1:47 a.m., you hear knocking at your front door.
Your entire body freezes.
You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s nearly two in the morning. The apartment is dark except for your desk lamp, and your heartbeat starts climbing immediately.
Another knock.
Not aggressive.
Gentle.
You slowly stand from your desk chair.
Then you hear a muffled voice through the door.
“Love,” Jungwon says softly, “please open up.”
You blink.
“What?”
“I know you’re awake.”
Your stomach flips so fast it almost hurts.
You hurry to the door, unlocking it carefully before pulling it open just enough to peek through.
And there he is.
Grey hoodie. Messy hair. Slightly out of breath like he came here too fast.
His eyes immediately soften when he sees your face.
“Oh thank god.”
“You drove here?” you whisper.
“It’s twenty minutes.”
“At two in the morning.”
“You stopped answering me.”
The guilt hits immediately because he looks genuinely stressed. Like he’s been worrying himself sick.
You open the door wider, and Jungwon steps inside carefully, staring at you for a second before speaking.
“I’m sorry.”
Just like that.
No defensiveness. No joking.
Just soft, sincere guilt.
“I shouldn’t have said that stuff,” he says quietly. “I know you’re trying.”
You look away. “You made me feel dumb.”
His face visibly falls.
“I know.” He swallows. “And I hated it the second I sent it.”
The apartment feels strangely warm suddenly. Too warm for the ache sitting in your chest.
“I just…” he exhales, frustrated with himself now. “I worry because you run yourself into the ground all the time. And I know your brain works differently at night, okay? I do understand that. I was just being an asshole because I wanted you to sleep.”
You cross your arms tighter. “You made it sound like I was choosing this.”
“I know.”
“And like I’m lazy or dramatic.”
“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m sorry, baby.”
You finally look at him properly.
His eyes are tired. Really tired. There’s a crease between his brows like he’s been anxious the entire drive over here.
“You came all the way here just to apologise?”
“Well…” His mouth twitches slightly. “Also to physically force you into bed.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
“There she is,” he murmurs immediately, relief flooding his voice.
You roll your eyes, but the tension cracks a little.
Jungwon steps closer slowly, careful with you now.
“Sometimes your brain just works in ways I don’t understand yet. But I want to.”
That almost breaks you more than the argument itself.
Because Jungwon’s always like this once he realises he’s hurt you. Not just apologising to end the fight—actually trying to understand where he went wrong.
“I do get more done at night,” you mumble weakly.
“I know.”
“And sleeping feels impossible sometimes.”
“I know.”
“And I hate when people act like I’m just lazy.”
His expression softens completely.
“I know, love.”
Silence settles for a second before he reaches up carefully and brushes his thumb under your eye.
“Can I make it up to you?”
You mumble, “Depends.”
“I brought your favourite snacks.”
Your head lifts immediately.
He smirks faintly. “Yeah. Thought so.”
An hour later, you’re curled into his side in bed after being aggressively bullied into changing into pajamas.
“You’re evil,” you mumble as he pulls the blanket over both of you.
“You need sleep.”
“You sound like a father.”
“I sound correct.”
You snort quietly.
The room is dark now except for the faint orange glow of your bedside lamp. Jungwon’s hand rests against your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles through your shirt.
“You know,” he says after a while, “you can still be productive without destroying your body.”
“Mhm.”
“That was not a convincing mhm.”
You smile sleepily into his shoulder.
“I’m listening.”
“You need balance.”
“You need to stop saying words like balance at two in the morning.”
“I need you to sleep eight hours.”
“There it is.”
“There it is,” he repeats proudly.
You laugh again, softer this time.
Jungwon presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Just try for me tonight?”
You hesitate.
Then finally sigh dramatically.
“Fine.”
“Eight hours.”
“You’re pushing it.”
“Seven and a half?”
“You negotiate sleep like a hostage deal.”
“Because you treat bedtime like a personal enemy.”
You groan as he grins against your hair.
But a few minutes later, when your breathing starts slowing and your body finally relaxes against him, Jungwon’s smile fades into something softer.
Something careful.
He brushes your hair back gently and whispers into the dark—
“Still sorry, by the way.”
Half asleep, you mumble against his chest, “I know.”
And only then does he finally let himself relax too.
When you wake up again, sunlight is pouring through your curtains.
You squint blearily before reaching for your phone.
11:06 a.m.
Your eyes widen immediately.
Beside you, Jungwon stirs at the movement. “Mm… what?”
“We slept the whole night.”
That wakes him up fast.
He grabs his phone, checks the time, then slowly looks over at you with the most obnoxiously pleased expression you’ve ever seen.
“No way.”
“Oh my god, don’t start.”
“Baby,” he says, sitting up dramatically, “that is like eight hours.”
You groan and hide your face in the blanket while he starts laughing.
“You actually did it!”
“It was ONE time.”
“Still counts.”
You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him, but he only leans down and kisses your forehead.
Summary: He returns home after being away for a few days to play an important game. But at home, something is happening that is far more important to him. "You know you're more important than a measly 90 minutes on the field."
Tag/Warnings: Fluff, taking care of his sick girlfriend/wife, domestic fluff, heartwarming, mention of vomiting, A/U where they actually feel human’s emotions and feelings such as empathy and compassion.
a/n: In memory of the first time I got sick while living on my own. Here 'Je suis malade' by Lara Fabian (Hugo). Here 'Je reviens te chercher' by Gilbert Bécaud (Loki).
ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ. .
Bunny ⋆˚꩜｡
Barça’s crushing victory over Sevilla in the Copa del Rey final made headlines.
In red, in big letters, on every TV channel. Even if you were bedridden, with a fever clinging to you like a sin, you knew everything—from every dribble to Iglesias’s hat trick.
You were proud of him.
Because no headache on earth could stop you from watching his games and feeling that pride. You’d brave a dry throat and dizziness just to see him celebrate his goal from afar.
Even if the flu meant dozing off unintentionally for a few minutes and waking up thinking you’d landed in paradise.
But no, that wasn’t the case yet—it was just Bunny standing at the foot of the bed.
Fatigue kept you from making out the expression on his face, but you knew him. He was probably studying you, a smile on his lips as he tried to guess whether you’d just woken up from a nap or were faking it.
"I called your name."
He broke the silence, his eyebrows furrowing in a mix of concern and relief at your presence. Priceless, starved for your mere company.
“I’m sorry,” a cough interrupted your sentence, and your runny nose compelled you to search for a pack of tissues among the pile on the bed. “I didn’t hear you. Did everything went well?”
Lying there like a mummy, wrapped in dozens of blankets and yet still feeling a chill in the air, he moved closer to you and handed you what you were looking for. A gentle expression etched on his face.
"What's wrong, cariño?"
So soft, his voice echoed through the room bathed in orange light—the only light your fragile eyes could bear—his hand finding yours. Pressing it gently with a tenderness that whispered to you that he was there now.
"I don't know," you sniffed again. But this time it was different—he could tell. It was a sniff that revealed an overwhelming urge to cry out of sheer exhaustion. "I think I'm sick."
Trembling, your faint voice reached his ears, tugging at his heartstrings.
"I think so too," he knelt down beside you, the cold of his hand contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from your forehead. "Very much indeed."
With a difficulty as great as not laughing when he missed a goal he had dedicated to you, you propped yourself up. And the world around you rocked like a boat caught in a raging sea.
A sea where every ship flies his flag.
"Easy there," he cooed, stroking your back, probably feeling how damp you were from having stayed in bed all day. "Why didn't you call?"
Slowly, sliding like a snake toward your chin, his thumb cupped your face, lifting it just enough to make out your tired eyes, ringed with dark circles.
"I didn't want to worry you," you blubbered, averting your gaze as tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm such a burden."
You had this innate ability to make everything more romantic.
Even when you were sick as a dog, all he noticed was that your pajamas had his name on them.
He didn’t notice anything else—just the way you’d slept on his side of the bed. Or that the TV was playing highlights from his game.
He didn’t care about your sweat, your runny nose, or your hoarse voice. All he saw was how much of him shone through you. That even in pain and discomfort, you were still thinking of him.
"You know that's not true," Brief and gentle on your chapped lips, he pressed a soft kiss. The tips of his fingers drying away those tears he so despised on you. "You know you’re more important than 90 minutes on a pitch."
"Stop that, Bunny. You’ll get sick."
"That's the best gift you could ever give me," again, he planted another peck on them. "Wouldn't you like to be stuck in bed with me?"
Hugo ⋆˚꩜｡
"Ma choupette?"
The front door slammed shut, jolting you abruptly out of your daze.
Slumped over your desk, wearing a dressing gown that wasn’t yours, you struggled as best you could to remember your very name.
Your mind was still foggy, your eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh light, and your head was pounding in time with your heartbeat—or even faster. You couldn’t tell.
Even peeling the paper off your sweaty arm was a real ordeal. The pen wedged between your fingers a clue about what you were doing before you succumbed to exhaustion.
Desperately trapped in a kind of dream where you couldn’t tell if the voice echoing down the hallway was his.
"Bichette, where are you?"
A reply didn't even have to cross your lips; his inner compass naturally guided him to you.
Like a cat that always lands on its feet, he knew by heart that sense of peace that washed over him whenever he found you again.
Even if he turned blind, his legs alone would guide him to you. That was destiny.
"There you are," he breathed, relieved to find you in your usual spot. As if you would ever miss one of his comings home. "Were you working with your headphones on? What did I tell you about the risk of hearing loss?"
Hugo was very pragmatic; the kind of guy who would point out the doormat that was in the wrong place—the one you might have tripped over—before even kissing you hello.
"I’m sorry, I was sleeping."
Your revelation made him drop his bag from his shoulder, a puzzled look frozen on his face. It was almost as if you’d just told him something huge, really huge, and completely unbelievable.
"What do you mean, 'sleep'? On the desk, you mean? What about your lower back? Your neck? I’ve already told you that taking naps in the middle of the day messes up your sleep cycle."
You couldn’t even get a word in edgewise, the concern in his voice growing as the realization hit him.
"Are you sick?"
"I think I’m sick."
There it was—the question and the answer at the same time. He wasn’t slow on the uptake; he just took the time to consider all the facts before drawing a conclusion.
"I’ll be right back," he slipped away, and you heard the cabinets open, the faucet turn on, then his footsteps in the hallway. "Why didn’t you call me?"
The big question. The one that had been running through his head for what felt like agonizing seconds and had probably already rewritten his brain.
"It's just the flu," you clumsily grabbed the glass of water he handed you, his fingers wrapping around it to steady your hand. "And besides, I had to work."
"Working in this condition? Seriously," his thumb rested on your chin, opening your mouth just enough to slip an ibuprofen tablet inside. "Look at yourself. You can barely sit up. Drink."
He was a jack-of-all-trades—scolding you while playing doctor and giving you orders. So quick-witted, all yours.
"I ended up falling asleep. Maybe I passed out or something like that," you admitted, gulping down the water he offered you. "I’m sick, that’s all. No need to make a big deal out of it."
He was a proxy hypochondriac, and using terms such as "passed out" may have been the last straw on his scale of what was acceptable to hear.
"Still…"
He wasn’t reassured by your words; you could tell by the way he took your hand. His other hand resting against your lower back, he guided you through the apartment, a labyrinth to a mind so foggy.
“I can’t even concentrate when I’m sick. The flu makes me feel stupid.”
“Lara Fabian sings a song about being sick,” he murmured, tucking you into a bed with rumpled sheets and planting a kiss on your forehead.
The you from this morning was far too preoccupied with his game rather than doing household chores.
"I think she’s talking about a broken heart, not catching a nasty virus," your tried to recall, far too somnolently.
"See? Being sick doesn’t take away from your insight, choupette."
Soon after, sleep carried you away once more while he was telling you about his day. But this time, under the watchful eye of a man who was looking out for you.
And when you woke up, he already seemed more at peace. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his blank book resting on his laps, he looked at you the way a tourist might look at the Eiffel Tower.
A look of wonder and that already irresistible urge to come back and visit her every night, as the “Iron Lady” sparkles with a thousand lights.
"Was it my destiny to get sick?
"I don’t think so. But it was my destiny to take care of you."
Loki ⋆˚꩜｡
He had come back to claim her—that trophy with rabbit ears that sealed the second star on the Parisian jersey.
The capital erupted, the streets overflowing with people celebrating the coronation of the rightful champion.
Their shouts of joy echoed until the early hours of the morning, until the realization of this exploit finally catches up with them.
As for you, you dazed off as the players lifted her, your eyes closing on that picture of him. A silly smile on his lips, your ears almost picking up that beautiful laugh of his.
Maybe the stress of being away from him got the better of you, giving way to something a little more wicked.
A vicious cold.
A cold that immediately put you in bed—no room for negotiation. Just like him when he'd remind you to go to sleep, saying you needed to get your 8 hours of rest.
A cold that made you sleep for 12 hours straight, that woke you up the day after the celebrations with regret that you hadn't called him to congratulate him, and a dry throat.
Not even a quick text, worse than any type of fever.
The first thing your mind jumped on, grabbing your phone with such difficulty that just pulling your arm out from under the comforter made you shiver.
There wasn't even time for your eyes to adjust to the light before they widened.
On your home screen, dozens of unread messages ranging from cute morning texts to immense concerns. Missed calls logged at all hours of the night, almost every minutes. He’d even sent emails.
A sort of descent into madness, made worse by your dismissive attitude. And a realization that only deepened your sadness; you’d probably ruined his evening.
Still a little groggy, your brain didn’t know what to do. He was probably still asleep at that hour, after undoubtedly celebrating late into the night, but his absence actually reassured you.
It bought you some time to get back on your feet. And you would have hated for him to get sick too.
"I was worried."
You’d spoken too soon.
Leaning against the bedroom door, arms crossed, he was observing you. Eyes tired, still wearing the sweatpants from the day before, he looked as if he had a restless, unrefreshing night.
And knowing his personality and habits, that was undoubtedly the case.
"Loki," you called out, the drowsiness finally leaving your limbs. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I didn't call you to celebrate your victory."
Gathering what little strength you had left, you waved him over; your headache still too severe for you to even consider getting up.
Quiet, obedient, he slipped by your side, dropping to his knees as to be at eyes level. For a few seconds, all you could discerne was how his eyes sparkled with the pride and determination of a newlywed.
A gaze that made your heart tighten, leaving your lungs unsure whether to inhale or exhale.
"It’s okay," he reassured, sweet. "Are you sick?"
You nodded, and your throat went dry at the sound of his soft voice. As if you had longed for it for too long, his touch tingly on your skin.
His kiss, as gentle as waves lapping at your ankles, grazing the back of your hand.
"Mon cœur, you should have called me."
Right away, you shook your head.
"Certainly not," you admitted, tightening your grip with what little strength you had left. "It’s not every day you become European champion by beating your friend."
He chuckled, his piercing eyes softening for a moment. A moment when he looked at you the way he looked at her yesterday.
Terribly in love, proud and reassured.
And without even breaking his gaze, he slipped a bouquet of flowers into your palm.
The ones you adored, the ones he gifted you on every occasion. The ones who soothed your heart and could have healed all your ills.
"Maybe you’re right," again, a kiss. "But it's not every day I get the chance to take care of my own bedridden girl."
Kaiser ⋆˚꩜｡
Even though Bayern Munich’s championship win wasn’t much of a surprise after their 35th title, it was still a reason to celebrate.
But not for you.
Confined to bed with a sore throat and a stuffy nose, you felt like you were dying every time you swallowed your saliva and choking when air wouldn’t get through your nostrils.
Feeling both cold and hot at the same time, you were losing your mind as the hours ticked by. Being sick didn’t suit you—it made you very dramatic and caused a lot of overthink.
Overthinking about everything. Like those unanswered messages you sent to Micheal.
Your mind, far too foggy for such an hour of the day, overflowed with morbid thoughts. When you closed your eyes, you saw his plane crashing. When you buried your face in his pillow, you imagined a fatal car accident.
Even staring at the ceiling turned into a manhunt: supposedly, his plane had already reported its landing. So no doubt that he was still alive and that your fever was making you anxious.
Wrapped in his blanket, you peered over the balcony to see if you could spot his car on the street. But nothing—every black cars oddly resembling his.
Every blond men sporting a jaded expression a hint of hope.
Leaning on the railing, you watched the passersby wearing Bayern jerseys, smiles lighting up their faces, and a sigh escaped your lips.
Your nerves were on the verge of snapping; exhaustion was starting to make you delirious, and at that moment, you wished for him to come back to you.
That he would gently scold you, tucking your feverish body in bed, still with that hint of arrogance dripping from every words.
That feigned nonchalance that hides something as big as his love for football.
"What’s exactly is wrong with you now?"
Cold and probing, that voice felt just as good as a fresh breeze when you suddenly felt like suffocating. Disdainful even over such a simple matter—you didn’t know it was possible to be that way.
And yet, as you clutched your comforter tighter, when you turned around, you were glad to see him.
Black tracksuit adorned with the club’s crest, perfect hair, and a bag at his fingertips.
There he was, annoyingly cute with that pout religiously stuck on his lips, a gleam of animosity sparkling in the blue of his eyes.
"Micheal, you’re back," you breathed softly, your fever and that anxiety subsiding with every step you took toward him.
"Why wouldn’t I be?"
“Because I was…” You stopped short, and a silence fell over the room as you realized there was actually no reason to worry.
"Get into bed," he snapped, his irritation already evident in his voice. But his rudeness was just as poorly feigned as the distant, anxious look that shone in his eyes. "I brought you some medicine."
You watched him, a raised eyebrow the only display of your confusion.
"Medicine? How did you know I was sick?"
"Go to bed."
Clearly not in the mood to explain, he just repeated himself. A slightly more serious look settled on his face to drive home his point, but it vanished when he tucked you in under the comforter.
Piling blankets on your lap, he even resigned himself to covering you with the one with little hearts—the one you’d given him as a joke and that he kept hidden from prying eyes. The very same one he used when you weren’t there.
He was silent, focused on his task, and brimming with caution.
And watching him open the bottles one by one, tear open the ibuprofen packets, and make trips back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom to take care of you—secretly—had a greater effect than his medicine.
"Open your mouth," he ordered and you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. In love. Completely charmed by his gentle behaviour. "Wider!"
You shouldn’t have pushed it—this was still Michael Kaiser, after all.
He made sure you swallowed it, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in your grimace at the bitter medicine before forcing you to lie down, a damp towel on your forehead.
He took care of you as if you had an incurable disease. An innate affliction he’d waited his whole life to cure through you—something he couldn’t even cure within himself.
"How did you know I was sick?"
"I just guessed."
"Liar."
You were sick, sure, but his lies didn’t go unnoticed.
"I saw it on the surveillance cameras," he confessed, his words barely a whisper, as if he were ashamed of keeping an eye on you even from across the country.
"Surveillance cameras?"
"Go to sleep."
He acted as if he hated having to take care of you, when deep down, far away, he was almost reveling in it.
"Since when do we have surveillance-"
"I said, sleep!"
Lorenzo ⋆˚꩜｡
You’d woken up with a start in the middle of the night, the winter fog still blanketing the streets outside.
Drenched in sweat, like a damp towel clinging to your body after a swim.
Head spinning, just like on those days when the sun strikes so hard you lose track of time.
And yet, none of that was the case right now. Far from the gentle summers spent away from everyone, tonight it was you who was far from him.
Your bedroom was still lit by the TV you’d left on last night, its blinding light splattering across the walls and bedding. Letting you come to your senses, steady your breathing in front of him.
Or at least, in front of the highlights of the Supercoppa—its final won by Lorenzo and his teammates barely a couple of hours ago.
His footwork and dribbles made your head spin even more, your palms oddly sweaty around the remote control to turn it off.
You couldn’t even remember how your evening had ended. Almost as if you’d collapsed into bed, clutching his pillow—still carrying his scent—to your body like a sin.
Just like the sin of envy, your mind unable to accept the fact he wasn’t by your side at this hour of the night.
All of that just to wake up feeling nauseous, alone in that bed, your whole body burning with the urge to throw up everything you’d swallowed.
As you dared to get up, your legs were so wobbly they threatened to give out, your vision blurry when you reached for the bathroom light switch.
Then suddenly, your stomach turned, and a sudden wave of heat surged through your chest, overwhelming your face.
You could still feel the acid burning in your throat, while your breathing quickened at the sight of a second reflection in the mirror.
Slender, tall, and carrying that weary look no amount of sleep by your side could cure. Lorenzo had come home at the worst possible moment.
"You weren’t answering your phone," he whispered, approaching you cautiously, as if afraid you might falter at the slightest sudden movement. "What’s wrong? Tell me."
You leaned against the sink when you realized that everything was going to be okay now, your racing mind finally quieted.
It must have been a painful sight to see—your trembling hands pushing him away, breaking his heart. Even more than your fleeting gaze.
"Sorry for worrying you," you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, securing it with the same confidence he’d shown when lifting the trophy. "It’ll pass, don’t worry. But stay away—I don’t want you to get sick."
You didn’t even dare look up, embarrassed that he’d see you in such a condition.
But that was underestimating him—his resolve was tenfold when the one he cherished was suffering. Because he knew perfectly well that he could help you feel better and never suffer the way he had.
So gently on your cheeks, he cupped your face so you’d look at him. Because even with your tired eyes, chapped lips, and sweaty face, you still shone with that way you had of wanting to protect him.
To shield him a little more from this cruel world.
"I'm calling the best doctor in town," he said, grabbing his phone while his other hand remained on your forehead. "What are your symptoms?"
"It's just the flu—it's no big deal," you reassured, with a confidence he could hardly believe.
Your body barely able to remain steady, swaying so much that even the edge of the sink looked like a wobbly pudding.
As if to prove you wrong, agree with him against your own will, your body sent you those unmistakable signals.
A knot in your stomach that tightened up as breathing alone became a conscious effort, a bead of sweat running down the nape of your neck sending a shill down to your fingertips.
And then, that sudden dryness in your mouth made you lean over the sink, Lorenzo grabbing your hair to keep it out of the way of what was about to happen.
"Is this nothing?" Another gag, his fingers brushing away a strand of hair, tucking it gently behind your ear. "Nothing this expensive doctor can't treat?"
"Money doesn't solve everything..." The faucet turned on; the water still bearing a strange taste in your mouth.
And yet, his words seemed to you like honey that healed all your ills. His mere presence the cure for your troubles.
"I guarantee that, as far as you're concerned, my money is the answer to all your problems."
Sae ⋆˚꩜｡
"Wake up."
In your dream, sporting an invisible smile, Sae had just won his fourth Champions League.
Content, maybe proud, he looked like a whole different man. That trophy a the tip of his fingers like a king being crowned after years of struggle.
"Wake up."
His white jersey as immaculate as the rebirth of a player who had lost all hope.
"Why are you smiling? Wake up."
Sudden, unwanted, your eyes flew open, gasping for air as if you had been emerged under water for too long.
Sweaty and exhausted despite your visible very, very extended nap, your body almost instantly reminded you of that night spent rummaging around the house for medecine that could make you sleep.
Like a ghost haunting the walls of an old building, your sore throat and dizziness didn’t magically disappeared after a restless twelve hour of 'nap.'
"Why are you sleeping on the couch?"
Startled once again, his figure looming over yours made you gasp.
He seemed carefree, with his bag slung over his shoulder like a teenager, yet he appeared worried. As if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Something that had to do with you.
"Sae, why are you here?"
You asked, trying to prop yourself up—at least having the decency to sit up straight so you wouldn't look like a slumped-over rag.
Without exchanging a word, he helped you, wrapping your shivering figure in that blanket that always carried your scent, your warmth never too far away in its fabric.
"What do you mean? I just got home."
A blank, your mind racing with thoughts of everything and nothing at once. Your memory failing you to even remember the last time you saw him.
"What about the final?"
"It was yesterday, and we won." He looked at you like you were some sort of alien, speaking gibberish. "I rushed back home because you weren’t answering."
His statement dripped sarcasm, as if you were playing at his face—trying to fool him in one of your unfunny jokes.
"What’s the date?"
"It doesn’t matter," He took off his bag, his usual expression replaced by one that was even more indescribable—a mixture of worry and confusion. "What’s wrong with you? Sleeping on the couch, ignoring my calls, not answering my texts."
"I don’t know, I’m feeling dizzy and all."
"You’re sick," it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. In the sense he knew you so much that every of your actions had a meaning.
Ignoring him? Certainly napping.
Speaking nonsense in your sleep? Dreaming of him.
Sleeping on the couch? Watching one of his games.
A long sigh, exasperated, escaped from his lips as he watched you. Like two people waiting for the other to carry on the conversation.
More like, one man pretending not to be happy that you were sick.
He stubbornly pretended not to care about anything, but deep down, he longed for those moments of vulnerability when he felt he was needed.
When he didn’t have to settle for something less prestigious than his dream. When you were his dream, and no matter what happened, that dream would never change.
"Why didn’t you call? I could have send you a doctor."
"I didn’t even realised I was sick myself."
A glance that said it all was offered to you. And today, it seemed like even your puppy look won’t be enough to save you from his gentle scolding.
"And you’re an adult with responsibilities?" A hand raised to your blazing forehead. "You’re lucky I love you."
isa notes: @opiuons this is our wedding gift. i hope you like it. and i hope you like me enough to let me into your bedroom after. no pressure though. (pressure)
-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.
❀ SYNOPSIS: When you’re sent screenshots of your boyfriend admitting he’s still hung up on his ex and secretly trying to crawl back—you’re out for blood. You’re already on edge with your heat cycle only three weeks away, and emotions running hotter than they should. Two drinks in, fueled by humiliation and spite, your friends toss out a joke that doesn’t feel like a joke for long: sleep with his ex. It’s petty. It’s reckless—perfect, even. There’s just one unexpected detail.
Sunoo isn’t the girl you imagined. He’s a man—punk, pierced, and also a strikingly beautiful omega.
❀ WARNINGS: oral, marking, biting, lots of fluids, they fuck like bunnies, and sunoo gets pussy drunk, praising, kind of switch! coded sunoo, but they’re both submissives. sunoo’s bisexual and has piercings… (nipple piercings, tongue piercing, eyebrow, lips…u get the gist) (LOL.), and heat cycles—they’re both VERY sub coded and i’m in love w them ur honor… sunoo’s only sweet to the reader. definitely, probably, most likely not accurate in regards to alpha/omega stuff but we get the gist. wc: 4k-ish, unedited.
Jisoo flinches the moment your forehead knocks against the bar. A half-empty shot glass hangs from your right hand, its rim smudged pale pink with lipstick—while in your left, a cigarette burns slow and bitter. You take the occasional drag between swiping at your runny mascara—only to remember you still had it threaded in your fingers.
“Five months of my fucking life. Five, ‘Soo.” You whine, platforms clicking against the metal spinners of the chair.
Eunchae raises a brow, only slightly amused. She tries her best to not say she warned you, but it slips out anyway. “It’s Sunghoon, babe. What’d you expect from such a…hot-blooded Alpha?”
“He was different! Not that bad! Or Evil!!” You muffle your scream with your sleeve, then lift your head to stare at your best friends with puffy eyes.
The bar doesn’t lose its vibrancy: the bartender doesn’t acknowledge your half hearted attempts at convincing your friends and nosy patrons (by proximity), and the music still plays on. You cry a little harder when a song Sunghoon had on his ‘my life’s a movie fr’ playlist coincidentally blares through the speakers.
Eunchae stifles a groan. “Get a grip, bitch. He’s evil. And dumb. Or evil, because he’s dumb—I don’t fucking know.” Her eyes bulge a little as she leans across Jisoo toward you. Naturally, you cower at the sudden wave of energetic dominance she emanates, and although you’ve been friends for years—Eunchae’s still an Alpha and you’re still an Omega.
She softens, but Jisoo lays a hand over hers before speaking.
“I know it’s frustrating… but maybe it’s a blessing in disguise?” She hesitantly starts. You look up and squeeze the shot glass between your palms, warming its surface.
“What do you mean?”
“I just think a guy who could mentally stimulate you might be a better match.”
Eunchae cackles, quickly butting in after taking a swig from her glass. “—what Jisoo’s trying to say is Sunghoon’s an actual dumbass. Like, the lights aren’t on at home. Ever.”
You pout at that. While a huge part of you wanted to defend him, you couldn’t lie. Sunghoon’s the kind of guy who looked like he walked straight of a Sports Illustrated magazine—a dream in dark blue jersey crop tops and denim low-rise jeans—but he’s an absolute himbo, and most conversations about your hobbies required…further explanation.
“Yeah, but he’s the only Alpha that’s never treated me like I’m dumb.” You say, downcast gaze watching the condensation mark your glass.
“That’s because he’s dumber than you—“
Eunchae groans once Jisoo’s sharp elbow hits her stomach, and stifles a scream.
“I know, sweetie. But if he was an actually good guy, he wouldn’t talk about planning ways to get back with his ex.” She utters gently, doe eyes glistening as she clasped a hand around yours comfortingly.
“What an asshole.” Eunchae grits out, before absentmindedly muttering “If I were you—I’d fuck his ex. Get my lick back, you know?”
You still, the gears immediately churning and straightening your back. You zone out on the array of bottled liquor, squinting as you rolled her words in your mouth.
“That’s a great idea, actually.”
Your best friends whip toward you with wide eyes. “Ayo, it was a joke—“ Eunchae squeaks, folding under the weight of Jisoo’s thinly veiled anger.
You push to your feet abruptly, palms slamming against the bar. Quickly, you smooth a hand over your perfectly glossed curled hair, steadying yourself, then swing around and toss your bag over your shoulder.
“Gotta get my beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow.” You say and vanish—leaving a trail of vanilla and brown sugar in your wake.
Eunchae and Jisoo stare at each other before Jisoo rolls her eyes with a groan. “Oh god—this is so bad.”
Heads turn at the sharp, charming click of your kitten heels against the marbled floors of the art department. After cornering Heeseung—who had originally refused to tell you anything more about Sunghoon, even after guiltily sending those screenshots from the boys’ group chat—you finally wore him down. A few well-placed crocodile tears later, he cracked.
And that’s how you end up in the fine arts building, scanning hallways for the sculpture studio. More people are staring than usual. Not because of your doe eyes and perfectly painted lipstick. But because your heat is only a few weeks away, and you deliberately didn’t take your suppressants so that Sunghoon would catch your scent all over campus—your scent is stronger than it should be.
Another scent dances into the hall the closer you get to the studio: something like yuzu tea and sunshine bottled up into a singular room. It was strong. Effortlessly enticing—Beautiful before you’d even laid your eyes on her. You knew it was her the moment you caught a whiff.
The studio is empty, save for a single silhouette standing at its center. A fitted black sweater clings to a narrow waist, dark hair cut short enough to curl softly at the nape. She’s taller than you imagined—almost as tall as Sunghoon—and the realization stings. You’d always assumed he preferred shorter partners. Most alphas, after all, gravitate toward omegas smaller than them.
Her pale hands dragged along a clay statue, molding the shape with a delicate, deliberate touch. She turns her head at the sound of your steps—
And what you see steals your breath from your throat.
Sharp, fox-like eyes run along your form—his pierced, pale pink tongue licks over the other cold metal piercing on his lips. A natural, dewy flush decorates the bridge of his nose, and his voice shocks you from your trance. Holy fuck.
That’s…not a girl. You think.
“…do you need something?” It’s soft. A little hesitant. Shy. The sound tickles your ears as you duck your head.
You stutter, clasping your small hands together, before bubbling the words out.
“I—oh god, you’re beautiful.”
His lips part slightly at that, a flush creeping down the line of his throat. The two of you lapse into a flustered silence, and he just stands there—wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights.
After a second, he ducks his head, peering at you shyly through his bangs. “That’s sweet of you to say—” he begins, voice even softer now, before glancing off to the side as if the wall has suddenly become fascinating. “Do you… need help with anything in the studio?”
You stare back at his face with your heart caught in your throat. It’d be easier to lie—to form a ruse just to get close enough to touch—but it didn’t feel right. Staring at him now, you’re struck with the realization of how shady this sort of ordeal would be.
“Honestly? I came here without thinking,” you admit, lifting your chin as you step closer.
You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes—and he reddens instantly at the shortened distance. God, you’re pretty. There’s something almost doll-like about you, unsettling in its perfection. He has to bite down on the dangerous thought that you might be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen before it distracts him completely.
He waits, silent, patient.
“I—I’m Sunghoon’s girlfriend.” Your fingers tighten around your own wrist. “Or… I was.”
Something in his expression shifts. The light in his eyes dims, brows pulling together in a complicated crease. He fucking hated that guy.
“Oh.”
Oh? That’s it?
You shake your head, and anxiously turn away. “I’m sorry, this was a stupid idea—“
“W-wait.” He pipes up, grasping your wrist hesitantly. “You don’t have to leave.”
To your absolute horror, a tiny sob squeaks out of you. It’s embarrassingly small—but in the quiet studio, it might as well echo. You blink up at him with comically watery eyes, lashes clumping together as you try (and fail) to look dignified. Without thinking, you throw yourself into his arms.
“I’m sorry—I came in here with really awful intentions,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “I wanted to screw him over by sleeping with you. I thought you were a woman at first, and doesn’t even matter that you’re not—and he’s just so mean. He didn’t even have the decency to break up with me before planning to get you back.”
Sunoo goes completely rigid, eyes wide as he tries to process the avalanche you’ve just dumped on him. Then something sharp—almost offended—flickers in his gaze.
“I would rather get run over by my own kiln,” he says flatly, “than get back with that dumbass.”
“He always wants what he can’t have. Pretty sure his processing rate is below average.” He finalizes blandly. “Take a seat.” He slides a stool forward and gently pushes you to sit.
Sunoo leans back against a table, perching his weight on his palms as they grasped the sides.
“Listen, I don’t want him back. To be honest, I had no clue that he was even trying to reach out because he’s blocked.”
You sniffle, folding your hands on your lap anxiously. This is so embarrassing. What were you even thinking? The next time you see Eunchae, you’re going to wring her neck.
“It’s not even that. Good Alphas are hard to come by nowadays, and I thought I’d found one who actually cared about me,” you admit.
Sunoo watches you thoughtfully before replying, “I get it. Being an Omega’s no easy feat. That’s why I hate Alphas most of the time…guess I got too distracted by his washboard abs when I agreed to go out with him.” He laughs softly.
Being near him is strangely calming. The day drifts on, and you find yourself sitting on that stool for hours, talking about Sunghoon—and then about life as an Omega. You bond over your shared love for beauty and aesthetics, and he even lets you touch his eyebrow piercing while continuing to sculpt. The goodbye is silent, but warm when he drops you off at your dorms before striding off—taking the only sound of his earrings softly clinking with him.
The next day, Sunoo leans against the wall of your Socioeconomics class, quietly watching as you approach in an excited flurry.
His dark hair is styled straight, three silver piercings dangling from each ear. A fitted turtleneck hugs his lithe figure, paired with baggy, low-waisted dark jeans. When you instinctively reach for his hands, the vision of you together is a clash of black and pastel pink.
“Sunoo!” you squeal, the scent of vanilla stronger in the presence of your joy—even after taking suppressants. Gazing up at him, you hold onto his hand. “What are you doing here?”
He smiles softly, voice low, naturally tinged with melancholia. “Yesterday was fun. Stopped by to tell you you’re welcome to come to the studio whenever. Helped me pass the time.”
A genuine smile curls your lips, the sunlight catching flecks on your gloss.
“No takesie backsies.”
Hangouts at the studio steadily turned into hangouts everywhere else. Over time, you became a regular face at the fine arts department—and people took notice of how close the two of you’d gotten in a short span of time.
Friendship with Sunoo’s as easy as breathing: cute friend dates to dessert cafes, shopping for matching collars, cozy nights in with shared self-care routines, and trips to the photo booth—it fit snugly. Comfortably. He never unsettled you the way an Alpha did. Your shared love of physical touch always resulted in the two of you curling your bodies together—or walking around campus palm in palm, and pressing your temples against each other when greeting.
✿
You sit near a large banana tree plant, at the corner of the campus cafe—catching up between classes.
Heeseung sips on his iced coffee loudly, eying you suspiciously. “You’ve gotten…real close to Sunoo, lately. That’s a surprise.”
You giggle, a happy churning in your stomach at the mention of someone who was growing more special to you by the day. “Yeah—I’m surprised too, given the situation. Guess we bonded over having a shared ex rather than fighting.”
He pops open the cap of his cup and tips it back, pouring a few cubes of ice into his mouth before crunching down on them.
“Well, yeah,” he says around the cold, “but Sunoo’s so fucking grouchy all the time. He can be a real asshole. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t bite your head off the second you mentioned Sunghoon.”
Sunoo? Grouchy?
You stare at Heeseung, bewildered. “He’s so sweet and soft spoken most of the time. Not a single mean bone in his body, Hee.”
Heeseung almost spits out his ice.
“The fuck? Are we talking about the same person?”
“Pretty sure?”
“I fucking thought something was up.” He pips, face painted with delight. “He’s into you.”
“Stop it—“ You utter shyly, gaze dropping to your lap. “We’re good friends. He’d never see me like that.”
“You don’t know Kim Sunoo the way I do,” Heeseung says, voice low and a little mischievous. “He might be an omega, but he’s a total menace. The first time Riki met him, he made the guy cry with just one sentence…because he stood too close. Oh, and he also hated Riki’s designs. Brutal, right?”
“You’re not lying?” you ask, voice sweet and innocent, eyes wide. Your fingers reach to fiddle with the thin collar on your neck.
Heeseung almost coos at the sight, completely undone by how earnestly adorable you look: all pastel pink, draped in lace. “Scouts honor.” He replies, his index finger signing an invisible x over his heart.
“Wanna know a secret, though?” He whispers and leans forward, eyes glinting dangerously. Your eyes widen at the sudden dizzying scent of his pheromones—cedar, cinnamon, and black pepper.
You crane your neck towards him, nodding vigorously
“Sunoo’s a huge masochist—that’s why he has so many piercings.” He grins at you, clearly enjoying how red you’ve gone. He could practically see steam rising off you.
You bury your face in your hands and let out a muffled squeak. “Hee, what the—what the fuck?”
Heeseung reaches over to tug your pinky into his grip, holding it playfully for a moment before pausing. He glances over your shoulder, casual yet deliberate. “Incoming.”
You follow his gaze and brighten immediately.
Sunoo’s dark hair is spiked, styled just messy enough to look effortless. Silver rings gleam along his knuckles when he moves, catching the light. Your gaze drifts—slow and shameless—over the rest of him, taking in the long sleeve layered beneath a baggy graphic tee, the matching collar to yours snug around his throat. You stop yourself short of inhaling his scent deeply.
His eyes, however, are trained onto your hand in Heeseung’s.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” He utters at the man dryly, running the ball of his tongue piercing across his teeth. He pops his gum disinterestedly.
Heeseung smiles hard enough to crease his eyes into little moons. “I’d much rather be here.”
“Of course—mommy and daddy are gonna pay your way into graduation, right?” He shoves his hands into his pockets, staring at Heeseung with an empty expression.
Your eyes flicker between them, bewildered. “Why are you guys acting so… strange?” you ask, reaching out to tug gently at Sunoo’s fingers. He softens instantly at the way you look up at him from your seat.
“I got you a slice of matcha cake,” he says, leaning down slightly to meet your eyes, ignoring Heeseung completely. “There’s a cafe I think you’d like.”
He chuckles softly when he notices the white lace parasol perched beside the table and takes in the pale pink baby doll dress you had on. “And what a cute little dress.”
You jump up to spin for him excitedly. “This is the one you picked out, remember?”
Sunoo takes your hands gently, smiling brightly. “I knew you’d look pretty in it.”
Heeseung gags silently in the corner. All he wanted was a chance to tease Sunoo, but now he’s stuck third-wheeling—and on the verge of throwing himself into mid-day traffic. Neither you nor Sunoo notice, still chatting excitedly with each other. Heeseung watches a little longer, smiling softly when he realizes the two of you look like little bunnies side by side.
Seriously—the two of you were the prettiest Omegas he’s ever known, and seeing you side by side was no joke. He stills the moment a…particular scent wafts in his direction. A fragrant haze of pink and hot, gooey vanilla drape across the cafe—turning heads in alarm at its heaviness.
His eyes flash before standing to take a step away from you.
“Sweetie, did you forget to take your suppressants?”
You pause in horror. How could you be so stupid? Your heat’s right around the corner—
With fumbling hands, you tug your phone out of your handbag and check the date.
Fuck.
It’s today.
Your heat cycle’s today and you’re seated in a crowded cafe without your pheromone suppressants.
Shakily, you glance around the room, your heart hammering as several Alphas cast uneasy glances, struggling to control their reactions to your trigger-happy scent.
You’re scared.
Really scared.
And you can’t will yourself to move. Even Heeseung’s struggling to stay neutral, a slow fever bleeding into his eyes. When his chest starts heaving, he hastily turns.
“I’m so sorry, I have to go.” His gaze is heavy with apology—but you knew it was for the best. Heeseung’s an Alpha, and a chaotic one at that. You knew he’d never endanger you willingly, no matter how most Alpha’s scared you.
Sunoo wakes you from your frightened trance.
“Come on—let’s get you out of here.” He slides a slim arm around your neck protectively, sharp eyes pointing defensively at any lingering looks.
You can’t believe you forgot one of the worst parts of breaking up with Sunghoon: having to face your heat cycle alone.
The day has arrived, and you don’t have the slightest idea how you’re going to get through it.
The hot pink corner light casts soft, intimate shadows across your room. Sunoo helps you peel off your dress, leaving you in your undergarments, and gently wipes the sweat from your skin. The heat cycle feels more like a fever the longer you’re not touched.
“Sunoo, it hurts.” You arch your back softly, hair spilling on the pillow messily, as strands stick to the sweat on your skin.
His unreadable eyes stay locked on your face as he watches you writhe for five long minutes. Then he rises, the bed creaking softly under him as he climbs on and begins to peel off his layers slowly.
Your breath catches, pink blooming across your flushed cheeks as you stare at him with glossy eyes. The soft, curved tips of your acrylic nails brush against your lips, trembling as you gaze at him in shock.
He kneels on the bed, abdomen twitching and tensing without meaning to. His pale hand reaches to nervously tug at his collar. “You can…use me. As much as you want.”
After a couple of moments of stunned silence, he squirms. Even under the pink light, the red in his cheeks seemed to glow. “I know i’m not an Alpha, but I can keep up. I can handle most things.”
The slick tacking your thighs together thickens. His flush only deepens when he hears it.
“Sun, you really don’t have to—“
“I want to.” He interrupts.
You rise to crawl towards him on all fours, peering up shyly. He sucks in a breath, slightly flinching.
The soft chime of your collars marks each small movement. His lips part as you slip your fingers inside, pressing gently against the sharp edge of an incisor.
“When I’m in heat… I like biting. And being bitten,” you admit, your voice a soft murmur. “Is that okay?”
“Do whatever you want,” he breathes. “I’ll let you know if I don’t like something.”
“You can do anything to me too,” you reply, your palms resting on the soft flesh of your thighs. The glint of his nipple piercings catches the light, almost winking in the dimness.
Everything about the moment feels strangely innocent, despite the context. The sight of his bare body, his willingness to touch you without any need to dominate, offers a comfort you never knew you needed—or were even allowed to have. Its saccharine. Warm. A clouded devotion that perfumes the air around you with something soft and tender—something Omegas like you both rarely have the privilege of knowing.
You both lean in, necks craning toward each other, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you, just a hair strand away from falling into each other.
Slick pools between your legs almost gelatinously, a soft pour trickling down your inner thigh. He sees it, and his hand rises slowly, fingers curling to cup you, stroking two fingers down the lining of your cunt. You throb at the contact, clenching as he petted the surface.
When the cold metal of his piercings press against your lips, as he slides his thin fingers in you, it settles in softly. The kiss isn’t a dramatic homecoming—it’s gentle. Quietly sacred. Reassuring in all the ways Sunoo knew how to calm the anxiety Omega’s always felt even during the high of being in heat.
Your hands find his shoulders, steadying yourself against their surprising breadth. The slow building pace he settles into physically shakes your body as he switches between driving upwards and rubbing your clit. You push deeper, licking shyly into his mouth, and gasp as he boldly pushes into yours. Your brow lifts at the feel of his tongue piercing, the smooth metal rolling against your own muscle. His left hand reaches to grip onto the meat of your hip with a strength you didn’t know he could summon.
Wet sounds fill the room—saliva strands hanging between your lips every time you pulled away just to dive back in. Your fingers lift to roll over his nipples experimentally, and sigh happily into his mouth when you hear the small moan leave him
Sunoo pulls his hand away, and you whine softly at the sudden loss of contact. When you finally break the kiss, you barely have time to steady yourself before you meet his gaze—and flinch. His eyes are intense, almost dizzying, dark irises blown wide and glossed over with something feverish. There’s a glazed heat in them, a look that makes your pulse stutter.
He pushes you onto your back, and crawls face first between your legs.
Without pause, he drags his nose up the fabric of your underwear—sucking the slick from the fabric, then pushes it aside.
A low whine escapes him as his hips roll instinctively, seeking friction against nothing. His boxers are already soaked, a dark patch spreading where his own cock strains against the fabric. You can see the throbbing length twitch as he laps at you, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit before circling your clit. The metal ball of his piercing glints in the dim light as he flicks it against the sensitive bud, alternating between rapid flicks and deep, suctioning pulls that leave his chin dripping.
Your body twitches in little spasms once it registers the feeling of his tongue piercing rolling around the sensitive bud. His tongue pumps shallowly at first, then deeper, the knob of his piercing stroking your inner walls. Your knees threaten to knock together, but his arms lock around your thighs, holding you open as he buries his face deeper, devouring you
You comb your fingers through his hair.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently. "Sunoo—breathe," you gasp, but he only whines against you, his eyes rolling back as he presses closer. The sound of his collar rattles softly as he shakes his head, refusing to pull away. When your legs lock around his neck, trapping him, he twitches violently, his fingers curling as he finds that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
He shakes his head side to side, collar rattling. He’s right where he wants to be.
The metal on his mouth grows warm. Your body feels like something molten—hot to the touch. D
Sunoo doesn’t notice—already lost in the fog of things, as your legs shook and hands fumbled to softly push at his head. He can’t will himself to pull his mouth away, drunk on the taste and heat of you. All he can smell is your particular scent of vanilla, and to his smug delight, traces of his own clean yuzu—erasing Heeseung’s earlier scent of cedar and cinnamon. The entangling scents calm his own anxieties: the ones that’ve been rearing their head every time he saw you with someone else. With someone bigger. Taller. More dominant.
He fucking hated Alphas.
You hide your hot face in your palms as you watch him continue to practically eat you, taking in the slender of his pale back and the small freckles peppering the surface of his shoulder blades and spine. His eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and hungry, as he widens his jaw, taking all of you in his mouth. Seeing his lips stretched around your pussy, his chin glistening with your release, sends another jolt through you.
Fisting the pillow, you bite your lip so hard it draws blood. Reaching out with a trembling hand, you caress his cheek. “Sunoo, it's sensitive”
He finally comes to his senses with a deep inhale, then slowly unlatches his lips from you. The surface is rubbed raw—pink, plump, and glistening. You clench around nothing at the sound of his voice.
“Tastes so good,” he mumbles, rubbing his cheek over your inner thigh in the moment of quiet, before he peers up at you.
You stare at each other, the reality of what just happened dawning in a flushed silence. Shame heats your face as you remember how much slick your body produces in heat, a detail alphas never failed to tease you about.
Sensing your embarrassment, Sunoo watches you from between your thighs. From there, he sees the muscles in your neck tense, your gaze drift away to something suddenly interesting on your left, and feels the faint tremble running through your legs. Slowly, he rises: sliding his cock out of his boxers with ease.
A gasp tumbles out of you at the sight of his own slick. Calmly, he tugs on your thighs until his cock settles between your folds, rubbing against them with ease. The sound of your combined slick is sinful—jarringly loud. He bites and toys with his lip piercing as his gaze fixes on where your bodies teeter on the edge of entry. “See how perfect this is? Look at you.” He marvels.
Clasping his neck, you press your chest to his, rubbing your nipples against his piercings. He hisses, a pretty moan stuttering from his lips as his head falls, overwhelmed by the sensitivity.
Gliding down, you wrap your lips prettily over his chest, your tits dragging against his abdomen before you flick your tongue across the surface—your pale pink gloss staining his porcelain skin.
Heeseung’s words rise to the surface: Sunoo’s a huge masochist.
And then, you bite.
His eyes widen when your teeth clack! against the metal, and you feel his cock twitch directly above your clit. “A-ah!”
One arm wraps around his waist while your small hand lifts to trace delicate fingers over his right nipple. You widen your jaw and bite again; leaving indentations circling around the glinting piercing. Sunoo’s eyes gleam in the pink light, lashes lining with pearl-like tears from the raw sensitivity.
His hips snap forward, drawing a whine from both of you. “God, you feel s-so good,” he stutters, his hand finding the back of your head to hold you sweetly against his chest. His eyes nearly roll back when you bat your lashes and look up at him innocently. “F-feel so pretty against me like this.”
He stares at how the soft fat of your pussy practically tugs his cock down, hugging it—a sloppy, messy sound resonating from between you. His eyes widen when you pull back, your thin hand moving down to part your pussy with two fingers, revealing the silky pink insides.
Flinching, his abdomen catches the stray droplets from between your damp, rocking bodies.
“Sun'—I want it inside.” You lie back fully, releasing his waist to hold your legs open, your arms hooked under your knees. Sunoo sucks in a sharp breath: never in his life has he seen something so fucking pretty. Your cheekbones catch the light, a blooming flush dusting the bridge of your nose and warming your skin. Your hair falls around you like a soft halo, framing your silhouette in a quiet glow.
“My sweet girl wants it inside?” He cups your face in his palm and presses a firm kisses to your temple, lingering there for a moment before nuzzling his nose into your hair and inhaling softly. One of your eyes squeeze shut at his affection, as you lean into it warmly. Your arms loosen where they’re wrapped around your legs, posture softening as you tip your face up to look at him. Your hands reach to run along his slim silhouette.
You quietly nod, biting back a smile. When he slides inside of you, your hands drag up to delicately wrap around his throat—his cock throbs are the pressure. Your back arches at the stretch.
It’s a cacophony of sweet depravity—each time he pulls his hips away, you draw him back with an open mouthed kiss. Everything’s damp. Heated— in a room full of pleasured sighs and slick skin. You feel his hand slide up your abdomen and hold your under-breast in his palm, tits bouncing erratically at the weight of his surprising force.
Small mumbles leave his mouth like a chant against your throat when the flesh is held between his teeth.
“So pretty.”
“Feels so fucking good.”
“Mine.”
The last one had you practically purring in his arms, pointing your breasts upward so he can latch on and mark them. A guiding hand grasps on the meat of your thighs to roll your hips on him manually.
Everything’s doused pink. Sunoo doesn’t even flinch when you squirt hard around him, only opting to fuck into you even harder.
Eventually, you’re on top of him with your hands pressing down on his throat—shaking on his cock after he fills you up for the third time. And another time, he’s saddled in your throat while his mouth works you into another orgasm.
Instinct takes over and memory gives way to an occasional blackness. If you pass out—you don’t pass out for long.
You don’t know how long it’s been. All you know is that your back is impossibly arched, tits pressed flat against the mattress, and that Sunoo’s fucking you hard enough that your head’s deliciously empty. Even the sides of your mouth are sore and raw from the amount of times Sunoo’s crammed himself down your throat until you cried. The sheets are soaked beyond repair and if you were in the right mind, you’d shriek at the almost… jammy texture.
Both your and Sunoo’s bodies are marred with bite marks, the skin flushed, red, and damp. His hips rolled against the soft flesh of your ass, rhythmically stretching your pussy—devastatingly entranced by the way you’re crying into your pillow, how your body seems to glow under the pink light of your room, and how the meat of your body shakes intensely every time he drove back down into you.
His own slick only aids how seamlessly he glides into you, nipple piercings rattling at his force. You drool a little when he shoves himself deep into your stomach, and you attempt to crawl away instinctively. Sunoo only grips onto your elbow and pulls your back flush against his chest, before sliding back in and fucking into you.
Your collars rattle in unison, soft moans painting the air. His skin is soft. Satin, despite the rough nature of his movements. And you couldn’t help the repetitive thought chanting in your head that you’ve never been with someone so beautiful before.
You piss around his cock the moment he prods at a particular spot, eyes rolling to the back of your head. On cue, he brushes your hair away from your neck, his fingers lingering for a breath before his teeth graze the soft skin at the back. He bites into the flesh mid-orgasm, abdomen caving and tensing as he whimpers against your skin.
Sunoo collapses, chest heaving, eyes squinting from the light peaking over the horizon.
It’s morning already. How long have you been going at it?
You tug on his arm until he settles beside you, then slink into his embrace as the two of you catch your breath. You brush your fingers through his hair—occasionally nipping at the skin of his neck.
His finger traces along your spine, thoughtful and slow, before he speaks.
“Can I be yours?”
You lift your head from his neck, your chin pressing against his chest as you stare up at him with tender eyes. Nervously, you toy with his collar, finding comfort in the soft, bell-like chime of the silver star–shaped charm.
Would he really be okay with you?
He stares at you, wide-eyed.
Shit—you hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Something steadies in him then. He fixes his gaze on yours and speaks softly. “I’m no Alpha. I won’t be the strongest guy in the room, and I probably enjoy getting beat up more than I enjoy throwing a punch—but I’ll keep you safe in the ways I know how. I’ll love you right, in all the ways Sunghoon or any other douchey Alpha didn’t.”
A bright giggle bubbles from your chest.
“I’ll be yours if you’ll have me.”
Sunoo swoops down to steal your breath with a kiss—only pulling away when you’re on the brink of passing out again.
The two of you curl together like Siamese cats at the edge of the bleachers, either oblivious to—or deliberately ignoring—the stares from every direction. People gawk openly; the sight of two Omegas tangled up like this is a rarity.
You’re only here because Heeseung insisted. He’d dragged you both to his home game with a dramatic sigh and a vague gesture between you. “If I hadn’t been around,” he’d said, waving a hand at the two of you, “it wouldn’t have happened.”
At some point, Sunoo’s hands are on you—fingers digging into your waist, tongue warm against yours. The world dissolves into background noise. The roar of the crowd, the sharp whistle of plays, even the game itself fades away.
You don’t notice a thing—until a collective gasp ripples through the stands.
Out on the field, Park Sunghoon goes rigid, the ball still in his hands as he stares at the two of you kissing with reckless abandon. A split second later, he’s flattened beneath a brutal pile of incoming bodies.
Sunoo laughs against your mouth. “Serves him right,” he murmurs, stealing another indulgent kiss. “Maybe I should join the team too. Gives me an excuse to pull something like that.”
You giggle, nudging your nose against his. “Only if you play nicely.”
In the distance, Sunghoon lets out one long, pained groan—and you can’t help but think life has never felt more right.
fin.
wrote this in a single day, so pls excuse funky pacing and/or mistakes lmao
synopsis✧˖°. while in australia, enhypen finishes their "eat sleep en dive" but still have fun together after cameras are off. after some teasing sunoo gets a little too drunk and clings to you like theres no tomorow.
contains✧˖°. seventh member reader (heeseung isnt mentioned due to not being apart of the eat sleep en dive in australia im sorry!) ; wc: 2.2k ; fluff ; kisses ; slight confession? ; drinking ; drunk!sunoo
note ✧˖°. i tried my best to base it off of the actual video + picture!! im really scared to publish this, im gonna be fully honest. this is my first time like layouting everything (i even figured out how to gradient text!) i really hope you enjoy this! pls any critism will always be welcome because itll help me become a better writer. if you like my writing style and would like to see something, send me some kind of ask!! i took insperation from @hoonztruck so thank you thank you!! OKAY FIRST FIC LETS GO!!! please enjoy!
enhypen was in australia! they’d had gone all around doing stuff all day, but now it was night. all of enhypen was pretty tired out from their activities earlier, but they still had to stay up filming the rest of the content at night.
you walked over to the fridge and grabbed three beers, going back to the living room and sitting on the couch next to sunoo handing him and jay beers.
“you’re not gonna go.. too crazy… right?” you mumbled to sunoo, hoping he realizes how much of a lightweight he could be.
“please, I'll be fine, y/n” he mumbles, hopeful that the microphones wouldn’t pick it up.
you sigh. everybody remembers what happened last time when sunoo drank during an ‘eat sleep en dive’, even though it was off camera. let’s just say, everyone knows sunoo can’t really be trusted.
they started up a game of uno, the rules were very odd to how you normally played but you just went with it. jake and jay were throwing multiple cards down at one time. you had no idea what was going on but you just giggled and went along with it.
after a couple games of uno, everybody was feeling pretty buzzed, but was still able to hold it all together infront of the cameras.
everyone eventually made their way upstairs to ‘go to bed.’
sunghoon and jake ‘slept’ in one bed. ni-ki, jay, and jungwon ‘slept’ in the other. and you and sunoo ‘slept’ in one together.
as everyone was ‘getting ready for bed,’ they were all causing a ruckus.
“i think everybody snores, yeah?” jungwon asked no one in particular, tucking a blanket over himself
“ni-ki snores in japanese” sunghoon said, earning a laugh from everyone when he did an example
jay started snorting, then slapped ni-ki’s rear, to which the both started play fighting with eachother
“i just tucked myself in, and now you guys wanna start fighting?” jungwon whined as he was sandwiched between the two boys
“oh he’s right where he wants to be” you snorted quietly to sunoo, to which he laughed
“right next to his jay hyung” he slurred quietly to you
soon jake got up and turned off the lights “okay goodnight~” he dragged out, to which everybody got comfy in their beds
everyone started saying goodnight to eachother. you smiled to yourself in the dark as you felt sunoos legs beginning tangle with yours.
but before any of you could get fully comfy the light turned back on.
a staff stood in the doorway “okay, let’s take off your mic packs now” they spoke, walking away from the bedroom
sunoo whined with a slight slur “i just got comfortable..”
you took his hand and pulled him to his feet. everyone laughing at the interaction
“there’s no way i’m letting you drink more” you spoke, huffing
jay chuckled, “i don’t get it, he had two beers, and he’s already this tipsy?” he said as he made his way downstairs, you followed, whining
“i refuse to take care of him if he gets even drunker”
jake shook his head, putting a hand on your shoulder “that’s gonna be hard when he only clings to you” that earned a laugh from jungwon
as you reached the living room there was already three staff, waiting to take off your mic packs.
you walked over to one as they helped you unclip your mic pack on your back. they took it off, wrapped the wire around it, then put it in a black bag.
you walked away, allowing other people to hand them their mic packs
as you looked around, you already saw ni-ki and sunghoon looking through the fridge
“why is there only corona beer..?” ni-ki whined “i mean im not gonna complain, but they couldn’t have gotten other things?”
“just be happy they bought beer and we didn’t have to” sunghoon spoke, grabbing one and patting ni-ki on the back
ni-ki groaned as he grabbed a beer and stood near the kitchen island
“i thought there was whisky and stuff?” jay spoke, walking over to a cabinet and opening it. he was met with whisky, vodka, wine, and gin.
“oh..” ni-ki mumbled, now upset that he already grabbed a beer when he could’ve gotten something else.
“there’s also hard seltzer in the garage” a staff spoke, to which your ears perked up immediately.
you skipped your way into the garage, jungwon and sunoo following.
you each grabbed atleast one truly, while you grabbed a couple others to put in the fridge incase the others wanted some.
as you all made you way back into the living room, you put the drinks in the fridge.
you walked over to the island table as everyone was laughing and joking around.
“i can’t believe he’s over here complaining about his alcohol options” jay laughed putting a hand on ni-ki’s shoulder
“yeah, how do you feel knowing there’s now gonna be footage of you drinking online?” you giggled taking a sip of your drink.
“as if there isn’t already bad videos of me on the internet” he grumbled, drinking his beer
everyone started laughing “how could anyone forget riki jackson” jake laughed
you were stood between sunghoon and sunoo. you leaned foward more on the table as the conversations got more jokey and light hearted.
“let’s do shots” ni-ki suggested, to which jay and sunghoon seemed unsure, but everyone else agreed
you stole a glance at sunoo, he was quiet and looking at his drink on the table. you knew he was already feeling buzzed earlier, and drinking on top of that probably only made him more drunk.
you knew how he was when he was drunk and you could tell that he was feeling it, because he gets quiet at first… then hell breaks loose.
you and sunghoon opted out of shots, so jay lined up 5 shot glasses on the table, filling two with gin, one with vodka, and two with whisky. the house really had everything.
ni-ki and jay took the whisky shots, jake took the vodka, leaving jungwon and sunoo with gin.
they all cheered, you and sunghoon cheering with your drinks.
as soon as everyone took their shots, a bunch of different noises filled the room. some gagging, some coughing, lots of laughter.
“that was awful” sunoo coughed, “yeah, gin isn’t my favorite” jungwon mumbled in response
“please, gin isn’t that bad” ni-ki spoke.
you widened your eyes, realizing where this might be going.
“oh yeah? you know so much about alcohol now?” sunoo sassed, leaning forward a little bit.
“i bet i could do more shots of gin than you without any expression” ni-ki teased, a grin on his face.
jake threw his hands up in the air “im not encouraging any of this cause this is just gonna go downhill” he spoke, earning a laugh from jay
“alright then” sunoo spoke, walking over to ni-ki “i bet you can’t” sunoo teased with a low voice.
…let’s just say it didn’t end well.
ni-ki successfully took three shots of gin, holding his expression still, longer than sunoo.
“whatever. i don’t even care”
ni-ki huffed out a laugh, putting the glasses in the sink.
you were sat on the couch with sunghoon and jungwon
“i can’t believe nobody stopped either of them” you murmured.
“y/n, they’re fine. they’re both adults and capable of being responsible” sunghoon spoke
sunoo came over and sat next to you on the couch, resting his head on your shoulder.
“baby…” he murmured, you chuckled, trying not to flush at the pet name “hi sunoo” putting a hand into his hair
“yknow.. you smell nice.. and these pajamas are really cute on you” he mumbled, playing with the hem of your shirt.
“well.. thank you?” you grinned
he nuzzled more into your neck, putting his arms tightly around your waist.
“sunoo.. we’re not doing this..” you whined “i need to throw away my drink”
“no… stay.. with me… right here…” he murmured
you tried to pull his hands away “sunoo please” you tried to reason, to which he just kept mumbling “no”
“i’ll be right back, i pinky swear” you spoke, holding your pinky up, infront of his face
he hummed, before taking a hand off your waist and accepting your promise.
you got up, making your way to the living throwing your stuff away.
“already clinging?” jay teased, to which you responded with a sigh
“i literally don’t understand why. he has all of you, but chooses to cling to me every. single. time” which earned a laugh from everyone
jungwon stood next to jay “you’re literally his favorite y/n” he chuckled
“he wouldn’t even let me stand up” you whined. you’d never admit though, that he was adorable whenever he got clingy like that. you did find it slightly annoying though because you had trouble doing literally anything cause he’d refuse to let you go.
soon you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, a body pressed against your back, and a forehead on your shoulder.
“y/n, you promised” he mumbled into your neck. the other members began laughing.
the other members left, doing their own things as you and sunoo were stuck in your own little world.
you twisted around in his grip to face him. he had stolen a brown blanket from the couch, which was draped over his shoulders.
his hair was messy but in a cute way, and his face was all flushed up and pink
“i’m sorry sunnie, i was talking with everyone else” you spoke, trying to fix his hair. he leaned into your hand
“your hand is cold..” he slurred, as he took your hand and put it on his cheek. you caressed his cheek with your thumb for a second before speaking.
“okay, maybe it’s time we head to bed, yeah?” he hummed “only if it’s with you” he slurred.
you put one of his arms around you shoulder and began walking towards the stairs
sunoo whined “i don’t wanna walk up the stairs” he said, refusing to walk any more
“sunoo, how are we supposed to go upstairs” you sighed, looking at him.
“…elevator” he slurred. you sighed.
sunoo and that damn elevator. it’s like he’s never seen an elevator before.
“sunoo, it’ll be quicker if we go up the stairs, come on.” you spoke softly to him, trying to resume your walking.
suddenly, he dropped down to his knees, but still holding on to you. the blanket flew off him. you panicked and held the back of his head, making sure he would hurt himself
“no y/n, elevator.” he slurred, looking up at you with such adoration in his eyes.
“sunoo, get up please” you spoke gently, trying to get him up
“elevator” he repeated, except shaking his head around this time, almost throwing a tantrum. you smiled, giggling at his behavior.
you heard laughing and looked up to see everyone watching you and sunoo, sunoo whipped his head around, and you saw sunghoon taking a picture.
sunoo looked back up at you “elevator” he repeated.
“oh my gosh, fine. just stand up” you spoke, defeated. he smiled big, as he grabbed the blanket and stood up, putting an arm around you.
lucky for you, the elevator was already on the first floor, so you opened the door stepped in and pressed the button.
“just for the record sunoo, if you didn’t pull that little stunt, we would’ve already been in bed” you spoke, turning to look at him.
he had a boyish smiled on his face as he looked at you “i know baby, i just wanted to stall and spend some more time with you” he admitted, a slight slur in his voice.
you smiled warmly, putting a hand in his hair “you could’ve just said that” you spoke as you tried fixing his messy hair.
he chuckled “i did want to go on the elevator too though” you exhaled a giggled, as the door opened and you guys made your way to the bedroom.
sunoo plopped down onto the bed, you adjusted the brown blanket over him, before laying down next to him.
you put the covers over the both of you. the second you got in he immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in. he nuzzled his head into your neck.
you smiled as you put your hands around his neck, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. you threw a leg over his underneath the blankets
“y/n..” he murmured into your neck “you’re so cozy..” you smiled “thank you sunoo, close your eyes now though.”
he hiccuped cause of the alcohol “i care about you a lot..” he mumbled.
your face grow hotter as he spoke. “i care about you too..” you murmured
“..more then a friend should..” he slurred
your heart started beating faster “sunoo, don’t say anything you won’t remember in the morning”
he hummed, pausing for a second “..i can feel your heart beat, baby.. ” he spoke
you felt insanely hot, and his body radiating heat onto you did not help at all. “please sunoo, wait till the morning to say anything like this”
he hugged you tighter, huffing “whatever.. you’ll hear it eventually” he spoke, his voice low
“just sleep sunoo, please?” you pleaded quietly.
you felt him rubbing your back. he hummed “goodnight y/n..” he whispered into your neck, followed by a kiss he placed on your neck
“goodnight sunnie” you mumbled, warmth spreading across your cheeks as you drifted asleep.
⋆˚✿˖°
an✧˖°. this took longer then id like to admit... but i hope you liked it! i lowk had no idea how to end the fic, but i tried my best. im not sunoo biased so im not exactly sure if i did it in a way that you guys would like. reblogs are more then welcome, and please leave a comment!! again, all critisism is welcome, i just ask that you be respectful please :)
pretty boys who are used to getting hit on by girls every time they go out, so imagine their surprise when the pretty girl who kept looking at the two of you comes to hit on you instead !
featuring ; I.SAE, I.BUNNY, K.MICHAEL, V.HUGO
cw ; established relationship, full fluff, may be ooc
꧁ ITOSHI.SAE
"You still don’t know what you’re gonna take ?" Sae signed for what was probably the third time in the last fifteen minutes.
"Be quiet, you’re distracting me”
The restaurant was quiet. You could hear the clink of glasses from other tables. Your boyfriend was sat across from you looking pissed, with one arm on the table, turning his water glass in his hand. The lighting making his annoyed face even more clear.
"It’s been more than fifteen minutes since we’ve been sat, how come you still don’t know what you want to eat ?"
"I’m a little..distracted that’s all—but I know what I want now don’t worry !” You said happily, calling your server by waving your hand at her.
You had noticed people glancing at him,not that it was unusual ; Itoshi Sae attracted attention : pretty and famous it was no wonder people recognized him anytime you two were out together.
The server finally came to your table, greeting the two of you politely. She was a girl around your age, very cute to be honest. You caught her staring at Sae for a second longer than necessary, not that you weren’t used to it.
By the time you two finished eating she had stopped by your table multiples times — refilling your water, asking if everything tasted okay, making conversation with you. You assumed she was just being friendly to receive a good tip.
"Did you enjoy everything ?" She asked approaching your table to take your plates.
"Yeah it was really good thanks ! " You answered her question with a little enthusiasm.
She smiled hiding a small blush appearing on her cheeks. She then looked at you — not at Sae like you thought earlier but at you. Her fingers tightened slightly around the plates she just took from you, she definitely looked more shy than earlier.
"I really hope this doesn't come off as strange..." You blinked at her a little confused. "Hm ?"
She looked even more nervous. "I-I just think you're..really pretty." Hearing this, you let out a small laugh. "Thank you, you’re also really cute." Your remark made her blush even more.
She smiled back.. She didn't move then finally asked ; "Would it be okay if I gave you my number ?"
There was a silence — the awkward type. The question just hung there. You looked at her, she looked back at you and neither of you seemed to notice that Sae had gone still.
"Oh " you said softly. The girl looked mortified, embarrassment was the only thing she could feel. "Sorry ! I really didn’t want to make thing awkward.. was that too straightforward ?"
"No no it's just..." You glanced across the table. Sae was looking at the server who just hit on you while on a DATE with him, INFRONT of him.
You looked back at her. "I'm actually here with my boyfriend." You answered her while designing Sae with your hand. "Your…boyfriend?" "Her boyfriend yes."
You nodded agreeing to his words. She turned her head to look at him, you could see the shocking expression all over her face. "Oh."
The girl looked between the two of you after finally meeting your eyes again. "..Oh my gosh — I’m really sorry ! " You tried not to laugh at the once again uncomfortable face she was making.
The girl. Practically fled from the table letting a silence settling between the two of you.
You kept your gaze on your glass. Then your shoulders started shaking. Sae finally starting speaking. "Are you laughing ?"
You glanced up at him. "No.." He watched you after finally looking in the direction the server had disappeared.
You lost it a laugh escaped from your mouth. "What’s so funny ?" You shook your head. "Nothing."
He looked genuinely confused. "I don't understand what's funny." You looked at him, making your laugher even worse.
You took a breath. "You got ignored. The Itoshi Sae got ignored by a girl" He frowned slightly but still enough that you could see it. "You really were bothered."
"I'm not bothered." He said looking away briefly. "I know she was talking to you."
You laughed softly. "So you were paying attention." "Course I was." The answer came naturally. Your smile faded a little, though Sae seemed not to notice it .
His gaze settled on you once again. "You get hit on often ?" "Hmm.." You thought a little about it. "Sometimes but definitely not as much as you though." He let out a small hum of acknowledgement at what you just told him, making it seems as nothing.
You knew him well enough and it definitely wasn't nothing. You rested your chin in your hand. "Are you jealous?"
"No." He answered a little too fast—"I'm not jealous." "Then why do you care so much ?"
He didn't answer immediately but his eyes remained on you.
"I don't know." He continued with a calm voice.
You could tell he was starting to get embarrassed by the blush starting to form on his ears at that sigh you couldn’t help yourself but laugh a little. "Why are you making that face ?" "I’m not making any face !"
You reached across the table reaching for his hand . After a moment he placed his hand in yours. His fingers were warming yours. Then his fingers closed around your hand.
"So you really are jealous."
"..Shut up"
꧁ IGLESIAS.BUNNY
The place was tucked away in a corner of the town, a little place Bunny had found during his early days with the club. It was small and cozy with leather chairs with no one recognising him as it was mostly old people attending here.
He was sitting across from you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows dark eyes half-open because of the exhaustion that came from training until his legs gave out.
The two of you were talking when you noticed a shadow fell over the table.
Bunny’s posture changed when a girl stood over your table. She was tall and confident with eyeliner and a smirk. She was beautiful. In a way that made people nervous.
His hand slightly tightened around yours. He was used to fans coming up to him along with the autograph request, the photo and the nervous giggling.
"I'm sorry to interrupt " the girl said, her eyes fixed on you. "I had to come over. You're gorgeous."
Your boyfriend mouth hung open looking surprised.
The girl leaned down letting her hand touch your shoulder. "I'm Sofia. I was sitting there with my friends and I couldn't stop staring, are you single ?"
Bunny looked at you confusion and shock on his face. He looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. Quite the funny face he was making.
She continued by inviting you to have a drink with her and to exchange numbers while his grip on your hand got even tighter.
He was definitely not used to this, people did not hit on his girlfriend in front of him.
"Um.." you let out a small sound from your mouth, clearly embarrassed eyes switching between the two of them. Bunny face was priceless ; wide-eyed and indignant.
"Excuse me but— " Bunny started, his voice a little sharp, "We're together. Like dating, just the two of us."
She quickly side-eyed him before returning her gaze to you. "So... What do you say ?"
Bunny let out an exaggerated gasp, looking at you with wide pleading eyes.
"I’m really flattered but I’m not single..sorry." That girl was sadly the stubborn type as she decided to left her number on a napkin before leaving it in the table. "Well, if you ever change your mind you know where to find me ! " She said winking at you.
After she left, the atmosphere at your table was definitely unpleasant.
"No puedo creerlo." Bunny said in his mother tongue, staring at the napkin looking offended. "She wrote her number on a napkin, right in front of my salad, can you believe it ?"
"Don’t be jealous, I’m just that beautiful." At your words Bunny’s face softened.
"Can you blame me ? " he said, "I just... I'm not used to being the one watching people get excited when talking to you."
You kissed his knuckles. "You're the one who has me. I don't need anyone number because I already have you texting me every day."
"Now come on. Lets get out of here before she comes back."
Bunny quickly pulled you into his arm, kissing your forehead. He then picked up the napkin crumpled it and put it in his pocket. "I'm keeping this as proof that someone tried to steal you and failed."
You smiled. "You're impossible."
"You love me."
"I love your money more."
"Sucia mentirosa."
꧁ KAISER.MICHAEL
The art gallery was really full of itself.
Michael was totally into the art gallery as he thought it was amazing. This place had a certain vibe, with its sleek walls and fancy lighting that made the paintings look like a million bucks. But between you and me, he didn't really get the art and (according to him) he didn't need to. All that mattered was looking at the painting like some kind of connoisseur and enjoying the atmosphere. He was happy to just soak it all in, even if he didn't totally understand it.
As you walked along, he grasped your hand tightly making sure everyone around could see that you were together. He came to a halt in front of a vibrant painting, its canvas splattered with bold red and black colors.
"That sure look..original" "This is expressionism." he explained with gleaming eyes from excitement. "It's like a mix of chaos, violence, and passion all rolled into one."
He turned to face you a smile spreading across his face. "It reminds me of myself." he said, his voice low and thoughtful. The way he looked at you made you wonder what he meant by that statement.
Was he saying that he was a complex, passionate individual full of contradictions ?
Or was he implying that his life was a chaotic violent mess with moments of beauty and passion thrown in ?
You however did not think the painting was that great. "It looks like something a little kid would make"
Kaiser was upset that you didn't care for the painting, he actually thought you should be really impressed by it. "You're supposed to think this is amazing." he declared clearly expecting a different reaction from you.
You just told him that you were always impressed by how he could talk about nothing and make it sound important.
A woman then approached you, with elegance and refinement, like someone who would be right at home in this "beautiful" gallery. She suddenly gazed at you eyes sparkling with wonder.
"There's something truly special about you." She told you in a voice filled with conviction. "You seem to belong here, as if you're an integral part of the art itself." She paused, studying you intently, her eyes locked onto yours.
"It's as if you've been here before, like you're a part of this world, a world where creativity and beauty reign supreme." Her words were laced with a sense of curiosity, and you couldn't help but feel like she had her head a little too up in the cloud.
A certain someone did not like that this random woman was saying words like that to you. He stood up straight, tried to get her attention.. but she just kept looking at you.
She introduced herself as the owner of the art gallery before expressing her interest in featuring you in her upcoming show. "I think you'd be perfect for it !" She said sparkling with enthusiasm. "There's something about you that's really special : a certain presence that draws people in."
Kaiser didn't take too kindly to her idea of featuring you on her show. He took your arm putting you slightly behind him just enough to block your path. "She’s not going anywhere." he said with a firm voice.
"Well she should ! She definitely have the face I’m looking for." she said with a shrug.
You attempted to calm Kaiser as he started to looked a little more mad. Meanwhile, you turned to the owner and let her know that you weren't interested in being featured on her show.
Despite what you had just said, she handed you her card. "Take it, just in case you have a change of heart !" With that, she finally walked away, leaving you to think about your decision.
Kaiser was still fuming. He snatched Margot's card from you and shoved it in a trash can nearby. "She wants you to give her a call."
You simply shrugged your shoulders and muttered, "I guess so—" you were suddenly cut off by arm being wrapped tightly around you, pulling you in close.
You gently touched his face, fingers tracing the contours of his skin. "I'm not going anywhere." Your voice was firm and reassuring. "I choose you."
" You are my everything, I can’t lose you."
Your lips touched his, and for a brief moment, everything felt right. But then Kaiser pulled away, a smile spreading across his face.
"Let's get out of here. I need to be sure that you’re not running off with any art gallery owner" "wouldn’t dream of it"
"Sehr gut, meine Liebe."
꧁ HUGO.VIVIEN
Vivian really enjoyed being here. It wasn't because of the books though— he did read, but he preferred pages with no words on them. He found that they helped him think more clearly, without any distractions. What he liked most, was that nobody bothered him. Everyone was busy doing their own thing, just as they should be, and that suited Vivian just fine. He could finally have some peace and quiet, and that's all he really needed.
You sat across from him with an open notebook, scratching on paper. He watched you for a moment, just observing. Like studying a problem to solve.
"Is there something on my face ?" You finally questioned him after what felt like an hour of him staring at your face. "We should get going in about ten minutes, you’re starting to look even more tired."
"I'm fine " you said without looking up.
"Your fine is subjective while my observation is objective." He rummaged through his jacket and pulled out a bar of dark chocolate, placing it next to my notebook. "Here, have a bite. I think your blood sugar might be getting a little low."
You smiled to yourself breaking off a small piece, "You always seem to know."
He thought for a moment then returned to his book, turning to a blank page, his eyes hovering over the emptiness.
The silence came back once again before footsteps came to interrupt it.
A young woman suddenly appeared at the end of the aisle, probably in her twenties, with a messy mop of hair and a big, cozy sweater wrapped around her. Her glasses were slipping down her nose, and she was struggling to hold onto a pile of books. She was the living cliché of a librarian girl.
"Excuse me," she said softly, her gaze wandering over the books stacked beside your table. "I'm trying to find a copy of The Stranger by Camus. Do you know if the original edition available on this floor ?"
You opened your mouth to respond but she was already looking at you differently, looking like she'd forgotten her question.
She dropped her books on the table, not even bothering to ask first. "You know—you've got really great bone structure — I mean, it's just a fact. Are you into art or something?"
Vivian stopped his so called "reading".
He glanced up, his face a picture of calmness much like the way he looked at people he didn't know or the empty pages of the books that lined his shelves.
"No " you said slightly surprised. " I'm in—"
Vivian cut you off to complet your sentence. "She's studying literature," he said to her calmly. "And she's with me."
The girl blinked, finally noticing him. " Oh..are you her—"
"Boyfriend."
She clearly didn't care of what he had to say. It was clear from her expression. "I’m doing my master in literature too !" She happily said, returning her attention to you.
"I'm intrigued, most people only pretend to read him but you look like someone who actually do." she continued, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What draws you to Camus? Is it the absurdity, the search for meaning, or something else entirely ?" Her voice was laced with a hint of excitement as if she had stumbled upon a rare treasure. "I've always been fascinated by his ability to capture the human condition in his writings." she added leaning in slightly. "There's something about his words that resonates deeply, don't you think ?"
"She does read Camus. I know this because I’ve had the pleasure of listening to her reading him to me for hours, and often together in bed." He answered her question in your place without any shame.
The girl cheeks flushed. "Okay that's—"
"Intimate information ?" Vivian tilted his head. " Maybe.. but in the establishing context, you approached girlfriend with interest so I'm just clarifying that you're wasting your time."
You stared at his face still calm as ever.
"I'm not—" she started trying to defend herself.
Vivian cut her off once again his voice still soft. "I'm not bothered, it's only human to be attracted to someone. But she's with me, and that's her decision."
Emma opened her mouth. Closed it.
"You're really weird " she said finally.
"I'm aware."
She grabbed her books and left without another word, leaving to the silence his rightful place.
Vivian went back to reading his book not saying a word about what had just happened. He didn't even crack a smile, simply kept on going like nothing had interrupted him at all.
"I've never seen you get so jealous that was quite a show."
"Jealousy is just an emotion." he muttered his eyes still on his book, "I was simply stating the facts. You belong to me. She was just a factor that I eliminated."
You let out a small laugh. "I think there are better ways than telling her that I read Camus in bed with you."
His eyes finally looked back at you. "It was relevant wasn’t it ?"
"You’re right." you whispered another small laugh escaping your lips. "I am yours."
"Tu vois quand tu veux" he said snapping off another piece of chocolate and offering it to you. "Now get back to work. We don't have much time, only seven minutes before your energy crashes again."
You took the chocolate, and as you did your fingers brushed against his. But he didn't flinch or pull his hand back, he just stayed still.
That was his way of showing affection.
You’d learned to read him the same way he loved to read those blank pages.
Older james x younger reader is making me think...... Can you plz plzplz write something where reader and james r in a situationship & he's holding back till he can't and heated make out sesh OMGGGGGG I need him so bad 🥹🙏🏽 I love your works BTW!!!
THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER
➪ pairing : zhao james x reader
➪ summary : you try to get james to take you seriously and he finally snaps, isn’t this what you wanted though ?
➪ warnings : suggestive, making out, kinda toxic situationship
➪ other notes : oh the thought of just being in a situationship with THE zhao james omllll, i absolutely love this prompt but i had no idea how to make the age part more prominent </3, and thank you for your support nonnie :3
james was the best boyfriend a girl could ever ask for. he was almost two years older than you but he was a gentleman nonetheless. holding the door open for you, buying you flowers, remembering your complicated coffee order, all the things a significant other would typically do. except, he isn’t even your boyfriend.
no, on the contrary, james has done everything possible to not call you his girlfriend. apparently it was obvious to everyone except him how much you two looked like a couple. people assumed that you guys were dating even if they’ve never seen you kiss, it was just that couple energy.
james doesn’t even correct his friends or other acquaintances when they ask how long you guys have been dating. he just laughed it off and shook your head. you tried not to let it bother you at first. to be fair, james has never said that he’d want a relationship with you…so why the fuck does he act like you’re his girlfriend.
he’s so sweet with you. you’d even go as far as to say that james is the man of your dreams. until it gets to his jealousy. he feels genuinely sick to his stomach when he sees a guy who looks around your age or younger try to flirt with you. he knows that they have no chance but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother him.
“thought you liked older guys,” he says, attempting to take a teasing tone but it’s obvious he’s annoyed. “i wasn’t even flirting with him !” you rebuttal, rolling your eyes. james knows, he just wants to make sure that YOU know that you’re still his. but is he yours in the same way ?
in a way, yes. james doesn’t flirt with other girls no matter how many compliments he receives. but it’s more like it’s because the girls bore him, rather than him having strong loyalty to you. and you know he’s not your boyfriend, he is just a “friend” but you can’t help but worry that someone else may come along and steal him away.
fear aside, something james does that pisses you off is that he makes you look like a fool in front of his friends. the weird part is that his friends like you, they say hi everytime they see you. so what’s his need to act so avoidant as soon as they come along. normally, you dealt with it and excused his actions, tonight was going to be different.
you’re at a house party that james wanted you to tag along for even if it’s not so much your scene. you stepped away to go to the bathroom and before he could see you, martin asked about you. thinking you weren’t around, james snorted before answeing “who ? don’t even know her.” you freeze in your tracks, oh. so this was the way he talked about you behind your back ?
you feel tears in your eyes before brushing them off. fine, two can play that way. you walk away, you’ll just fine a new guy to talk with, what like it’s hard ? after 20 minutes, james starts to get worried. what if you’re sick ? what if you got lost ? what if a creep stopped you ? he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if you got hurt.
he gets up, his boys are distracted by a card game that juhoon’s won at least three times now. james starts looking for you and it doesn’t take long until he sees you talking with another guy. you’re laughing at something he’s showing you on his phone. it looks like an innocent conversation but that’s also how you guys started.
the guy’s gaze is doting, it’s fucking disgusting. james’ feet move beneath him, crossing the room before he can even realize. “we’re leaving,” is the first thing james says, his eyes are full of anger. the guy is obviously caught off guard, “oh, are you her boyfriend ?” james ignores him.
“now you want to remember i exist ?” you scoff, standing your ground. james sucks in a breath through his nose “i’m not doing this here.” he says, grabbing your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “say goodnight,” and as if the humiliation can’t get worse, you listen. “night, it was nice meeting you,” you smile at the guy.
he nods, offering an awkward smile back. with that, james leads you outside. you don’t know why you accepted. maybe because james was your only ride home or maybe you were trying to get him jealous, who knows ? james opens the passenger door to his car, allowing you to get in.
he slams the door shut harshly and you almost laugh. god maybe you both were being ridiculous. a few seconds later, james gets into the driver’s seat, turning on the car. the radio remains off on the way to your place. it’s awkward with neither of you making conversation.
one hand is on the steering wheel whilst the other settles itself on his console. normally you always lay your hand on top of his. he’s giving you the opportunity, you don’t take it. instead, you have your arms crossed, looking out of the window. james feels his jaw tighten, recalling the scene.
and then it clicks. you must have overheard him saying that stupid comment, that’s the only reason why you would act out. but now, he has no idea how to approach it. you’re trying to recollect your thoughts, but it keeps landing to the same conclusion. you can’t keep settling for less when he can obviously give you so much more.
you hate the thought of abandoning james though, because in all honesty, you love him. but you refuse to be his almost person. the person he almost kisses, the person he almost loves, the person he almost has. and yet you can’t bring yourself to say anything right now, you’ll do that later ( sooner than you think ).
james puts the car on park, finally arriving to your home. you unbuckle your seatbelt, avoiding his gaze on you. “thanks, get home safe,” you bid your goodbye, he says nothing so get out of his car quietly. he waits for you to get inside before taking off. seems like a bad night for both of you.
you take around two hours to gather your thoughts and your wants. a hot bath helps you decide better. you’ll tell him how you feel and give him an ultimatum. that’s the only way things will work out whether it be for good or bad. you grab your phone and text him, hands slightly trembling.
about 20 minutes later, you hear three hard knocks on your door that startle you. you open it almost immediately and james walks in like he owns the place. he closes the door with his foot, not bothering to lock it behind him. “james you can’t show up like that,” you scold him.
“were you serious ? either i put a label on it or i lose you ?” he sounds almost on disbelief. “yes, i’m serious, we’ve been at this shit for almost a year, i’m not doing it anymore.” you refuse to back down. james runs a hand through his hair, you don’t know why it’s such a difficult option for him.
“you think it’s so easy don’t you ?” “actually yeah, i do.” he scoffs at you, shaking his head. “you have no idea how fucking bad i’ve wanted you since the day we met. but if i have you, i can’t let you go.” your eyes widen in shock, mouth falling agape as james steps closer to you.
“say you want me, say you want me to put a label on it, where’s that confidence baby ?” he whispers, leaning his forehead close to yours. “i want you to stop running away from me when you clearly already have me.” with that, james smashes his lips against yours.
it’s like this fire has been building up inside of him for so long and he can finally release it. he pulls you in closer by your nape and waist, shoving his tongue inside of your mouth. you wrap your arms around his neck. “fuck, i’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” he says between kisses.
you bring him in for another deep kiss, not being able to get rid of that feeling of neediness for him. soon enough, the back of your knees is hitting the couch, forcing you to lean back as james pulls away from the kiss to catch his breath. he looks down at you, your swollen lips, your dilated pupils, you look so beautiful to him.
“please let me be your boyfriend baby,” he says, though it almost sounds like begging. this is exactly what you’ve been wanting. “only if i can be your girlfriend,” you tease him and he smiles, placing a peck on your lips. “you’re mine, always have been whether you realized it or not.”
and he kisses you again, slower but even more passionate than rough this time. maybe this is the best opportunity to lose yourselves in each other. after all, that’s what girlfriends and boyfriends do right ? love on one another.
♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Oh Ser Jackson, his Majesty, son and prince of the enemy kingdom, marrying you? This had to be a horrifying nightmare orchestrated by the gods.
♡. enemies to lovers, royal AU, percy's pov over letters, arranged marriage, percy is downbad, wedding night, porn w plot, f! oral, spitting, p n clit sIapping, fíngering, pussiedrunk, virginity loss (both), mating presses, manhandIing, size difference, creampie.
For as long as history could remember, the Kingdom of Solis had never bowed to famine, plague or the old gods when they demanded blood from daughters and called it the supposed duty of women.
And certainly not to the seas.
Your kingdom stood where the sun touched first. At the highest crest of the southern cliffs, where the mountains broke into gold-veined stone and warm rivers ran like melted amber through the valleys below, Solis rose in white marble and sunlight. Its palace—Helion Keep—sat upon the highest point of the capital, carved into the mountain itself, where your family had decided it belonged accordingly.
From your chambers, the entire kingdom unfolded beneath you.
Terraced gardens spilled down the cliffs in levels of jasmine and ivory roses. Long bridges of pale stone connected towers crowned with the gold of the sun. Markets below shimmered with silks dyed saffron, crimson, and royal blue. Even the guards looked as though they had been painted there— with bronze armors polished beneath the afternoon and spears gleaming like second sons of the sun.
Nothing in Solis fitted the word subtle. Your mother used to say that subtlety was for kingdoms with something to hide.
Solis had power and power deserved spectacle.
Which was why your bedroom ceiling had been painted like the heavens themselves.
You stared at it now from your chaise lounge, one silk-slippered foot dangling over the edge, a book forgotten in your lap as your ladies fluttered uselessly around the room.
“My lady—” “No.”
“Just hear—” “No.”
Lyra, your longest-suffering handmaid, pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You have not even heard what I was going to say.”
“I know enough from your face to know I dislike it.”
“But my lady—.”
“Maybe I'll ask Father to cut off your head if you keep talking,” was your last reply before opening again the neglected book.
Beyond the open balcony doors, warm wind stirred the gauze curtains, carrying the scent of orange blossom from the lower gardens. Somewhere in the palace courtyard, musicians were rehearsing for the evening banquet.
As soon as your ears heard your mind translated it to nobles and diplomacy matters which = your father was about to ruin your day.
You sat upright. “Who has arrived?”
Lyra hesitated and immediately, your stomach dropped.
“My lady—”
In a second you were crawling between the no-longer-so-tidy sheets of your enormous bed, trying to escape any responsibility that might be placed on your shoulders that very night.
“Tell Father I have died.”
The door to your chambers opened.
Your father, King Helios III of Solis, entered with those golden robes that didn't help to walk, ceremonial rings and the expression of a ruler carrying the weight of six hundred years of war and at least three immediate headaches. (Mind you, you were one of them.)
“Father.” You said, voice muffled by the sheets.
He sat next to you, uncovering and holding your cheeks. “My sun flower.”
“Before we begin, I would like it noted that I may be against this conversation.”
“That saves us both time.”
Wasn't that wonderful? Your kind father wasn't going to torture you for long, only as long as necessary.
You narrowed your eyes. “Who is here?”
He did not answer, a bad sign already. Instead, he studied you with the same expression he wore over battlefield maps.
“The delegation from Atlantis arrived this morning.”
Your father continued, because tyranny now extended into parenting. “Their High Council has requested formal peace negotiations.”
“No.”
Well, that was your favorite word today, wasn't it?
“And proposed a political union between our kingdoms.”
His voice remained maddeningly calm but across the room, even Lyra looked like she wanted to flee.
Marriage to Atlantis.
To the kingdom that had spent centuries raiding your ports, destroying your fleets, and sending awful diplomats.
Your father stood by the open balcony doors, where the last of the evening light poured gold across the marble floor and turned the edges of his robes to fire, and for a long moment he said nothing at all, as though he were deciding which version of the truth a daughter deserved—the one told to princesses, fit for history books, or the one reserved for kings, heavy with graves and numbers and the kind of silence left behind after battlefields emptied.
You didn't need to hear the histories again.
For as long as memory had been kept in ink, the Kingdom of Solis and the Kingdom of Atlantis had belonged to one another only in violence.
No historian could agree upon where it had begun.
Some claimed it was the pride—that ancient kings, both too proud to bend and too convinced the gods themselves favored their bloodlines, had turned a bunch of differences into a holy inheritance of hatred. Others insisted it had been love, which was to your eyes eugh; a Solis princess promised to an Atlantean prince centuries ago, drowned before the wedding could take place, her death blamed upon betrayal, her body never returned. There were old songs still sung by servants in the lower kitchens that spoke of storms swallowing ships in mourning and the sea refusing to calm for an entire year.
Your tutors preferred politics.
Trade routes, they said, while pacing before maps stretched across classroom walls, fingers pressing into painted oceans and mountain borders. Salt and grain. Ports and taxes. Control of the eastern coast. Access to the southern straits. Men liked to call war honorable when it was always about ownership.
As a child, you had preferred the pride story. It felt more according to your personality .
Less pathetic than admitting entire kingdoms had slaughtered one another for generations over shipping rights or over the incident of a princess.
Regardless of how it had begun, by the time you were born, hatred was tradition and lived in the palace walls as naturally as sunlight did.
You learned it in stories told by your nursemaid while she brushed your hair before bed, tales of sea-born princes with smiles like sharpened knives and queens who lured sailors into drowning with songs sweet enough to make men forget they had lungs. Or in the way servants spat over their shoulders whenever Atlantean ambassadors were mentioned, as though the very name invited misfortune.
You learned it in your first history lessons, seated far too straight at ten years old while your instructor, old and severe and permanently offended by joy, pointed to battlefields on maps and recited casualty numbers as though they were scripture.
You too knew your great-uncle had died on the western fleet before you really understood what fleets were. You knew your grandmother still refused pearls because they reminded her of Atlantean royal gifts sent during failed negotiations thirty years before. You knew there were entire wings of the palace where portraits had been removed because the people in them had been lost to the war and your mother could not bear to look at the empty spaces their absence left behind.
Even celebration was about that hate.
Victory festivals filled the capital with gold banners and music and dancers in the streets, but always there was the undercurrent—that joy only existed because somewhere else, someone had been defeated.
Atlantis—always Atlantis—remained something distant and monstrous, less a kingdom and more a threat given architecture.
You imagined it often as a child.
Not as it truly was, but as children imagine enemies when they have only stories to build from. A place of endless storms and black oceans, where the sky was always bruised and the people had blue blood.
Their cities were rumored to be carved from the ocean floor itself, their palaces built into cliffs black with salt and age, their people born from sea water and tempers to match.
As a child, you had believed every ridiculous whisper.
That they slept in flooded chambers beneath the moon. That their royal family could call hurricanes with prayer alone. Even that if an Atlantean kissed your hand, your lungs would fill with seawater and scales would sprout all over your body!
You were embarrassingly old before you stopped half-believing Atlanteans did all this stuff.
Outside, a thunder rolled softly somewhere beyond the southern mountains.
Your father had been talking and you heard nothing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“The war has lasted longer than your grandmother’s reign. Our soldiers are exhausted. Trade routes are broken. We can't rebuild villages faster than they can be burned. Every season costs us more lives.”
You crossed your arms resigning yourself to listening to your father's words.
“And who, exactly, is the unfortunate sea creature demanding my hand?”
“Prince Perseus Jackson.”
Prince Perseus Jackson—the heir of Atlantis, called the Tide Prince by enemies and far less flattering names by your generals. Commander of fleets. Breaker of the Eastern Siege.
Oh merciful gods, this could still be a bad joke!
You had believed, with certainty at thirteen, that Prince Perseus had the head of a fish, and not in the metaphorical way.
You remembered announcing this with confidence at breakfast, explaining to your mother that it was the only reasonable explanation for why no formal portrait of him had ever reached Solis, and if the Sea Kingdom was so determined to hide their prince, clearly it was because he had scales and unblinking eyes and perhaps gills where a proper neck ought to be.
Your brother laughed so hard he nearly choked on fruit.
Your mother, with the kind of patience only queens and saints possessed, had simply informed you that royal diplomacy would be significantly more difficult if you insisted on addressing the foreign prince as trout.
Finally the King moved toward the door.
“The formal announcement will not be made until tomorrow evening. You have tonight.”
“For what?”
“To decide whether you will make this difficult with dignity,” He opened the door to get going. “…or dramatically, which I assume is your preference.”
Lyra approached carefully, like one might approach a wild animal considering arson.
“My lady?”
You turned slowly. “If I throw myself from the balcony, do you think they will still make me attend dinner?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
This was tragic.
You walked to the balcony, gripping the stone rail.
Far beyond the golden city, beyond the cliffs and the rivers and the sunlit valleys of Solis, the sea stretched blue and endless toward a kingdom you had never seen.
Somewhere beyond that horizon was the man who apparently intended to marry you.
That same afternoon you were given a letter with the Jackson house seal. It was a deep blue color with subtle marine details embedded in silver ink.
You opened the seal with a small knife, considering at some point using it to tear the paper and send it back to him like that.
The parchment was expensive, thick and smooth beneath your hands, edged in so much silver ink it felt unnecessarily elegant. Even his stationery was smug.
You unfolded the letter slowly, suspicious already.
You expected some beautifully phrased threat disguised as diplomacy, or even the arrogance a lot of men used.
What you did not expect was this:
Dear future wife,
I was informed—repeatedly, and with great suffering on all sides—that it would be politically beneficial for me to write to you before our families force us into the same room. Apparently silence is considered poor courtship over Solis.
I argued that forced marriage should excuse a lack of romance, but your future in-laws are, unfortunately, optimists.
So.
Hello.
By now, I assume your father has explained the arrangement, and I imagine your reaction was somewhere between dignified outrage and the active consideration of murder. If so, I find that deeply reassuring. I would be concerned if you accepted this.
I am told you dislike my kingdom.
In fairness, the feeling is mutual, so at least we begin with honesty.
I know what Solis says of Atlantis. I imagine I have horns by now. Possibly scales. Someone, somewhere, has likely informed you I keep drowned sailors in the palace walls and sharpen swords on their bones.
For the record, only one of those things is true.
I will not insult you by pretending this marriage is romantic.
It is political, inconvenient, and being treated by every advisor around me as though it is the personal triumph of diplomacy itself, which should tell you how unbearable my week has been.
But it may also keep our kingdoms from spending another hundred years trying to bury each other, and I am selfish enough to think that sounds preferable.
You should also know that I did attempt to refuse.
This was received badly.
Mostly because I offered no convincing reason beyond “I would rather not.”
Apparently that is not how treaties work, my future queen princess.
So here we are.
I know enough about you to suspect you are proud, difficult, and entirely too intelligent to tolerate fools for long, which means we may survive this if I am careful and if you are feeling unusually merciful.
I will offer one promise, since everyone else seems determined to offer you expectations.
I do not intend to make a prisoner of you.
If this marriage happens—and it will, because neither of us is being consulted nearly enough—I will not ask for sweetness where there is none, nor obedience where it is not deserved.
That feels, at the very least, like fairer warfare.
Until we meet,
Prince Perseus Jackson.
P.S.
If anyone has told you I have the head of a fish, I regret to inform you the rumor is false. I am unfortunately very handsome.
—
Well, that last part was reassuring if we ignored how narcissistic those last words were. So your future husband was going to be the enemy army general? This could cause a scandal throughout the kingdom.
The next morning arrived with all the grace of an execution as the formal announcement was to be made by sunset which meant, according to the women of the palace, that your suffering needed to begin at dawn.
You were woken not by sunlight, nor birdsong, nor any peaceful luxury afforded to a princesses in a sentimental poem, but by the violent betrayal of curtains being thrown open and six women entering your chambers.
You opened one eye.
“Noooo, five more hours.”
“It is too late for no,” Lyra informed you, crossing the room with the merciless efficiency of a woman who had planned your downfall in advance. “The ambassadors have arrived, your father has requested your presence by evening, the entire court talking about the most scandalous political arrangement of the decade, and Lady Cassandra has already selected your gowns.”
You pulled the pink silk sheets over your head. “Tell them I drowned in cushions.”
“Given the circumstances, that may be interpreted as an insult.”
Fantastic.
You emerged from the blankets with all the dignity of a martyr and stared at the room now transformed into your own personal execution.
Your dressing table had disappeared beneath brushes, combs, perfumes, pins, ribbons, jewels, and enough cosmetics to prepare five royal engagements. Two younger maids were carrying in fresh basins of steaming water scented with lavender and orange blossom. Another stood near the wardrobe, holding garments draped over both arms like ceremonial offerings to an unwilling goddess (you).
At the center of it all stood Lady Cassandra, the royal dressmaker, who regarded human emotion as a minor inconvenience beneath the importance of her tailoring.
An hour later, you were regretting every decision that had led you to birth.
Your hair had been washed in rosewater and combed until your scalp hurt. Your skin had been rubbed with oils that smelled faintly of jasmine. Someone had forced tea into your hands while another woman debated with Lady Cassandra about the dress options.
You sat before the great mirror of the room while half the palace adjusted your existence around you.
“I don't like this,” you muttered as one maid fastened a bracelet around your wrist while another argued over pearls.
You met your own reflection.
Princesses, you had decided long ago, were merely decorations for the palace too.
Everything about the royal presentation was important. From the colors you wore, the stones at your throat, the embroidery at your hem— they were literally selling you out in the eyes of the enemy kingdom.
Unfortunately, Lady Cassandra agreed on that.
She approached carrying the gown and for one terrible moment, you forgot how to speak.
It was blue.
Not the pale blue of spring skies or harmless ribbons, but the deep, impossible blue of the sea just before a storm—the kind sailors prayed to and feared in equal measure. Rich silk spilled like water between her hands, layered with silver-thread embroidery that caught the light like moonlight on waves.
At the bodice, delicate patterns of curling foam and cresting tides had been stitched so finely they seemed alive, winding around your waist and ribs. Tiny freshwater pearls had been sewn into the design too—not enough to seem excessive, but enough that when you moved, they shimmered like drops of sea spray.
The sleeves were long and sheer, trailing at the wrists in translucent silk, while the skirts fell in heavy folds that whispered over the marble floor. At the neckline, subtle silver beading formed the shape of stars and compass points.
The maids moved quickly after that, slipping the gown over your shoulders, fastening hidden closures, smoothing every line until the dress sat against you like a second skin.
It was beautiful and that made you hate it immediately because it suited you.
The blue made your skin glow warm beneath the sunlight and turned the gold in your jewelry brighter and the silver embroidery made you look like a princess being offered to make peace.
Lyra stepped beside you, adjusting the final necklace at your throat—a collar of moonstone and white gold, elegant and cool against your skin.
“Well,” she said softly, studying your reflection with the satisfaction of an artist admiring finished work, “if Prince Percy does not fall in love with you tonight, I shall consider it a insult to the crown.”
You gave her a flat look.
“If Prince Perseus falls in love with me tonight, I will push him into the nearest fountain.”
“That's a romantic beginning.”
“A necessary drowning.”
She laughed, and for a moment, so did you until the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor met your doors, by the sort of hushed excitement that only meant one thing.
Someone important had arrived.
You were seated before your mirror while two women debated whether your sleeves required more silver threading when the youngest maid in the room, Elia, abandoned all dignity entirely and rushed toward the balcony windows.
“He’s here.”
“Who,” you asked dryly, though everyone knew exactly who we were talking about.
Elia turned, eyes wide with scandal and delight.
“The Atlantean prince. Their carriage just passed the east gates.”
Half the maids abandoned all pretenses of professionalism and hurried toward the balcony like birds fleeing toward gossip, gathering at the stone rail with urgency. Even Lyra, who prided herself on dignity, and Lady Cassandra, who claimed not to care and still somehow arrived there first.
You remained seated for precisely three seconds before your own curiosity betrayed you.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, standing while your hands worked on your hair.
“Completely,” Lyra agreed, already pulling you with her. “Move.”
The balcony overlooked the eastern approach to Helion Keep, where the long marble road curved upward from the city gates through the royal gardens and into the palace courtyards below. From here, on clearer days, you could see nearly half the capital— with gold rooftops, white towers and fountains catching the sunlight.
Now, all you could see was a gathering.
Guards lined the lower courtyard in ceremonial armor; servants moved like frantic ants between columns; even stable hands lingered near the entrance steps, pretending not to stare.
And there, at the center of it all the carriage.
It was impossible to mistake.
Dark as stormwater, polished to a shine that reflected the palace walls around it, the royal carriage of Atlantis stood waiting beneath the archway like a threat wrapped in elegance. Silver detailing curved along its sides in patterns like waves and sea serpents, and the crest upon its door gleamed unmistakably.
Sea-blue banners shifted from its frame in the warm wind with the house mark and the horses were enormous, black and restless, their bridles silver-chained and immaculate.
“I expected something with more fish.”
“Perhaps the fish are inside.”
Elia gasped. “Do you think he really has scales?”
Below, palace officials were gathering near the carriage entrance. Your father stood at the front of them, beside him stood your brother, looking far too entertained by the entire affair.
What a traitor of a brother you had.
One of the younger maids whispered reverently, “Do you think he is handsome?”
Another replied, “I think if he survives meeting her highness, that will be impressive enough.”
One way or another, you didn't get much closer to the balcony like the rest of the maids; only one thought entered your head.
You imagined him inside.
Prince Percy Jackson, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, a professional nuisance before even introduction. Perhaps he sat there, enjoying the spectacle, fully aware that half your father’s court was holding its breath for the privilege of watching him step onto stone.
It felt like something an arrogant man would do. That decided immediately if true, you disliked him even more.
You got out of the thought when some of the girls screamed as one of the carriage doors unlatched, the silver handle turning.
And at that exact, divinely cursed moment, the wind changed. Strong mountain wind swept suddenly across the upper terraces, rushing through the balcony in a warm gust that sent every curtain in your chambers billowing like sails. The heavy balcony shutters—usually held open against the stone—slammed inward with violent force.
One struck the marble wall with a crack like thunder and the other shut directly across your line of sight.
Gasps filled the room.
“By the gods—” “Open it!” “I can't see anything—”
By the time the maids reached it, fumbling with the polished bronze latches and silk sleeves and collective despair, the moment below had already passed.
The royal family of Atlantis—whoever they were, however they looked, however much of your immediate future stood among them—were already hidden beneath the palace arches, swallowed whole by marble before your court could properly devour them with its eyes.
The maids stared in open heartbreak, the open doors of the carriage and people below starting to move again. However, you felt strangely calm; you really didn't know if you wanted to see your potential future husband.
The rest of the day went with going from one place to another just to actually prepare you until you were summoned to the Hall of Crowns. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the western cliffs, pouring molten gold through the palace windows and setting the entire world ablaze.
Helion Keep had always been built for this type of spectacle, but nowhere was that more obvious than the great hall.
It stretched the length of the central palace—vast marble columns veined with gold, ceilings painted with the victories of dead rulers, chandeliers of crystal and sunstone hanging high above like captured stars. The floors reflected everything: candlelight, silk hems, polished armor, ambition.
But today the halls of Helion Keep had been transformed for the evening.
Gold lanterns hung from the archways, casting warm light over the polished floors. Musicians played softly from the upper gallery, low harp notes mixing in the environment, it was elegant enough to soothe any temper and expensive enough to remind everyone who was paying all of it.
The long banquet tables stretched through the center of the hall beneath the banners of Solis and Atlantis hanging side by side in what looked, frankly, like a threat.
The sun crest and the sea crest. Gold and blue. Fire n' tide.
At the highest table, beneath the vaulted ceiling painted with gods, sat your father.
On the other end the Queen of Atlantis was exactly what you expected and somehow worse for it—beautiful in the cold way winter storms were beautiful, dressed in silver-threaded navy silk with pearls at her throat like captured moonlight. She looked like a woman who had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.
Beside her sat the King, taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and sharp-faced, wearing his own crown.
And then there was him.
At first, you almost missed him—not because he was a forgettable face, but because he was doing everything in his power to appear as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world.
He was not watching the room, the musicians or ladies laughing between them in a corner.
No, he was looking at his plate with total interest. As though the roasted figs before him had insulted his bloodline and he was deciding whether they deserved to survive being eaten.
For one brief moment, standing at the entrance of the Great Hall with the court pretending not to watch your reaction, you simply stared.
He was, annoyingly, very handsome. Well that was unfortunate.
His dark hair fell slightly untidy despite every visible attempt of the palace staff to make it look presentable with the prettiest sea-green eyes you've probably ever seen.
His face was sharp, with a marked jaw and perfect symmetry, the kind sculptors would spend lifetimes trying and failing to reproduce without accidentally starting religions. Maybe he was some sort of godl— anyways.
There was sun still left on his skin despite the sea kingdom’s colder reputation, bronze against navy silk and silver fastenings.
Beside you, Lyra made a sound suspiciously close to suppressed laughter.
You did not look at her. “Say nothing.”
“I said nothing.” “You were thinking loudly.”
“I am merely relieved for you, my lady. Marriage to a trout would have been very complicated.”
Suddenly there was no more room for private irritation, because your father had moved from his chair and stepped forward from the throne dais and the performance had begun.
“Her Royal Highness,” the herald announced, his voice carrying through the marble, “Princess of Solis, heir of the Sun Court.”
Every eye in the room found you as descended the staircase beside the hall entrance with all the serenity of someone not imagining murder.
The blue gown swept behind you like tidewater, the silver embroidery making soft sounds. The moonstone at your throat felt colder now. Every noble in the room watched as though trying to calculate exactly how much peace cost and whether you looked expensive enough to satisfy the other kingdom.
At the end of the hall, your father extended a hand as you took your place beside him.
Across from you stood the royal family of Atlantis and Percy.
Dear Gods up close was worse. Much worse!
Why couldn't you tear your eyes away from that man? Perhaps it was the surprise of not seeing any scales on his neck or hands. You weren't sure if it was 100% real, but hus skin had freckles on cheeks and hands. What you were certain of was that the skin peeking out from his neck showed a single dark freckle.
The banquet endured for what felt like several consecutive lifetimes. You smiled when required, spoke when demanded, and spent the rest of the evening discovering that there were very few things more exhausting than being discussed as though you were both present and decorative.
Every noble in Solis seemed to have developed an urgent and deeply insincere interest in your happiness.
Every lord from Atlantis looked at you with the politeness of men trying to determine whether you would eventually become their future queen or their prince’s most elegant mistake.
Neither possibility appeared to reassure them.
And at some point, beside you, Percy performed no better.
He was civil, which somehow felt more irritating than open hostility as he answered questions with practiced ease, nodded at all the correct moments, and wore the expression of a man enduring a hostage situation with remarkable restraint.
You caught him staring at the doors more than six times.
But you sympathized because the moment dessert arrived, you briefly considered setting something on fire simply to create an exit.
Unfortunately, your mother had raised you better than that. Your father, regrettably, had not.
It happened just after the final toast. The musicians softened into quieter melodies, wine had made several ambassadors far too confident, and the court had settled into that dangerous part of evening where everyone believed themselves subtle.
Your father leaned toward you with the expression parents wore when they were about to ruin their children’s lives.
“Walk with the prince.”
You turned slowly. “What? No.”
Across the table, Percy’s father was having what appeared to be the exact same conversation.
Percy looked up at you and also said no.
Two kings, separated by kingdoms and centuries of conflict, exchanged the silent understanding of fathers united by mutual disregard for their children’s preferences.
Your father smiled. “It was not a request.”
Naturally.
And so, several minutes later, you found yourself walking with your hand over the arm of Prince Percy Jackson through the western corridors of Helion Keep in a silence so pointed it deserved its own poem.
Two guards followed at a respectful distance, to pretend privacy existed.
Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silver against the marble floors. The evening had cooled; the palace breathed softer at night, its grandeur less performative in the quiet hours.
Your shoes clicked against the stone and his did too.
It felt like an argument waiting to happen.
At last, Percy stopped near one of the smaller receiving rooms overlooking the lower terraces and pushed the door open with the resigned courtesy of a man offering someone the chance to murder him indoors rather than publicly.
You entered first.
The room was big— with velvet chairs no one actually sat in, books no one read, a fireplace large enough to roast tension over properly. The balcony doors stood open to the warm night air, white curtains shifting softly in the breeze.
Behind you, the door closed.
And finally you guys were actually alone. There was no court, no musicians and no parents controlling all your interactions.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke until you turned to look at him.
“I am not marrying you.”
The words left your mouth without mincing words, like finally drawing a blade after hours of polite smiles.
Percy, leaning one shoulder against the door as though preparing for impact, nodded once.
“Yes,” he said. “I had assumed that might be your opening line.”
He had an annoyingly pleasant voice too.
He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back like a prince would do.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am also not particularly eager to marry you.”
“Good.” “Excellent.”
You stared at each other, it was going to be a problem if you two talked at the same time like that.
This, at least, felt honest.
You moved toward the balcony instead, needing distance, air and needing the moon to witness your suffering.
“I refuse to believe,” you said, looking out over the gardens below, “that two entire kingdoms have looked at centuries of bloodshed and decided the solution was forcing me to attend dinner with you forever.”
Behind you, Percy gave a quiet sound that might have been an agreement.
“I offered several alternatives,” he said. “Most involved gifting a bunch of ships.”
“How dare yo—” “And yet here I am.”
You turned back.
He had removed the formal mask, or perhaps simply grown tired of wearing it. Without the performance of the court, he looked younger and somehow more dangerous for it—less princely in a portrait and more like an actual man.
You folded your arms. “You wrote a very irritating letter.”
He sighed. “I was forced to write that letter under direct maternal supervision.”
“I could tell.”
“That should concern you. Imagine what I would have sent unsupervised.”
“I assume a blank page and an apology as PS.”
“You are optimistic, princess.”
Despite yourself, your mouth moved in a small smile that formed small dimples.
“You are still arrogant.”
“And you,” he said, with maddening calm, “are exactly as difficult as advertised.”
You narrowed your eyes.
There it was again—that infuriating ease, that careless confidence like he had never once in his life doubted his ability to survive the consequences of his own mouth.
You stepped closer.
“Let us be clear, Prince. I do not care how beloved you are in your charming sea kingdom. I do not care how many poets have embarrassed themselves over your face. I do not care how many battles you have won. I have no intention of becoming another admiring audience member in the Percy Jackson tragedy of excessive self-regard.”
He blinked as you talked and slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Oh,” he said softly, “you do have a vicious mouth.”
You frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
He stepped closer too, close enough that you could possibly count his freckles and your breaths could mingle if you both exhaled with your mouth.
“For a princess,” he said, voice low with an unmistakable amusement, “you are remarkably unladylike. I had expected elegance and grace.. Perhaps even a soft smile and some very refined passive aggression.”
You stared at him. He continued, clearly enjoying his own survival far too much.
“Instead, I find myself alone at night with a woman who looks like she might stab me with decorative cutlery.”
Your expression did not change. “Do you want me to prove it?”
“See,” he said, almost warmly now, “that. Exactly that. Very concerning. Not at all lady-like.”
“Percy.”
Your first time calling his name and it sounded like a warning in your mouth!
He seemed to like that far too much because he just leaned into your space. “Yes?”
“If you call me unladylike again, I will throw you from my balcony and tell both our kingdoms diplomacy simply failed.”
Private notes of Prince Percy Jackson.
Not intended for royal archives, review, or my mother’s deeply invasive curiosity.
If found, kindly throw it into the sea.
—
I was told, very firmly and by several people, that keeping a written record of this process might be “good for perspective.”
My mother said reflection builds character.
Annabeth, who I am increasingly convinced enjoys watching me suffer, said if I was going to be insufferable about this entire arrangement, I should at least be insufferable on paper where historians could mock me properly.
So here we are.
For the record, I hate it. I hate arranged marriages. And I hate political banquets.
And, perhaps most urgently, I hate the Kingdom of Solis.
That last one should probably be written down with some honesty, since this journal is meant to be useful and not simply an expensive place for me to complain.
In Atlantis, children are taught early that the sun burns just as easily as it warms.
I was raised to distrust them long before I was old to understand why and I'm pretty sure her highness the princess learned just the same way as I did.
In any case, I had heard rumors about the nobles who lived in the city where the royal family resided and how they looked non-human.
Dear journal, the truth is that I was expecting my future queen with fiery hair.
I have met her.
Unfortunately after weeks of council meetings, endless negotiations, and being informed by every living adult that marrying the Princess of Solis would be “historically significant” and “a stabilizing force for the future of both kingdoms,” I can now confirm that history is a malicious thing and should not be trusted.
I had, over the years, heard enough stories about the Sun Princess to build at least six entirely different women in my head.
Depending on who was speaking, she was either impossibly beautiful or terrifying enough to be a monster.
As a child, I was told she probably had claws! Which was fair, considering Solis spent most of my adolescence convinced I had the head of a fish.
Do I look like a trout? Do not answer that.
Still, when I looked up tonight and finally saw the woman I am apparently expected to spend the rest of my life married to, my first thought was not diplomatic at all.
It was, very specifically:
Oh, that is deeply unfortunate. She is beautiful.
Which is a disgrace, I would have preferred her hideous.
She looked like Solis itself had decided to become a person purely to be insufferable about it—elegant in that polished, sunlit way their entire kingdom seems to be, like she has been designed with the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel underdressed.
Beauty, in theory, should not matter. Entire kingdoms are not held together by bone structure and eye contact. Political alliances are not to become more complicated because the person across from you happens to look like the kind of mistake poets ruin themselves over.
And yet she walked into that hall wearing blue, looking like the best mistake to commit ever and for one brief moment I forgot what my mother had just asked me to pay attention to.
I suspect I am going to enjoy arguing with her and I also suspect it may eventually kill me.
The worst part—and I resent writing this—is that I understand why this marriage might work personally.
She would never disappear into someone else’s court, never let herself become ornamental or let anyone mistake the marriage for surrender of her house.
I would hate a wife I could intimidate.
She, I think, would hate a husband who tried.
So at least there is that.
Still, I remain opposed on principle. She is proud, difficult, and probably dangerous, very likely already planning how to murder me to escape this...
And I—sadly—am looking forward to seeing her again.
This is humiliating.
If anyone reads this, I will deny the part where I admitted she was is??? was pretty.
I would rather return to the fish head rumors.
—
The days that followed should, by all political expectation, have been the beginning of something graceful.
The royal betrothals were not promises of love between two people—they were negotiations, alliances and kingdoms trying to teach two unwilling heirs how to stand beside one another without looking as though they planned to commit murder before dessert
And so your parents, in all their wisdom and complete disregard for your peace, would insist upon time spent together.
Walks through the palace gardens beneath careful supervision for some bonding time, lessons on courtly customs and each other's culture or meetings with advisors who would explain, with grave importance, how one properly ruled beside someone they had known for six days and considered a trial sent by the gods.
You'd be made to sit beside him during council, to dine with him, smile beside him while old noblewomen whispered about some invented future heirs as though your body had become the public property.
And worst of all, to walk with him.
It would begin in the lower gardens of Helion Keep, where the white roses climbed the marble walls and the fountains had an incredible amount of decoration dedicated to the sun.
The Queen of Atlantis, Sally, suggested it first, with that serene expression she always wore and your father would agree immediately, because fathers were traitors by nature.
And before either you or Percy could invent a convincing plague, you would find yourselves dismissed beneath the late afternoon sun, sent walking together like characters in one of those terrible romantic poems old ladies adored.
He would offer you his arm because etiquette would demand it and you would take it because both your families watched from afar.
And for several long moments, you walked through the gardens of your childhood in a silence so stiff it might have qualified as architecture.
The sun hung low over Helion Keep, warm and golden against the white stone, turning every fountain to liquid fire. Jasmine climbed the walls in pale blooms, and somewhere beyond the terraces musicians practiced for some other noble event that with no doubt eventually will become your problem.
Beside you, Percy would walk like a man and not like a boy that gave you a headache every 30 minutes. His hand, where your fingers rested lightly at his arm, remained warm.
At last, he would speak.
“I have been informed,” he said, his voice carrying that calm, low amusement you were already beginning to distrust, “that I am expected to learn your favorite flowers.”
“How thrilling for you.”
“I thought so. Apparently this is considered courtship.”
The gardens opened wider here, into a terrace of columns and trailing vines. Below, the cliffs dropped toward the sea, and the wind carried salt even this high, threading through the warmth.
You slowed, so did he.
Percy stood a little apart from you now, though not by much, for the space between you had the uneasy quality of something negotiated rather than chosen, and even that small distance felt fragile beneath the weight of everything neither of you had yet said aloud.
When he spoke again, it was not with haste or provocation, but with a kind of careful deliberation that made it clear he was choosing each thought as though it might be later examined in a court of law.
“In Atlantis,” he began, gaze briefly shifting toward the horizon before returning to you as if measuring your reaction more than the view, “courtship is spoken of in far less poetic terms than I imagine your tutors have taught you here. It is not a matter of flowers, nor music, nor the pleasant illusion that two people might be gently guided toward affection by sufficient candlelight and well-timed conversation. It is instead spoken of as a kind of assessment, wherein one is placed in proximity to another and observed for signs of either compatibility or ruin, and from what I have gathered since arriving in your kingdom, Solis does not seem so different in its practices, only in the way it addresses it.”
You listened without interrupting, though your posture had already begun to harden in response, not because of insult alone, but because there was something irritatingly precise in the way he spoke—as though he had taken the time to learn your world and was now describing it without permission.
He continued, voice conversational in its restraint.
“I was told before arriving that your customs would require me to learn your preferences, and I admit I expected something far simpler, ornamental even, but what I find instead is that nothing here is truly ornamental at all, not your words, not your court, and certainly not you.”
That last part landed differently, though he did not emphasize it, and perhaps that was what made it worse.
You turned slightly toward him, the light catching the embroidery at your sleeve.
“In Solis,” you replied after a pause, your voice quieter now, though no less firm, “we are taught that endurance is not a performance, but a form of loyalty. That one does not measure affection by ease, but by whether something remains standing when ease is gone. It is not meant to be comfortable.”
“For what it is worth,” he said at last, more subdued than before, “I did not expect you to be what you are.”
You glanced at him again, wary now, though not openly so.
“And what, precisely, did you expect me to be?”
Percy seemed to consider this with far more seriousness than the question deserved, “At first,” he said, “I expected red hair.”
You blinked once. “What?”
He nodded once, entirely unashamed.
“Yes, a hair that looked as though it might set curtains ablaze if left unattended. I was told your temper entered rooms before you did, and I thought it only courteous that your appearance should offer a similar warning.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the terrace stones, warming the marble beneath your slippers, and behind you the palace stood bright and watchful, undoubtedly full of nobles who would have paid obscene amounts of money to witness this exact conversation.
“And who,” you asked at last, with dangerous calm, “told you such stupidity?”
“A diplomat from the western coast. Though in fairness, he also insisted I had gills and slept upright in seawater, so perhaps his judgment was not flawless.”
“That man was my uncle.”
Percy let out a slow breath.
“That explains a great deal.”
You should not have found that amusing.
Instead, you folded your arms and resumed walking, forcing him to follow as the path curved past white roses and sun-warmed stone benches built for noblewomen to sit prettily and discuss each other’s ruin.
“And besides the red hair?” you said. “What else did your vast intelligence lead you to expect?”
Percy fell easily back into step beside you, hands clasped behind his back with the infuriating ease of a man too comfortable while offending people.
“I expected someone softer, perhaps more inclined toward performance. Instead, I find someone who speaks like a knight denied wine.”
You gave him a look.
“How devastating for you.”
“Profoundly. I was hoping for an actual bride. Instead I seem to have been promised a very well-dressed goblin.”
You stopped walking again this time so abruptly he nearly took another step before catching himself.
The fountain beside the terrace murmured softly as you turned fully toward him.
“And what, precisely, makes you believe I would ever concern myself with being your bride?”
Percy tilted his head slightly.
“Your father. My mother. Approximately six kingdoms and one old priest.”
There it was again—that calm, infuriating smile, as though he found your temper not alarming but entertaining.
It made you want to commit crimes.
“And you,” you said sweetly, which was always a bad sign, “are far too pleased with yourself for a man who arrived in my kingdom looking like a little kid.”
He placed one hand over his heart in mock injury.
“You’re cruel, my lady.”
“I believe the word is accurate.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer with that easy confidence that made you want to throw things, “accurate would be observing that for all your pride, you are still only a very elegant little tyrant with the disposition of a churl.”
Silence fell as the fountain continued its cheerful betrayal.
You blinked once. “A churl... How dare you.”
He seemed, for the first time, to realize perhaps he had wandered too far but it was too late now. He continued anyway, because his self-preservation was not a skill taught.
“Yes, certainly, sharp-tongued, suspicious, and trying to look like royalty.”
You stepped forward.
“And you,” you said, with a voice low and terribly calm, “are a loggerhead in expensive boots.”
Percy opened his mouth, likely to make it worse, and you did not allow it.
With one sharp movement, both hands planted firmly against his chest, you shoved him backward. There was a brief, glorious second in which surprise overtook princely dignity entirely.
Then Prince Perseus, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, terror of the eastern sea fell directly into the fountain.
Water erupted upward in a magnificent, deeply satisfying splash that also dampened a little of your poor clothes.
For one perfect moment, there was only silence.
Then Percy surfaced, soaked, hair falling into his face, staring at you with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him here.
Water ran from his sleeves, hiis boots and his now wounded pride.
You stood at the edge of the fountain like divine judgment.
“Well,” you said, smoothing your skirts with composure, “at least now you may feel more at home. Do try not to call for dolphins. The palace staff is already overworked.”
For once—miraculously—he had nothing to say.
You inclined your head with all the grace expected of a future queen.
“Sleep well, Your Highness. Do give my regards to the fish.”
And with that, before he could recover either dignity or a reply, you turned and walked back toward the palace.
Your spine remained perfectly straight but your heart was beating far too fast.
Behind you, somewhere between outrage and shame, Percy shouted your name across the gardens.
Servants moved through the corridors with the discretion of people who absolutely knew everything that happened. Noblewomen spoke in soft voices behind jeweled fans. Somewhere, without question, your aunt had received three separate and wildly inaccurate versions of whatever unfortunate spectacle had occurred in the western gardens.
You had pushed the Prince of Atlantis into a fountain.
In your defense, he had deserved it entirely.
You sat before your mirror while Lyra adjusted the final fastening at the back of your gown, her silence was talking for her.
Finally she said, very carefully, “I hear His Highness required assistance returning from the lower terraces.”
You met her gaze in the mirror. “I am sure the fish were delighted to have him back.”
She pressed her lips together. “My lady.”
“He called me a churl.”
Lyra nodded solemnly, as though discussing matters of state. “A grave offense.”
That, apparently, was the end of the sympathy, because moments later she stepped back, satisfied with your appearance, and said with the merciless calm of a woman, “Try not to drown him again before dessert. It would create paperwork.”
“No promises.”
Tonight’s gown was softer than the first, though no less beautiful—ivory silk threaded with pale gold and your hair pinned back with pearl combs, your jewelry lighter.
The problem with dignity, you had discovered, was that it was very difficult to maintain when one was still remembering the exact look on a prince’s face as he disappeared into a fountain.
You should not have been pleased, but you were.
By the time you entered the Great Hall, dinner had already begun.
The chandeliers burned warm above the long tables, scattering gold across polished silver and crystal goblets. Music drifted from the gallery overhead, soft for you to be ignored and the banners of Solis and Atlantis still hung together in stately disapproval, as though even fabric objected to the arrangement.
At the high table, your father was already seated, speaking quietly with the King and Queen of the other kingdom. And Percy was not there.
That was interesting, and a minor annoyance since your site was still next to his, if he wasn't there it would be very noticeable and you would be bombarded with questions.
But lucky you were, Percy entered as you took your seat.
Changed, thankfully, into dry clothes, though whoever had assisted him clearly deserved a raise for attempting to restore dignity to a man recently defeated by the decorative architecture that was the fountain.
His dark hair was still slightly damp, curling at the edges and he wore deep navy tonight, embroidered in silver at the collar and cuffs, the color making the bronze of his skin warm beneath candlelight.
His mother looked up at him once, only once.
Her eyes moved from his still-damp hair to the faint scrape at one cuff, then toward you.
At last she said, in the calmest voice imaginable, “Did you enjoy the gardens?”
You looked very carefully at your plate and your father suddenly found his wine fascinating.
Percy, without breaking, replied, “Immensely.”
That was all, the queen gave a small smile, nothing more.
He sat beside you, the chair making the smallest sound against marble. You did not look at him and he did not look at you.
The dinner resumed for approximately twelve seconds.
Then your aunt— a menace and a professional destroyer of peace—leaned forward from halfway down the table and said, far too brightly, “It is so lovely to see young people spending time together before the formal engagement. There is such a difference between duty and genuine affection, is there not?”
You closed your eyes briefly as Percy took a very slow sip of his drink.
Queen Sally, bless her terrifying soul, replied, “Indeed. I find mutual understanding far more reliable than charm.”
Your aunt sighed dreamily. “And did the two of you enjoy your walk?”
Percy set down his glass, without turning his head to look at you, he said, “I found it refreshing.”
You kept your own smile perfectly in place.
“How wonderful. I thought you looked more relaxed afterward.”
“I nearly drowned.”
You ended up talking. “And yet, bravely, you survived.”
“Your disappointment wounds me.”
“Be patient. I am sure another opportunity will present itself.”
Across the table, your aunt clasped her hands.
“They are already teasing one another. How sweet!”
Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.
To be kept far from my mother, the royal council, and any servant. Should this be discovered, I will deny its existence, and possibly fake my own death.
—
There are many ways in which a prince imagines humiliation may arrive.
One thinks of battles lost, of treaties broken in full view of rival courts, of saying the wrong thing before kings who remember such errors for decades and repeat them at every feast thereafter. One does not, generally, imagine that dignity will be destroyed by being pushed bodily into a decorative fountain by the woman one is expected to marry.
And yet, here we are.
I feel it important to record the event with complete honesty, if only because history has a terrible habit of making fools appear noble, and if I am to suffer, I would prefer future generations understand precisely how undignified the suffering was.
The fountain was cold... Needlessly cold.
It was also shallow and deep, which I suspect was an architectural decision made by someone who hated princes and wished to leave opportunities available for women with good aim.
There were swans nearby.
I do not know why this detail feels important, only that it does. There is something especially offensive about public humiliation occurring beneath the judgment of birds.
I had called her a churl.
In fairness, she had earned it.
In further fairness, I had perhaps underestimated how quickly a Princess of Solis might choose violence when presented with minor provocation. She did not argue nor threaten. She simply looked at me with the expression of someone reaching a deeply personal conclusion and then removed me from dry land.
Well, I was looking into those beautiful eyes and forgot I just insulted her.
There was one brief moment—one single, sacred second—where I understood exactly what was happening and had time only to regret my mouth and the long history of choices that had shaped it.
Then water and her.
She looked magnificent.
This is, perhaps, the root of the problem.
She stood there in all that royal composure, with sunlight on her dress, pearls catching the light, looking less like a princess and more like some old god of vengeance who had grown tired of patience and decided it was my time.
She told me not to call for dolphins.
And the worst part—the truly humiliating, soul-damaging part—is that I nearly laughed.
Not immediately, of course. At first there was outrage and a wounded pride. There was the cold and dripping indignity of climbing out of a fountain while two palace guards looked at the horizon in an effort to preserve everyone’s future.
But on the walk back, with my boots ruined and my dignity somewhere beneath a stone, I found myself trying not to smile like a complete idiot.
There is something alarmingly attractive about honesty when it arrives wearing pearls.
I dislike writing that and I dislike thinking about it even more.
The truth is that she is, for my disgrace, a little too much my type, which feels like a betrayal arranged by the gods for their own amusement.
I had hoped—sincerely and desperately—that she would be easier to resent.I wanted that the marriage could become little more than duty and I could respect from a distance and never think about after dinner.
Instead, I have been presented with a woman who looks at me like she is deciding whether I would improve the landscape as a corpse.
And apparently, for reasons I would rather not examine too closely, that is doing something to me.
She is proud and clever. She has pretty eyes, a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh.
This is not ideal in a future wife.
It is, however, very much ideal in the sort of woman one writes terrible poetry about.
I am trying not to be that man but it is not going well.
Every person in this palace speaks of the wedding as though it has already happened.
They discuss fabrics, who’s coming, the ceremonies, the joining of courts, the endless practical machinery of binding these kingdoms together, and all of it with that tone nobles use when speaking about your future as though you are not sitting directly in front of them holding a knife.
And then comes the matter of having heirs. I won’t enter in detail for my own good tonight.
Thanks to my own terrible mind, I cannot hear it without thinking of her and is unacceptable.
I would like to return to simpler concerns, such as war because now I find myself in the middle of council meetings wondering absurd things, like whether she would teach our children to be crazy like her or whether they would simply inherit it naturally. Whether they would have her eyes when she is angry, or my talent for making situations worse.
This is madness.
I have known this woman for what feels like six minutes and one attempted murder.
I need to stop writing now, it's late and im writing strange things.
This journal is becoming evidence.
—
Time, unfortunately, did what time always did—make things more complicated.
It would have been far easier if Percy Jackson had remained insufferable in simple and obvious ways.
If he had been nothing more than a boy wrapped in expensive silk, with every conversation ended in some sort of offense and every shared glance in the mutual certainty that history had been correct and your kingdoms were better kept apart.
But Percy, infuriatingly, insisted on becoming a person that actually thought of you.
Weeks passed after the fountain incident, and with them came back the machinery of royal expectation. Walks through the gardens became routine rather than punishment, the shared dinners were unavoidable, but got ordinary. You sat beside one another during council meetings where old men argued over the borders as though none of them had created the problem.
You learned of his silence a lot, he grew quieter when he was truly angry.
He also had the infuriating habit of leaning back in his chair during council as though he were bored, only to speak once and somehow say the most sensible thing in the room.
He was kinder to servants than most princes bothered to be and he laughed rarely, but when he did it was sudden and unguarded, you kinda liked hearing it.
And worse was that he listened and not because the courtship required it.
When you spoke of Solis, of the southern provinces,even of the people your father’s council liked to reduce to numbers, Percy listened like he was trying to really understand you rather than simply waiting for his turn to be right.
You hated how much that mattered deep inside.
Well, he still annoyed you constantly.
He still smiled at the wrong moments and said things purely to test your patience or walked through your palace one poor decision away from being banned permanently.
The western library was one of the oldest rooms in the palace, built in stone that held the warmth of the day long after sunset. Tall windows opened toward the cliffs, beyond them the sea stretched and it smelled of old paper, candle wax, and the kind of silence only old places knew how to keep.
Percy was standing by one of the long tables near the windows, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading through one of your father’s maritime records with an offended expression because of poor naval strategy.
You sat opposite him, pretending to read when you were actually watching him be irritated by other people’s incompetence.
It had become embarrassingly easy.
Weeks ago, you would have called him stupid for correcting your generals…
Now, you were beginning to suspect he was often right, but it was intolerable.
The room was quiet enough that the turning of a page sounded significant and outside, the sound of the sea seemed to be loud even when it was miles away.
Inside, Percy frowned at a map.
“This,” he said at last, tapping the parchment with the disapproval of a priest condemning sin, “is either the worst trade route I have ever seen or a very elaborate attempt of suicide.”
You looked up from your book. “It was designed by Lord Cassian.”
Percy glanced at you. “Wow, that explains everything.”
“Be careful,” you said. “If my father hears you insulting his council again, he may decide peace was a mistake.”
“Your father has watched me survive three formal dinners with your aunt. I believe he considers me battle-tested.”
“That is fair.”
He smiled then, faintly, and the way your heart jumped unsettled you in ways you were not prepared to name.
When did it become so easy? The arguments are softer and the silences easier in a way.
You had learned how he thought about some cultural things from your land or how when he was truly tired, he rubbed at the scar near his jaw without noticing or how his sarcasm came off when he was uncomfortable.
You had not meant to notice these things, really! You had certainly not meant to care.
And yet you do care and you do notice.
The candles burned lower, the sky outside was darkening as you two relied on the presence of the other.
Then came footsteps— fast and uneven. They weren’t the soft, practiced silent ones from the servants moving through the halls as though they were part of the walls themselves, nor the steady, unhurried tread of guards who carried all that armor. These steps were hurried, careless with panic, striking against the marble with force enough to pull both of you from the fragile stillness of the library.
A messenger appeared in the doorway, breathless and pale, his face drained so completely of color that for a moment you thought he saw a ghost. It was remarkable, the way fear could enter a room before a single word came.
Both of you stood at once.
That was another thing about being raised in courts—you learned young that there were expressions more powerful than announcements, that sometimes a single look could deliver catastrophe long before anyone dared say it aloud.
Something had happened and it was bad.
The messenger bowed quickly, the movement clumsy with urgency.
“My lady… Your Highness.” His voice was strained, and already your stomach had begun to turn.
“There has been word from the eastern coast.”
The silence got worse over the library, heavy and awaiting, even the crackling candles seemed to quiet. Percy straightened beside the table, every trace of ease disappearing from his posture, and you felt your own hands tremble a bit where they rested against the polished wood.
The eastern coast, close to the disputed waters.
The messenger swallowed hard, and in that small movement you could see how much he wished not to be the one delivering this.
“One of the Solis patrol ships near the border was attacked at dawn. It was intercepted near the reefs beyond Thalor Point.”
Your pulse slowed but not with calm, but with the kind of dread so deep it made everything inside you go frighteningly still.
“By whom?” you asked, though the answer was already gathering like a storm behind your ribs.
The messenger hesitated.
“Survivors report Atlantian sails.”
The sentence landed like steel driven through bone.
For a moment, no one moved. The room itself seemed suspended around those four words—the library, the candles flickering low, the endless sea beyond the windows, all of it held in place by that single sentence.
Atlantian sails.
Four words, and suddenly you were not standing in the palace library but sitting as a child in the history rooms, listening to your tutors show wars across faded maps with ink-stained fingers, marking coastlines where your people had drowned, where fathers and brothers and sons had vanished into the sea and never returned.
Atlantian sails.
Stories of burned ships with skeletons on black water and southern tides running red from the blood of your people.
Atlantis.
Beside you, Percy had gone very still.
He was no longer the man with you in the gardens, sunlight in his hair and teasing he pretended not to mean. Now he was simply that prince from Atlantis.
And suddenly, you hated how much that mattered to you.
The messenger continued, his voice low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter what little peace remained.
“Three confirmed dead. Several wounded. The ship barely made it to port. The council has already been summoned.”
Every fragile month of peace—every dinner, every forced alliance, every diplomatic smile—is already beginning to splinter beneath the weight of that old suspicion.
You turned to Percy just to look at him.
At the navy silk draped over his shoulders and that impossible green of his eyes and suddenly it felt absurd—how easily you had let yourself forget what his name meant.
His gaze met yours, and there it was the same terrible understanding.
You still were enemies, maybe with better manners and almost let you forget you were enemies at all.
Your voice was colder than you intended, but perhaps honesty did that to you.
“Were they under your banners?”
Percy’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you had met him, he looked like someone standing on the edge of a war he could not stop. “I do not know.”
You swallowed against the bitterness rising in your throat. “But they were yours.”
Something changed in his face then—not anger but for sure hurt.
You could feel the slow rebuilding of walls you had foolishly believed were coming down, stone by stone.
“They may have acted without orders,” he said, his voice controlled. “There are captains in disputed waters who still don't know about the new peace we are trying to create.”
You let out a short, humorless breath. “How convenient.”
His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
You stepped forward, your fury demanded movement and standing there with his gaze trying to read you was too much.
“No,” you said, your voice cutting through the room with more force than you intended. “My people are dead.”
His answer came low and stripped of every softness you had come to know in him.
“And mine have died in those same waters for generations. By the Gods, do not speak to me like I don’t know.”
You folded your arms, it was the only way to stop your hands from shaking. You held his gaze and forced the question out.
“Then tell me honestly, Prince—if your council decides this was justified, if Atlantis claims those waters again, if this peace fractures the way everyone always said it would… where exactly do you stand?”
He did not answer immediately and to be honest, since you had met him, this was the first time you were afraid of what he would say.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt like a blade pressed carefully between your ribs. “Where I have always stood. With my people.”
Of course he did. What else had you expected?
All your conversations in the gardens could outweigh centuries of blood? That one prince could become something other than the sea he came from?
You nodded once. “As do I.”
You turned toward the door, if you looked at him one moment longer, you might say something unforgivable or ,even worse, you would cry.
To say that you walked to your quarters is something, because if anyone was to ask a servant about your wing, they would say that they heard muffled screams.
Your pillow is wonderful for screaming and letting out all your feelings.
The council chamber had been built for war a long, looong time ago so it's normal it sat beneath the oldest wing of the palace, part of the room was carved into the stone of the mountain, the walls were thick to keep secrets and you never saw windows open there, it was probably one of the darkest places in the whole kingdom.
By the time you arrived, nearly everyone was already there.
Your father stood at the head of the great oak table, one hand braced against its edge. Beside him, your generals were gathered. Lords from the eastern provinces spoke in low, urgent voices.
Across from them stood the royal family of Atlantis.
King Poseidon looked exactly as powerful men did when forced to defend things they had not broken but would be expected to answer for all the same. The queen sat beside him, composed and still.
And Percy stood near his father, shoulders straight and the expression guarded.
You took your place beside your father.
The captain of the attacked patrol ship stood near the center of the room, arm bound in fresh linen and he looked exhausted.
Your father nodded once. “Speak.”
The captain swallowed.
“At dawn we were running patrol near the eastern reefs, close to Thalor Point. Visibility was poor, there was a lot of fog over the water, heavy enough to swallow the distance to the port. We spotted sails before we heard them.”
His voice roughened.
“Atlantian sails, they closed fast and were armed. There wasn't a signal offered bir request for passage.”
Your hands curled against the table.
One of your generals slammed a hand against the wood.
“Pirates do not fly royal banners.”
“No,” another lord said darkly, “but princes do.”
Across the table, King Poseidon’s expression hardened.
One of the eastern lords stepped forward, the grief making him brave and foolish in equal measure.
“For generations Atlantis has called those waters disputed only when it wished to steal them. How many treaties must we sign before your captains learn they do not own every place they can reach?”
Poseidon’s reply came like stone.
“And how many times must Solis build fortresses along shared waters before you stop calling expansion defense?”
The argument erupted with that, the voices rose, accusations started to fly over your head, some maps were unrolled and the borders stabbed at.
You had grown up watching councils like this from doorways, hidden behind the pillars while adults argued over the shape of your future.
Through all of it, Percy remained silent with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the maps and his jaw tight betraying what the rest of him refused to show.
When he finally spoke, it cut cleanly through the noise.
“If my father had ordered an attack,” he said, voice steady, “you would not be debating whether it happened.”
Every eye turned to look at the boy as he continued.
“This was not sanctioned by Atlantis. If we intended war, you would not be receiving apologies. You would be receiving fleets.”
One general sneered. “Don't be conceited, kid.”
“I’m honest,” Percy said. “That’s something both our kingdoms claim to value when convenient.”
Your father watched him carefully. “And what do you propose, Prince?”
Percy stepped toward the table.
“Find the captain responsible before this becomes an excuse for every man in the room to indulge a war already wanted.”
One of your lords laughed sharply. “And we are simply to trust Atlantis to investigate itself?”
“No,” Percy replied. “You are to trust that I would not stand here defending cowards. If an Atlantian captain attacked under our banners without command, then he has endangered not only your men but my kingdom. I will not protect him.”
Your father studied him for a long moment and then looked at you not as king but as your father.
He wanted your judgment because everyone in this room had seen the walks, the dinners and the fragile attempt at peace between heirs. Your opinion mattered.
You looked at Percy and you realized with sudden, miserable clarity that both things were true.
He was the enemy and he was not.
Your voice, when it came, was measured. “If this was unsanctioned, then the guilty should answer for it.”
The dark-haired young man gave a small smile while you were speaking.
“If Solis answers blood with blind blood, then we are not defending peace. We are merely admitting we never wanted it.”
One of the generals muttered, darkly with the suspicion of a man who had buried many friends. “And if Atlantis lies?”
Your father said nothing, King Poseidon’s expression didn't give away his thoughts and several lords shifted, preparing for another round of arguments.
But to your surprise Percy stepped forward.
The prince of Atlantis stood beneath the torchlight, shoulders straight, gaze steady, looking not at the general asking but at you.
When he spoke, his voice carried cleanly through the chamber. “If Atlantis lies, then let the blame fall first upon me.”
Percy did not look away.
“I stand with my people,” he said, now it was only the truth stripped bare to hurt. “I always will. I am the son of Atlantis before I am anything else. Its blood is mine, its burdens are mine, and if war comes, I will stand before it, not behind.”
Your breath had been expelled from your lungs, this mattered because that was his answer.
Yet he continued.
“But do not mistake loyalty for blindness.”
His eyes remained on yours.
“If one of ours has done this—if an Atlantian captain sailed beneath our banners and spilled Solis blood for vengeance, or for the comfort of hatred—then I will not defend him. I will drag his name into the light myself.”
Percy’s voice lowered but no less steady for it. “I did not come here to inherit another century of graves.”
You opened your mouth to give an answer but he didn't let you talk.
“And I did not come here to ask for peace only to betray the woman I intend to have beside me.”
The words struck harder than the shouting of men in the room and across the table, your aunt nearly stopped breathing from joy.
Percy, apparently, had chosen violence against your heart.
Indeed your heart was betraying you in ways you intended to punish later.
“When I say I stand with my people, Princess, understand that I do not separate you from that future.”
Your throat felt dangerously tight.
“This marriage was meant to quiet kingdoms. Fine. Let it begin there. Let duty open the door if it must. But I will not stand in this chamber and speak of alliances as though you are merely another clause written into a treaty.”
It's not like the room has disappeared, your father was still there, everyone was still there and somehow at the same time none of it existed.
It was only him and his softening voice.
“If you become my wife, you will not be an obligation I endure for peace. You will be my queen. Mine to honor before courts and councils, mine to protect when kingdoms are against us, mine to stand beside—not behind, you'll never be behind.”
You felt like you were going to faint when your brain reacted: he was in front of you and, and painfully slowly, knelt on one knee to take your hands, which were trembling like leaves.
“And if I must choose between disappointing old men who worship war and disappointing the woman I would ask to rule beside me, then let the gods hear me plainly now—”
His gaze held yours like a vow was being made.
“—I would sooner let kingdoms burn than fail her.”
Terrible, magnificent silence.
And you— you stood there with your trembling hands and jumping heart, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.
Because Percy Jackson, prince of Atlantis, had just declared such love words in the middle of a war council.
Like an idiot! A beautiful, infuriating idiot.
Your father cleared his throat once, but his mouth showed a small smile and King Poseidon looked at the ceiling, perhaps asking the gods for quieter sons.
“Your Highness,” you said, “that was either the most persuasive political argument I have ever heard…or the most elaborate public courtship attempt in history.”
At last—finally—Percy smiled.
“Can it not be both?”
By the time the council chamber had finally emptied, the palace had fallen into a peculiar silence only the deepest hours of night could create, when even the walls seemed exhausted by the weight of the day and every corridor felt longer than it had in daylight.
You were walking quickly to your chambers with your cheeks getting deep in color.
It wasn’t like you were fleeing, you refused even in your own mind to call it that!
If you slowed and allowed yourself even a single moment of stillness—you would have to think, and thinking, after what had happened in that council chamber, would have your head spining.
Your pulse had not yet remembered to behave like normal.
Your father had said nothing as you left, which was infinitely worse than if he had chosen to give you both a talk.
Your aunt, on the other hand, had looked radiant with a kind of joy usually reserved for coronations and public scandals, and you had no doubt whatsoever that by morning she would have transformed Percy’s words into some elaborate thing involving grandchildren.
You intended never to forgive either of them.
Percy had stood in the middle of a war council, before your father and his own, before generals and men and all the hatred your kingdoms had spent centuries perfecting, and had looked at you as though vows were so simple.
As though loving you was not about the war.
You hated him for that but hated yourself more for the terrible, humiliating truth that part of you had wanted him to say it again.
Behind you, footsteps were approaching.
You already knew the sound of his damned boots, the irritating calm of a man who had just dismantled your entire peace of mind and still believed he had the right to continue speaking.
“Princess.”
You kept walking. “No.”
There was a brief silence behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of him quickening his pace, and then his voice again, closer now.
“Unfortunately, that is not specific enough to be useful.”
You reached the turn of the corridor with every intention of continuing, of disappearing into your chambers and locking the door firmly and condemning every poor decision your life had made as suddenly his hand closed around your wrist.
The movement stopped you so abruptly your breath caught and your pulse betraying you in one violent, humiliating motion.
“Let go.”
Percy stood close enough now that the corridor seemed smaller for it and his voice, “No.”
The sheer audacity of him!
You stared at him with all the fury you could still afford.
“In case the council chamber was not sufficient humiliation for one evening, have you now decided that physically restraining foreign princesses is the next great strategy in mind?”
“I decided,” he said, “that if I let you walk away now, you would spend the entire night being furious and I would spend the entire night with no rest, so I find both possibilities intolerable.”
Your fingers curled tightly at your side. “You should have considered that before declaring yourself like some mad knight in front of everyone.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping half a pace closer, “strangely enough, I do not regret it.”
“That makes one of us.”
His gaze searched yours, he had the prettiest gems as ocular globes… and those puppy eyes…
“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t.”
You tried to pull your hand free as he did not tighten his grip, but neither did he release you.
“Look at me.” “I am looking at you.”
“No,” he said, “you are trying very hard not to.”
“How dare you.”
Percy’s thumb shifted slightly against your wrist, a small movement, barely anything, and somehow it felt more intimate than if he had kissed you then and there. Why did your brain think of kissing him so bad?
“I am beginning to think,” he was giving a small laugh away, “that is how most of our important conversations begin.”
“In the council chamber, in front of both our kingdoms, you spoke as though—”
His expression changed then, the prince receding and the man remaining.
“As though what?”
You lifted your chin. “As though I mattered to you beyond treaties and borders and that noble performance you were attempting to offer your audience.”
For a moment, he just looked at you as he released your wrist.
“Did you truly think I would say those things for politics?”
Your throat felt tight with the answer and your voice lowered despite yourself as if you were scared someone heard.
“Did you mean it?”
Percy held your gaze with no wit left between you to hide behind.
“Yes.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
You hated it and hated him for making the truth sound reachable.
So like a fool, you made it worse. “Which part?”
His brow moved faintly.
“The peace? The alliance? The declaration dramatic enough to shorten my father’s life by several years?”
You stepped closer despite yourself, because if you were to be ruined, you would at least be honest in it.
“No,” you said, quieter now. “Not that. Me… Did- Did you mean me?”
“You are the only part of this I’m certain about, my lady.”
He lifted his hand again, slower this time, but it didn’t go to your hand or wrist, oh no, his fingers touched your jaw.
“I would stand with my people,” he said. “I would fight for them, bleed for them, carry every duty they place upon my name. But none of that changes what I know when I look at you.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, and gods, if you really kissed him would it be so bad?
“I did not expect you and I certainly did not want this. It would have been simpler if I disliked you. Simpler if you were merely beautiful, or merely cruel, or merely someone I could survive beside without ever truly seeing.”
His fingers caressed your cheek. “But you are none of those things.”
Your voice was barely yours. “And what am I, then?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth like he no longer intended to fight.
“You are the woman I would choose even if peace didn’t demand it. You are the person I find myself thinking of when I should be thinking of fleets and the thousand practical things princes are meant to care about.”
Your mouth gave a smile as your hands went to his chest, “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, his forehead nearly brushing yours now, “you are still holding.”
That was enough. You kissed him first.
It was a kiss with weeks of restraint collapsing under its own weight, anger and relief and want and the unbearable certainty that somewhere between hating him and understanding him, you had become hopelessly and disastrously attached.
His hand moved to your waist, yours caught at his collar.
Someone—perhaps both of you—made several decisions neither kingdom would approve of and history would likely judge harshly.
It was absolutely inappropriate for a palace corridor three floors from your father’s chambers but it was perfect.
And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a moment neither of you spoke, because some things, once they happened, made language feel smaller than it had before.
If it weren't for the fact that your entire body and mind were so focused on the prince in front of you, you would have sworn it was a lie when Percy exhaled softly “I love you”.
Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.
To be kept far AWAYYY from my mother, the queen.
—
This was meant, when first I began it, to be a record of my path to discipline and thought, of the observations expected of a prince who intends one day to rule without error, and yet tonight I find that it has become something far less dignified, for I am writing not of things involving this nor even of the fragile peace that holds our kingdoms apart, but of her.
We kissed.
I attempt to write it with composure, to frame it as an event of little consequence, an impulsive misstep best forgotten by morning, but the truth refuses this, and so I am left with the plain, humiliating admission that we kissed in a corridor and now has become a place I will not be able to pass again without remembering it in full.
She smiled, and I find that I cannot write that simply and move on, for it was not the smile she offers in court nor the sharper one she uses as a weapon.
It felt— No, I will not write that.
I told her that I would choose her, that even if peace had not demanded this union, even if our kingdoms had never thought to bind us together in the hope of ending centuries of bloodshed, I would still choose her, and I said it without calculation, without weighing consequence, as though the truth of it required no consideration at all.
This is not how I have been taught to speak and is not how I have been taught to think.
And yet it is how I spoke, and worse, it is how I meant it.
At one point, in what I must classify as a complete collapse of discipline, I found myself writing—
my wife, my wife, my wife
I find the word returning with an ease that suggests this is not a passing thought but a developing problem.
my future wife
No, that is worse, for it implies expectation rather than an actual thing happening, and I refuse to grant my own thoughts that level of confidence.
the woman I am to marry
This is correct but insufficient because she’s going to be my queen.
I may have developed the need to have her by my side forever.
—
How did you end up in this situation? I mean, yes, it was your wedding night and the marriage was supposed to be consummated, you got prepared for that, but you were hoping to have a few drinks, talk to your dear parents and family, and... Seriously, all because of a tradition?
One moment there was the ceremony still clinging to the air like heavy perfume— with the oaths spoken and the weight of a thousand watching eyes pressing down—and the next, everything broke into motion, into sound, into laughter and applause.
Men and women of the court, soldiers and even the attendants who only moments before had been standing like statues, now moving with a jubilanty as though this had always been the point of the entire affair.
Someone spoke your name in celebration and suddenly the ground left you.
The sudden loss of ground startled something unguarded in you, your hand instinctively catching at the nearest solid thing—which, to your immediate and profound irritation, was Percy.
He, too, had been taken by surprise, though he hid it better, his posture adjusting as several men hoisted him upward with far less ceremony than you had been granted, the contrast not lost on anyone present.
Some women tried to take the various fabrics and pearls you were wearing, but they were only able to take out shoes and accessories in your hair.
A roar of approval rose through the hall.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice carrying to reach you over the noise.
You held his gaze, refusing to let the situation unbalance you further than it already had.
“If I fall,” you said, your tone even despite the circumstances, “I shall ensure you are blamed for it.”
There were petals on the way—scattered, thrown, caught in your hair and on your dress, their scent sweet.
The doors ahead grew fewer, more private.
And then, at last, you reached it; your shared chambers.
The doors were thrown open with force, the room beyond lit in warm gold, prepared in a way that left very little to the imagination of anyone who had arranged it.
You were carried inside first and set down with far more care than you expected, your feet meeting the soft bed.
A moment later, Percy was lowered beside you.
The noise lingered at the threshold as the last of the laughter and well-wishes spilling inward before the doors began to close, as though savoring the final moments of public presence before sealing you both as newly weds.
Your eyes really didn't know if they could meet those of your now husband; the room felt warmer than the fireplace should been able to bring.
Percy pushed himself up, his breaths heavy from the rough handling, and for you saw his body. The suit, a tailored thing of midnight wool with silver accents, had already been loosened during the toasts, all the buttons undone at the chest, exposing the tanned planes of his torso.
He moved first, sliding off the bed to kneel at its edge and moving you with him.
Your now husband caresses the fabrics; the wedding dress is heavy on velvets, rich wools, golden embroidery, and pearls. The truth is, it's not very easy to remove.
The bed was high, so you basically could see him, and damn, why was he on his knees fiddling with your silky clothes?
His fingers tugged at the layers of the dress, bunching the velvet skirts up your thighs. The fabric was so pretty on you but he wasn't sad about taking it off if he could connect with your body and you.
His fingers, callused from sword hilts and rigging sails, tugged at the laces of your gown, but the thing was a fortress of fabric, heavy with wools and pearls that resisted his impatience.
“Fuck this,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots.
He wasn't gentle about it, yanking at the bodice until the golden threads strained and exposed the swell of your breasts to the cool air. You gasped, but he didn't stop, his hands roaming lower, bunching the skirts up to your hips.
God, he didn't have enough patience right now to take all your clothes off properly so the poor wedding dress stayed half-on.
His mouth was on you before you could catch the breath, hot and insistent, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dressed core, making your pussy clench in anticipation.
Percy Jackson, the man you hated so much, was now parting your legs with those strong hands, his eyes dark with want.
He hooked one arm under your knee, spreading you wider, and then his fingers were there—the rough fingerpads brushing against your underwear and finally swollen folds.
You were a soppy mess, slick from the tension of the day and the way he'd been staring at you during the vows, like he was undressing you with his gaze alone.
“You're soaked,” he growled, a hint of approval lacing his tone as he slid one finger along your slit, teasing the entrance before pushing in slowly.
The stretch was immediate, his touch firm but not rushed, circling your clit with the thumb while that finger curled inside you.
Oh gods, his mouth was so close now, lips brushing your thigh as he licked a stripe up the soft skin, tasting the salt of your anticipation. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the heat, and he chuckled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
Then finally, you felt the first lick of his tongue—flat and broad, dragging over your pussy with such slowness. His tastebuds rasped against your sensitive flesh, the slightest inch of his tongue squeezing in alongside his finger, probing deeper.
It was messy, the sounds of his breath filling the room as he lapped at you, sucking gently on your clit before delving back down.
To say that you were euphoric at this moment would be an understatement because you had possibly just opened the gates of heaven.
But still… still you felt nervous, with a million thoughts going on when his mouth connected your most intimate zone and so the words blurted out theirself.
“Wait.. I'm not,” a small moan comes out. “I’ve never done this before..”
His mouth, pink and wet with your juices, lets out a small sigh, “I’ve never participated in these activities either.”
His cheek rests against your thigh, looking up before muttering against your folds. “I learn as I wend.”
And unfortunately, the only thing you can do in response is with your hips, moving them slightly against him as a new wave of slick follows.
Percy won’t make you wait.
In no time his tongue has lapped all those juices and entered your cunt alongside his finger, trying to get more and more of the sweet flavor you are giving him, maybe he’s just getting addicted.
Again and again, you find yourself dragging out desperate pushes of your hips against his mouth— riding your sensitive cunt down his straight nose and making it push on the button of your swollen clit.
You mewled, the pressure building fast, maybe too fast and he responded with a tiny slap to the cute nub! Even a glob of his spit mixed with your slick, and he rubbed it nice and good with your cunt, fingers circling and thumb pressing sloooow until you feel your walls fluttering around another invading finger— stretching you wider, his pads pressing against your squishy g-spot making stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Be honest with me,” Percy murmured against your skin, his voice muffled and lips slick with you. “Like your pussy is…Tell me when you're close.”
Gods, why couldn't you just say it? The words stuck in your throat as he worked you relentlessly, dragging out your orgasm so lengthily, his tongue tickling your constantly throbbing clit while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that had you arching off the bed.
“How are you so good at this?” you gasped finally, voice breaking as the edge rushed up. “Is this your first time? Are you kidding me?”
He pulled back and gave a grin, chin glistening and eyes wicked. “First time, princess. But I've dreamed about eating your cunt plenty.” No joke in his tone, just raw truth that made your core tighten.
“You do kiss- ah.. you do kiss your mother with that mouth…”
“As of now I'm kissing something sweeter.”
He dove back in, sucking harder, and you shattered, waves crashing through you as your pussy clenched around his fingers with slick gushing out. Percy didn't let up, milking every pulse until you were trembling, oversensitive and boneless.
You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up for a kiss that tasted of you.
But the heat didn't fade; it built.
Percy stood, shedding the rest of his loosened suit with quick, impatient jerks. Finally, you saw it—his cock pulsing, fat with red veins snaking along the length. A sensitive slit at the tip, already beading, and heavy balls hanging low.
He wasn’t just needy, he was ravenous, the angriest reddened tip flushed like it had a grudge.
He manhandled you onto the bed properly, moving you onto your back with hands that gripped your hips hard.
It was both of your first times, and lord, he was just using his tip to fuck you—rubbing the head along your slit, teasing the entrance without pushing in.
He was big, there was no way that would enter your poor pussy.
The stretch was immediate when he tried to push into your orifice, a burn that made you whine, but it mixed with the ache he'd already stirred.
You didn't know who was more pussy-drunk or cock-drunk—you, with the way your walls fluttered greedily, or him, groaning like a man possessed as he nudged in. Just a few more inches out of the numerous ones eased inside your cunt with the most lecherous sounds as if your clingy walls were trying to suck him up and weren't able.
You were addicted to the way his girth was molding your channel to him, stretching wide, the burn blending into pleasure that had you clawing at his shoulders.
You guys started fighting a bit then—playful, your hands pushing at his chest as he tried to sink deeper, him pinning your wrists with one hand while the other guided his cock.
“Stop squirming,” he laughed breathlessly, but you twisted, half-protesting the overwhelming fullness, half-pulling him closer.
“It's not- Oh fuckkk- It's not going to fit-!”
Percy looked down, seeing that there was still some way to go, his cock was screaming in agony, needing to feel you squeeze him to oblivion, and that's how his hands released your wrists.
But it wasn't until you felt his hands on your legs that you understood what he was doing, lifting them up to his shoulders and beeeending you until your legs were giving him the perfect space.
“It has to fit, fit, fit, fit...” His hips moved like a piston, trying to fill you up until the sound of a resounding wap! echoed.
He finally made it fit, bottoming out with a shared groan that left you both dumb at the feeling, brains short-circuiting from the tight, hot clasp and his balls slapping your skin.
Percy started pumping then with no intention of giving a small break, the thick, vein-puffed length of his cock from tip to base to thwack! and plap! your cervix wetly.
The man was breathing heavily as his hips continued to make the luxurious bed creak over and over again, letting out small grunts that matched your joyful moans.
Your vision blurred when a hand wandered down to give tiny slap slap slaps to your reddened clit, body arching as pleasure bordered on too much, slick coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs.
Percy watched you, transfixed, his own control fraying in a matter of seconds—when he saw the tears streak your cheeks, the way your mouth fell open in silent pleasured cries, he couldn't hold it.
“Shit—you're—” He really couldn't hold it, hips stuttering as he filled you, hot spurts of cum flooding deep. Your cunt leaked out in both slick n’ his seed, the mess dripping onto the sheets.
The poor guy was trying to pull that high out of you, trying to wrench it as he gave you a puppy look, he just needed you to cum again. And you did, crashing over the edge with a big cry you muffled by biting his shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle as your walls spasmed around him, milking him dry.
Percy was fucking you sloppily, the rhythm erratic as his cock dragged through the mess he'd made. His fingers reached down, joining to plug you up.
Aah, lucky you both were married because for sure he bred you, and in this moment, you were drooling into the cushions, dumb on it, your body limp and buzzing.
He laughed, dizzy and breathless over your look, collapsing half on top of you, his weight a grounding heat.
“Look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, affectionate even in the haze as you rolled onto your stomach, expecting him to rest next to you, catch his breath but oh no no no—he was playing with his cum between your legs, fingers scooping the leaking seed and rubbing it back in, making you whimper.
Your man pushed up your hips, ass in the air, and you felt the blunt press of his cock against your stuffed cunt again. “Can't just stop at one,” he said, voice teasing as he eased in, the stretch easier now with the slick mess.
You moaned into the cushions, face buried, as he started thrusting shallowly.
He even joked, breathing hot against your ear, “Ship's arriving at the port—hope it's ready for round two.”
You managed a weak “Don't mess around,” but it dissolved into a gasp as he fucked deeper, his cock pushing out globs of his own cum, mixing it with your fresh slick.
Your pussy was red from the smack of his hips against your ass, swollen and tender, and his pubic zone was also messy with your fluids, dark curls matted, and you heard the wap! plap! plap! sounds echoing—wet, obscene, driving you both wild.
Percy was so loving even when teasing you, one hand stroking your back while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him.
“You feel incredible,” he groaned, pace quickening, the lewd squelches growing louder as he chased his release. Your body responded despite the ache, walls clenching around him, drawing him in deeper as he came inside once more, hard and sudden, flooding you until it was just an overspilling mess, thick ropes leaking down your thighs in rivulets.
The citadel's bells tolled midnight outside, but in the chambers, the real merging had just begun. Percy pulled out slowly and you both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and rumpled sheets.
His arm draped over you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “Think we can skip the morning feast?” he asked, voice muffled against your shoulder.
You chuckled, turning to face him and a hand coming up without thinking, brushing a loose strand of his hair back from his forehead.
“The court would consider that a declaration of war.”
Percy shifted slightly closer, as though the space between you had become completely unnecessary. There was none of the earlier tension left in him now, none of the heat or provocation—just a look of love in his eyes.
“Then we are already off to an excellent start as a married couple,” he said.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The bells outside faded into silence, the palace beyond your chambers distant and irrelevant, as though the world had politely stepped away to allow this peace to exist without interruption.
You studied him in that quiet—the way the torchlight softened the features of him, the way he looked at you now without challenge or the distance between kingdoms that had defined everything between you.
Your fingers drifted from his hair to his cheek, resting there lightly.
“They will expect us,” you said after a moment.
“They can expect whatever they like,” Percy replied, his gaze soft on yours. “We’ve already done everything they required of us.”
Your hand slipped from his face, but he caught it before it could fall away entirely, threading his fingers through yours.
You exhaled softly, letting your forehead rest briefly against his.
“Just this once,” you said quietly, “we stay.”
“A generous decree,” Percy murmured, his voice low with sleep and softer, it did not sound like the prince who argued in the council chambers or provoked you in gardens. “I should thank my wife for such mercy.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” you replied with a small laugh. “I grant it only because you have ensured that walking tomorrow would be… unnecessarily difficult.”
“I see,” he said slowly, as though considering this with more seriousness than it deserved, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Then I must accept this kindness with proper gratitude, my queen.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Careful,” you warned, though it lacked the bite it once would have carried. “You will make a habit of saying things you cannot take back.”
“I do not intend to take them back.” His thumb moved faintly against your hand, absent and thoughtful. “We could go for a walk in the morning to see your favorite flowers.”
“Sleep,” you said. “If you insist on embarrassing us both in the morning, you will at least require the rest.”
A faint breath of laughter escaped him at that as his arm tightened around you.
“As you command,” he murmured. “My love.”
♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞
♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
💭: Guys this is not proofreaded LIKE 70% sooo hopefully you won't find many weird typos or stuff TT Still I'm reallly happy because I don't tend to write such long oneshots, yippieeee!!
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader, platonic!damian wayne x fem!reader, platonic!tim drake x fem!reader
summary: It was supposed to be a routine patrol, nothing out of the ordinary. Well, things don't always go as planned. Now Damian and Tim had to keep Jason from finding out that his girlfriend had been turned into a cat, a cute, fluffly cat.
word count: 1.2k
warning(s): English is not my first language, not proofread, no use of y/n.
Silence and tension hung heavy in the Batcave. It had been over half an hour since the small group had returned from their patrol. The streets of Gotham had finally reached that peak of silence just before dawn.
“He’s going to kill us.”
“He won’t kill us if he doesn’t find out about this.”
Damian’s statement put Tim’s fears to rest; Tim’s hair was tousled, and he had a twitch in his eye from the stress that had built up in just a few minutes.
A growl sounded below them.
They both looked down. A pair of piercing eyes glared at them angrily.
“And you won’t tell him about this.”
Another growl was heard, but this time two fangs were visible.
“Oh, God,” Tim exclaimed, pulling off his mask and pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Jason is going to kill us.”
“Todd won’t find out.”
“And how can you be so sure of that? Look at her!” he said, pointing with both hands at the cat in front of them. “They turned her into a cat, and we don’t know how to reverse it!”
“Drake,” Damian exclaimed irritably. “Jason won’t be back for another two days; we have more than enough time to figure this out.” Damian’s gaze shifted to the white-furred animal with black spots. “Maybe we can bribe her with tuna.”
The cat hissed at what she considered a degrading comment about tuna.
“Tt. Calm down. We’ll call Zatanna first thing tomorrow and sort this out.”
Tim sighed wearily and nodded at Damian’s words.
“It’d be best if you stayed tonight. It’ll be easier… for everyone.”
Ever since Bruce was a child, it had been perfectly normal to see Alfred walking through the hallways of Wayne Manor, cleaning and tidying things up.
What wasn't a common sight, however, was a cat trying to reach the doorknob of one of the manor's many doors, trying to open it.
Alfred let out a sigh.
“Master Damian really needs to start exercising some self-control around animals.”
With patience and grace, he made his way toward the door, while the cat waited for the butler. Alfred turned the doorknob, and the animal wasted no time in entering the room.
“I should remind Master Jason to tidy his room,” he muttered to himself. “Or at least ask him to let me do it.”
As the butler thought aloud, his gaze never left the cat, which was slipping between Jason’s clothes on the bed.
With her tiny paws, she gathered the clothes together, and when she decided she’d had enough, she lay down on top of them, relaxing her little body as if letting out a sigh with her body language.
Alfred’s eyebrows shot up in a frown. “Interesting.”
The man couldn't help but notice the strange detail around the cat's eyes. A perfect line around each eye, strangely reminding him of Jason's girlfriend and the eyeliner she wore every time they met.
Not wanting to get involved in another vigilante problem, he decided to simply pretend he hadn’t seen anything.
He left the door ajar, just enough so that Jason’s girlfriend could come and go freely from the room.
Tim and Damian were running all over the manor, searching for the sudden—and temporary—member of the family.
“Where is she?!”
As they frantically rushed through the rooms, they disrupted all the order Alfred had worked so hard to maintain.
When they reached the second floor, they stopped abruptly upon seeing Alfred.
“Alfred, by any chance haven’t you—?”
“Don’t finish that question, Master Tim,” he said wearily. “What you’re looking for should be in Master Jason’s room.”
Without another word, the butler left, leaving the two young men alone in the long hallway. And without wasting any more time, they both headed for Jason’s room.
“Can you see her?”
They both started moving around the room, not caring if they made a mess of it. That was the last thing on their minds.
“Where the hell did she go?”
Tim picked up the pile of clothes on the bed and carelessly tossed it onto the floor so he could search through the sheets.
A loud meow of surprise and indignation echoed through the room.
Both boys turned their heads toward the source of the sound.
Two pointed black ears poked out from among the clothes, and soon a white body covered in black spots appeared.
“I’m sorry,” Tim apologized, murmuring your name.
The cat snorted indignantly.
How dare they toss you into the air like that when you were sleeping so peacefully among your boyfriend's clothes?
Oh, you would never have thought of something like that, but you were hoping someone would come over so you could bite their hand.
The sound of an engine cutting off in the driveway caught the attention of the three people in the room.
Damian and Tim were sitting on a couch, far away from where she was. Even though the cat had already bitten them when they got careless trying to lift her off the floor, they didn’t want to take any more chances.
The three of them looked expectantly toward the door, hoping to see Zatanna so they could resolve this once and for all.
But what appeared was far worse, in Damian and Tim’s words.
An excited meow echoed through the room the moment Jason appeared in the doorway. The cat’s small, furry paws slid off the armchair and pushed off, landing on Jason’s chest, its claws digging in slightly to keep from falling.
“What the hell?” the newcomer grumbled. “Come here and get this thing out of here, you little demon.”
An annoyed growl escaped her lips. How dare he call you a thing?
Jason met her gaze.
Just like with Alfred, he furrowed his brow when he noticed the eyeliner on both her eyes, highlighting the color of her eyes that had him so smitten.
Jason shifted his gaze to both boys, then back to her. He stayed that way for a few seconds, until his brain managed to connect the dots.
“Doll?”
A meow was the answer he needed to confirm that it was his girlfriend.
“What have you done?” Jason asked the two men, his annoyance evident in his eyes and the tone of his voice. Meanwhile, he cradled his girlfriend in his arms as she purred, happy to be there.
“It was an accident, Todd.”
Tim also chimed in, trying to calm things down. “Zatanna is just a few minutes away; we were waiting for her.”
“Yeah…” Damian said. “We thought it was her at the door. What are you doing here, Todd? You were supposed to arrive tomorrow.”
“My mission ended early,” he replied simply. He looked at his girlfriend, transformed into a cat, sleeping comfortably on his arm. “And when I didn’t see my girlfriend at home, I figured she’d be here… but I didn’t expect to find her like this.”
With a hint of hesitation, he stroked her behind the ears, receiving a soft, contented purr in return.
“Stop laughing, Jason!” the woman pleaded, exasperated. “It’s not funny! Your brothers fed me nothing but tuna for two days! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”
“But you looked so cute.”
The woman slapped his chest with her hand, trying to get her boyfriend to stop laughing.
“Maybe we should get a cat,” he said out of the blue, “that way you’ll have a friend the next time this happens.”
She grumbled in annoyance.
“That’s it! I’m going to ask Zatanna to turn you into a fish, so I can flush you down the toilet!”
Summary: you draw on Jason’s bicep (yum) while he’s asleep
Warnings: noneeee. Actually wait. Uhh Jason sortta likes reader hitting him? Ermmm bicep biting mention cause they look soo yummy. Especially Jason’s. Okay yes you can read now.
Jason Todd is a literal work of art.
Jason Todd is a literal work of art. As in, Jason Todd is art. Art is Jason Todd. I mean, you get the point. This man is beautiful.
You come to this conclusion while he's asleep on the couch, entirely unaware that he's being studied with the concentration you always seem to lack when he tries to talk to you about (boring) books.
The rain taps softly against the windows, the television murmurs over dramatic dialogue somewhere in the background, and Jason remains completely oblivious to you, eyeing him like a hawk.
Your attention keeps returning to his arm.
You like a lot of things about Jason, but his biceps have always fascinated you. Yes, of course, there was the hotness of it. There were many times where you literally bit those fineass arms of his because of hotness aggression, if that was even a thing.
But there was more to it. There was a certain beauty, you felt they possessed, especially in moments like these. They carry so much evidence of him. Years of work are written into them as clearly as words on a page, but no one ever reads into them. They are the arms that carry every grocery bag in a single trip, the arms that reach for you automatically in crowded places, the arms that lift you onto kitchen counters so you can reach things instead of admitting you need help. Looking at them never makes you think about strength by itself. It makes you think about Jason. Because Jason is the strongest person you’ve ever met, not only physically, but emotionally. mentally.
A glittery pink pen rests beside him on the couch.
At first, the idea seems harmless. One tiny flower tucked near the edge of his bicep feels innocent enough, and the petals come together quickly beneath your hand. And you know what? A small bow beside it wouldn’t hurt, right? Then another flower appears because the bow looks lonely. Which is reasonable. More bows follow because the flowers need balance. By the time common sense finally catches up with you, pink flowers and ribbon bows are winding around most of Jason's arm in an arrangement that looks like it belongs on an extremely enthusiastic Valentine's Day card.
You love it.
The flowers fit the curve of his arm perfectly. The bows sit neatly between them. The glitter catches whenever the light shifts through the windows.
You love him
You are adding details to one of the ribbons when Jason wakes up.
The movement beneath your hand makes your stomach drop.
His eyes open slowly, still heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment he simply looks at you. Then his attention drifts toward the pen, follows your hand, and finally lands on the artwork covering his arm.
You prepare yourself for immediate complaints. Instead, Jason just stares.
His gaze moves over the flowers, then the bows, then back to the flowers again. The longer he looks, the more suspicious you become because this is not the reaction of a man who hates what he's seeing.
"You decorated me."
You press your lips together.
"It got away from me."
Jason continues examining the design with a lot of focus.
"There are bows."
"You noticed."
"There are multiple bows. I mean like a lot. A lot of bows. And flowers too. They look like the ones I got you last week.”
"You noticed those too."
His expression suggests he is being deeply victimized, but you know he doesn’t feel that way. I mean, the illusion is completely ruined when he forces a bland expression and continues to inspect his arm in different sections. You watch him trace one of the ribbons with his thumb. A smile immediately threatens to appear, but he catches it.
"Don't."
"You like them."
"I didn't say that."
"You don't have to."
The look he gives you is half annoyance and half resignation. Unfortunately for him, you've known him too long to miss the way his attention keeps drifting back to the drawings.
"You made all the ribbons different."
The observation slips out before he can stop it. Jason closes his eyes.
"Forget I said that."
"No."
"Please."
"No."
"You are impossible."
"And you like my flowers."
Jason groans, but there's no real irritation behind it. There never is when he's losing an argument he secretly doesn't even want to win.
The conversation dissolves after that. You shift closer, seeking the familiar comfort of curling up beside him, and Jason immediately lifts the decorated arm away from where you're about to settle. You frown in annoyance and offence, and move to swat his arm, but his hand gently catches your wrist, stopping you.
You freeze. Jason loves when you hit him (playfully). Jason freezes as well, and then you realize. Your eyes drop to the flowers. Then to the bows. Then back to Jason.
"You don't want me to ruin them."
His expression becomes guarded.
"I don't want glitter all over my shirt."
"Liar."
"I am not lying."
"You protected the bows."
“Okay. Okay fine. Yeah don’t ruin them.”
The laughter bubbling up in your chest refuses to stay contained, and Jason's ears begin turning red as the full weight of his mistake settles in.
Before he can say something else, you climb into his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. Jason catches you automatically, one hand settling at your waist while the other remains held slightly away from both of you in a transparently unsuccessful attempt to preserve the artwork.
Your lips meet his and Jason kisses you back immediately.
There is nothing hurried about it. Nothing overwhelming. Just the familiar warmth of being loved by someone who has long since stopped pretending he isn't soft with you. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, and the small smile on his face is so fond and sweet it would give sugar cavities.
"You know," he murmurs, "these lil drawings aren’t terrible. Okay fine, they’re not perfectly drawn. But I Iove em. wanna know why?”
“Why?”
“Cause I love you. And you made them. Which means I love them too.”
You grin.
Jason rolls his eyes, leans forward, and kisses you again before you can say I told you so, which is probably for the best because the flowers may survive the afternoon — judging by the way he had grown protective over them within like 3 minutes —but his patience certainly won't.
♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Percy is convinced he fell in love with you a second time at his mother's wedding & it rewires his brain.
Percy thinks—no, knows—this is one of those moments that rewires his brain chemistry forever, not in a neat way, not like something he’ll look back on calmly later, but in a way where his head feels too full all at once and his body doesn’t know what to do with the excess.
He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs and his foot keeps tapping against the floor even though he told himself to stop doing that, even though Annabeth shot him a look a minute ago. His suit jacket is pulling weird at the shoulders. The tie is too tight. He loosens it, then tightens it again because loose feels worse somehow. His hands don’t settle and they just keep opening and closing.
The apartment is warm, maybe too warm??? Someone brushed past him earlier and apologized and he nodded like a normal person, but it barely registered. Everything felt delayed, as if he’s underwater without actually being underwater, maybe the air has the wrong density.
The stairs are empty. They won’t be empty for long.
He knows that. He’s known it for ten minutes. Maybe longer. Time’s doing something strange.
His mom is getting married.
That fact keeps floating back up, disjointed, like a notification he keeps swiping away without reading properly. Sally Jackson— his mom, the constant and the anchor in his life— is standing in the next room in white, about to walk into a new part of her life. Percy’s chest tightens every time he remembers it, not in a bad way, he's overwhelmed by happiness.
People move around him. Paul says something about the rings. Someone asks Percy if he’s ready and he nods automatically, because yes, he is, he has been for years, for all of this— his mom happy, his mom safe, his mom choosing something good.
Oh, but Percy's mind is also floating another way— what could he possibly do when he sees you in that dress?
Just when his mind is wondering you descend the stairs. The light catches on the curve of your shoulder, the way the dress fits perfectly and accentuates your beautiful body. You hold the railing with one hand, bouquet in the other, and you laugh at something someone whispers behind you.
That’s when it happens.
One second he’s smiling, the next his mouth is trembling, and then— gods— then the tears are just there, spilling.
“Oh—no, no, no,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-breaking, dragging the heel of his hand under one eye, then the other, failing miserably.
Percy never got that moment, did he?
The prom staircase with the dress reveal and the chance to stand there and think: ‘that’s her, she chose me while the rest of the world watched.’
Percy is already there when you reach the last step. He stops short close to the railing, eyes wide and glossy, mouth opening and then closing again. His tie is crooked and one sleeve is wrinkled from where he’s been fidgeting with it all afternoon.
You notice immediately.
His shoulders are tight, his breath uneven, and when he blinks, a tear slips out anyway. He laughs under his breath like he’s embarrassed, and you lower your bouquet to give attention to your boyfriend.
“Percy?” you ask, worry threading into your voice as you step closer. “Hey love— what’s wrong?”
Your hand comes up to his face before he can answer, thumbs brushing under his eyes, catching the tears he didn’t even realize were falling yet. He leans into the touch instinctively, he’s been practically knocked off balance and you’re both the cause and the thing that sustains him.
“I’m fine,” he says, sniffing hard and ruining the lie. He drags his wrist across his nose, laughs again, softer this time, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch. “I swear. I just— gods.”
He swallows, voice thick. “You’re so pretty.”
Another sniff. His hands settle at your waist, not tight but steady, grounding himself there. He looks a little wrecked, eyes red, lashes wet, with a smile trembling and sincere.
“I didn’t think it would hit me like this,” he admits quietly.
“You came down the stairs and I just—froze. I never got to have that moment with you. Prom, or anything like that. Seeing you all dressed up and walking toward me.” His thumb starts tracing small, absent circles against your side. “And now here you are, and I can’t stop thinking about how lucky I am.”
Someone clears their throat nearby. A camera flashes but Percy barely gives his attention to it. He presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in, pulling himself together a little.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, still smiling, still sniffing. “I’m just really in love with you.”
The room is dark except for the thin stripe of city light slipping through the curtains, cutting across the bed and the floor.
The wedding ended two hours ago and there you are, warm beside him, one leg tangled with his, your back pressed lightly to his chest. Percy stays still for a long moment, listening at your breathing slow and even, the kind that tells him you’re really asleep this time.
He shifts just enough to free one arm, careful not to wake you. His hand stays on your waist, fingers splayed for the reminder that you’re there. He reaches for his phone with the other hand, and winces when the screen lights up too bright, immediately dimming it down.
Rings.
He types it in and then deletes it. Types again. Engagement rings. He exhales quietly through his nose, lips pressing together as the page loads. His thumb hovers, hesitant, before he starts scrolling.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first.
Too flashy feels wrong. Too simple feels like it’s missing something. He keeps glancing at your hand where it rests against the pillow, memorizing the shape of your fingers, the way they curl when you sleep. He reaches out, gently, lifting your hand just enough to slide his own under it, lining his fingers up with yours, testing how it would look someday.
“Yeah,” he whispers to himself, barely sound at all. “Okay.”
He scrolls slower now. Stops on one. Zooms in. Back out.
He lets out another sniff, quiet and ridiculous, because somehow he’s emotional again. He wipes his nose on the edge of the sheet and shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
He taps a few tabs open, compares bands, stones, settings. Reads reviews.
He imagines you wearing it while brushing your teeth, while cooking dinner, while absentmindedly twisting it around your finger when you’re nervous. He imagines the weight of it there and how permanent that would make everything in the best way.
He wants to spend his life with you forever.
You shift in your sleep, brow creasing slightly, and he freezes instantly. His phone locks instantly and his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer until you settle again, breath evening out. He lets out the breath he was holding, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, even if you can't hear him.
When he unlocks his phone again, he saves a few.
“Just bookmarks. It's nothing official.” He’s trying to think, trying not to rush it— he just wants to know what forever might look like in metal and stone. His thumb pauses over one last ring, simple, sturdy and beautiful.
He glances at you one more time, at the way your hair spills over the pillow, at how safe you look there with him.
“Soon,” he ends up with, and finally sets the phone down.
He pulls you closer, arm snug around your waist, nose tucked into your hair. His breathing slows to match yours, the glow of the screen fading from his eyes but not from his chest.
Content warning: You're a cosplayer. Hair pulling! Written at 3 AM, not my proudest LOL...
@rinsosilly
Fem reader
You're still staring at your phone two days later.
The notifications haven't stopped. Your Instagram follower count has tripled. People are making edits of you and Kaiser side-by-side. Someone made a TikTok comparing your cosplay accuracy to the original and it has thousands of views.
Emma thinks this is the funniest thing that's ever happened.
Emma: girl you're FAMOUS
Emma: "female kaiser" is still trending
Emma: this is insane
You: I KNOW
You: i still can't believe he actually posted it
Emma: and ness reposted it 👀
You: don't EVEN start
But then something happens that makes your brain short-circuit all over again.
You're scrolling through your notifications—trying to keep up with the comments, the tags, the shares—when you see it.
@;ness.alexis started following you.
You drop your phone.
It clatters on your desk and you just stare at it, heart hammering in your chest. You pick it up with shaking hands and check again, convinced you imagined it.
Nope. Still there. Alexis Ness is following you.
And then you notice something else.
He's been going through your account. Methodically. There are notifications going back hours—he's liked your recent posts, your older posts, posts from months ago. He's hearted your story highlights. He's saved some of your posts to favorites.
And every single one of your Kaiser cosplay posts? Liked AND saved.
You take a screenshot and immediately send it to Emma.
You: EMMA
You: EMMA LOOK
You: NESS IS STALKING MY ACCOUNT
Emma: SHUT UP
Emma: SHUT UP RIGHT NOW
Emma: HE LIKED EVERYTHING???
You: EVERYTHING
You: HE SAVED ALL THE KAISER ONES
You: WHAT DO I DO
Emma: okay okay calm down
Emma: this is good
Emma: this is VERY good
You: HOW IS THIS GOOD I'M HAVING A CRISIS
Emma: because now you have an IN
Emma: you know what you should do?
You: what
Emma: cosplay ness next time
You stare at your phone.
Then you scream into your pillow.
Because that's genius.
Weeks later, you're standing in front of your mirror, adjusting the magenta wig for the fifth time.
The Ness cosplay had come together faster than you expected. The wig had been easier to style than Kaiser's, no rattail to worry about, just that distinctive magenta color and the way it frames his face. You'd found his Bastard München jersey in the right size, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time studying photos to get the details right.
No tattoos this time, but you'd worked hard on the makeup. Foundation to even out your skin tone, a touch of contouring to match his face shape, and carefully applied blush on your cheeks to give that softer, cuter look. You'd even practiced some of his expressions in the mirror, that soft smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes when he's focused on Kaiser.
You take a photo and post it to your story with the caption: "Guess who's going to the match today 💜"
Your phone buzzes almost immediately.
It's Ness. He's replied to your story.
@;ness.alexis: no way
@;ness.alexis: you're cosplaying me??
Your heart is in your throat as you type back.
You: surprise!!
@;ness.alexis: that's
@;ness.alexis: wow
@;ness.alexis: the wig looks really good
You: THANK YOU
You: i wasn't sure if i got the color right
@;ness.alexis: it's perfect
There's a pause, then another message.
@;ness.alexis: are you actually coming to the match?
You: yes!!
@;ness.alexis: that's really cool
@;ness.alexis: maybe we'll see you there
You screenshot the entire conversation and send it to Emma, who responds with approximately fifteen exclamation points and the words "MARRY BOTH OF THEM."
The Allianz Arena feels different this time.
Maybe it's because you know what to expect. Maybe it's because you're dressed as Ness instead of Kaiser, the magenta wig drawing just as much attention as the blonde one did. Maybe it's because you're actively hoping to run into them instead of it being a complete accident.
People recognize you immediately.
"Oh my god, it's Female Kaiser!"
"Wait, no she's Ness this time!"
"Can we get a picture?!!"
Emma stands off to the side, filming some of the interactions on her phone and grinning like a proud mom. You pose with group after group, people gushing about the costume, about how they didn't expect you to do Ness, about how excited they are to see what you'll do next.
But after about fifteen minutes, you're getting antsy. You keep scanning the area, wondering if they're here somewhere, if you should go looking-
You catch Emma's eye and she immediately understands. She makes a shooing motion with her hands.
"Do it," she mouths.
You grin and excuse yourself from the current group of fans. "I need to head to my seat soon, but thank you guys so much for the photos!"
You make your way over to Emma, who's practically bouncing. "Go find your boys," she says. "And text me EVERYTHING."
"I will!"
Your heart is hammering as you navigate through the crowd, heading toward the area where you'd run into them last time. It's a long shot—lightning doesn't strike twice, right?—but you have to try. You remember Ness's message, the way he said maybe they'd see you there, and something in your gut tells you to check.
The corridor is quieter here, away from the main flow of foot traffic. You're looking around, trying to remember exactly where you'd been standing when-
"Looking for someone?"
You spin around so fast you almost trip over your own feet.
Kaiser is standing there, arms crossed, that signature arrogant expression on his face. And next to him, Alexis Ness, whose eyes go wide the moment he sees you.
"OMIGOSHHH!!" The sound escapes you before you can stop it. "You're really here! Were you two searching for me?!"
Ness's face immediately flushes pink, his mouth opening and closing like he can't quite figure out what to say.
Kaiser sighs, looking vaguely annoyed as he glances at Ness. "I was forced to come. He was searching for you."
"Kaiser—" Ness starts, but his protest is weak.
You can barely contain your excitement, practically bouncing on your feet. "Awwww reallyyy? You were really looking for me?! That's so- I'm so happy right now!"
Ness is staring at you, taking in the magenta wig, the costume, the blush on your cheeks, and he looks completely overwhelmed. "You're..." he manages. "You're... really dressed as me."
"I am!" You do a little spin. "Do you like it? Is it accurate?"
Ness opens his mouth, closes it, then nods. "It's... really accurate. The wig, the uniform..." His voice is softer now. "The makeup. It all looks really good. Cute, I guess."
Before you can stop yourself, you're walking up to him, closing the distance with pure enthusiasm. "I'm so glad you think so! The wig was SO hard to style I spent like three hours on it! I kept worrying it wouldn't look right, and you probably don't even spend that much time on your actual hair but I was busting my ass trying to get it perfect!"
You're laughing now, and Ness can't help but smile, some of that tension easing from his shoulders.
"It's accurate enough," he says, and there's warmth in his voice. "Really. You did a great job."
"Your hair is so cool though!" you gush. "Like, it's not even dyed? This is your natural color? It's so pretty! I was thinking maybe I should just style my actual hair like this instead of wearing a wig—"
Without thinking, you reach up and your fingers thread through his actual hair. It's soft. Incredibly soft and fluffy, and you can't help but play with it a little, marveling at the texture.
"It's so fluffy!" you say, delighted.
Ness has gone completely still. His face is getting redder by the second, and he's just standing there, frozen, as your fingers gently tug at his hair, styling it slightly, testing how it moves.
"Do you think I could pull off this color?" you're asking, still playing with his hair, completely oblivious to the way he's stopped breathing. "I mean, I'd have to bleach it first, and then tone it, but—"
You finally look at his face and pause. His cheeks are flushed a deep pink, his eyes slightly wide, and he looks completely flustered.
You grin. "Oh! Now we really match! Look, you're blushing just like the makeup I did!"
Kaiser, who's been watching this entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, actually laughs. "Ness, you're blushing like a dumb school girl."
"Stop..." Ness mutters, but he doesn't move away from your touch.
"Can't handle someone playing with your hair?" Kaiser's smirk is vicious. "How pathetic."
"I'm really not..."
"She's dressed as you and your knees are buckling."
"Kaiser, I swear to god—"
You finally drop your hand, giggling at their dynamic. "Sorry! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I really can get ahead of myself sometimes—"
"You didn't," Ness says quickly, then seems to realize how eager that sounds and clears his throat. "I mean. It's fine. You're fine. I mean- don't worry about it."
Kaiser is still grinning like he's won something. "So, now that you've thoroughly flustered Ness, I assume you want photos again?" He turns to you, tilting his head.
Your face lights up. "Yes! Oh my god, yes—I was actually hoping we could do some really specific shots this time? I have references and everything..."
"References." Kaiser repeats, amused. "Show me."
You pull out your phone, showing him the photos you'd saved—action shots of Kaiser and Ness together, some of their dynamic on the field, that infamous moment where Kaiser shoves Ness's head down into a bow.
Kaiser's expression shifts into something dangerous. Something very pleased.
"Oh," he says slowly. "You want to recreate that."
"If you're okay with it! I know it's kind of intense but it's such an iconic moment—"
"I'm very okay with it," Kaiser says, and there's something sharp in his smile. He looks at Ness. "You good with this?"
Ness, still slightly flushed, nods. "Yeah. Let's do it."
You turn, facing away from him, and suddenly you're very aware of how tall he is compared to you. How much space he takes up. You can feel him behind you, close enough that you're hyperaware of his presence.
There's a moment of silence, and then you feel it—his gaze. Heavy and intense, boring into your back like a physical weight. It makes a shiver run down your spine, and you fight the urge to turn around and look at him.
"Nervous?" His voice is low, amused.
"A little," you admit.
"Good."
And then his hand is in your hair—in the wig—and his grip is firm, almost rough. Before you can process what's happening, he's shoving you forward and down, forcing you into a deep bow, the same way he does to Ness.
His hand is so big, completely engulfing the back of your head, controlling the motion with ease. Your heart drops straight to your stomach in the best possible way.
"That's no good, Ness."
His voice is different now. That same tone he uses on the field, commanding and sharp and absolutely in control. It makes something in your chest tighten, your breath catching.
Ness is standing off to the side, and he looks like his brain is trying to process something it can't quite handle. His face is flushed, his eyes fixed on the scene in front of him—Kaiser pulling your hair, you dressed as him, the whole thing—
"This is the weirdest thing I've ever experienced," Ness says faintly.
"Good." Kaiser's smirk is vicious now. He tugs your hair again, gentler this time, and you can't help the small noise you make.
"Got the photo?" Kaiser asks, and you realize Ness has been taking pictures the entire time.
"...Yeah," Ness says, and his voice sounds slightly strained. "Got it."
Kaiser releases you, and you straighten up slowly, trying to catch your breath. Your hands are shaking slightly as you turn to look at him.
"Oh my god," you breathe out. "This feels so good—Ness, I'm so jealous!"
Kaiser's smirk is absolutely wicked. "Good to know."
Ness, who's been watching the whole thing with a complicated expression, just nods. "Yeah. It's... intense."
"Intense doesn't even cover it!" You're fanning your face. "I think I need a minute to recover from that."
"You asked for it," Kaiser points out, looking far too pleased with himself.
"I know! And it was worth it! But also—wow—okay—" You're still trying to catch your breath, turning to Ness. "Can I see the photos?"
"Yeah," Ness says, his voice strained. "Here."
They're perfect. The angle captures everything, Kaiser's hand in your hair, the way he's forced you into that bow, the clear power dynamic. Your face is partially hidden but you can see the flush on your cheeks, the way you're completely at his mercy in that moment.
"These are so good," you mumble. "Please can you send these to me?"
"Already did," Ness says.
You're checking the photos on your phone, still blushing, when you suddenly gasp. "Oh! Can I get a selfie with you guys? Like, just regular selfies?"
Ness blinks, surprised. "You want—"
"Yes!" You're already moving closer to him, holding up your phone. "Please?"
Ness looks completely caught off guard, but he nods. "Yeah. Okay."
"You're the best, Ness!!!" You practically bounce with excitement as you stand next to him, holding your phone up for the selfie angle. "Smile!"
Ness manages a soft smile, and you beam at the camera, snapping a few photos. When you check them, your heart does a little flip—you in the Ness cosplay, standing next to the actual Ness, both of you smiling. So cute.
"So cute!" you say, showing him. "Thank you!"
Then you turn to Kaiser, who's been watching with an amused expression. "Your turn!"
Kaiser raises an eyebrow. "You want a selfie with me too?"
"Obviously!" You're already moving over to him. "Please?"
He doesn't protest, just stands there as you position yourself next to him. You hold up the phone, grinning widely while Kaiser maintains his signature arrogant expression—though you swear there's a hint of amusement in his eyes.
You take several photos, checking them with satisfaction. "These are amazing! Thank you...!"
"You should dress as Kaiser next time."
Both you and Kaiser turn to stare at him.
"What?" Kaiser says.
Ness is looking at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip. "Next time you come to a match. Dress as Kaiser again." He pauses, then adds quieter: "I liked that one better."
There's something in the way he says it that makes the air feel heavier. You glance at Kaiser, who's watching Ness with an unreadable expression.
"I—" you start. "I can do that."
"Good," Ness says simply.
You turn to Kaiser suddenly, remembering. "Oh! Thank you, by the way. For doing the whole—" you gesture vaguely at your hair, at the bowing position, "—that thing. I know it was kind of a weird request."
And then you get it. The way he's been looking at Ness, that smug expression—this whole thing was revenge. Payback for Ness being weird about you cosplaying Kaiser last time.
Your face heats up even more, but you can't help the slightly breathless laugh that escapes you. "Oh my god, you did that to get back at him, didn't you?"
Kaiser's smirk widens. "Maybe."
Ness is very quiet, his face still flushed, and he's avoiding looking directly at either of you. He seems to have no idea how to react, just standing there with his phone in hand.
You're grinning, riding the high of the whole interaction, when a thought pops into your head. "You know what? Maybe I should cosplay Yoichi Isagi next time! That one Japanese boy, from... er... Blue Lock?"
"Absolutely not," Kaiser and Ness say at the exact same time.
You blink, surprised by the synchronization. "Whaat? Why not?"
"Just no," Kaiser says firmly. "No."
"Don't," Ness adds, his voice unusually sharp.
You can't help but laugh at their identical reactions. "Okay, okay! Kaiser it is then!"
Kaiser checks the time. "We need to go. Warmups."
"Right—yeah—" You step back. "Thank you again! Good luck with the match!"
Kaiser nods, already turning to leave.
Ness lingers for just a moment, finally meeting your eyes. "Thank you. For the cosplay. Um, no one's ever done that for me before."
"Of course! You're amazing, Ness."
His smile is soft before he jogs after Kaiser.
That night, you post the photos.
The carousel includes the hair grab photo where Kaiser has you bowed, and a few others Ness took during that moment.
The caption reads: "Round 2: Ness edition 💜 Thank you @;kaiser.michael and @;ness.alexis for being the absolute best. (PS: Kaiser is terrifying in the best way possible.)"
The responses flood in immediately.
@;emma.alpha: THE HAIR GRAB PHOTO OMG OMGHELLO???
@;lickylickylicky1: FEMALE NESS THIS TIME OH YEEAS
@;onikaburgers: the power dynamic in that photo is INSANE
@;tigereli: i need what they have NOOW,,,,
@;bunnyishotasf: ness watching this happen must have been an experience
You're waiting for their comments, and they come about fifteen minutes later.
@;ness.alexis: this was really cool
@;ness.alexis: thank you for cosplaying me
@;ness.alexis: you should do kaiser next time 👍
Your heart does something complicated.
Then:
@;kaiser.michael: 4/10. Better execution than last time. Still too short.
Warnings: flirting, shy Taesan, physical proximity, awkward crush, soft romance, tattoo artist AU
Summary: Your quiet customer dressed in black keeps coming back to the flower shop for reasons that clearly have nothing to do with flowers and the more nervous Taesan gets around you, the harder it becomes not to fall for him too.
The first time you saw Taesan, you thought he looked way too intimidating to be inside a flower shop.
Everything about him clashed with the place. The black clothes, the tattoos covering his arms, the silver rings, the serious expression that seemed permanently stuck on his face. Even when he was just standing there looking at flowers, he still looked like someone who belonged more in a dark tattoo studio than somewhere filled with peonies and daisies.
And yet… he kept coming back.
Always alone.
Always quiet.
And always looking at you more than the flowers.
“What kind do you like the most?”
you asked one afternoon while arranging fresh bouquets near the counter.
Taesan looked up quickly, like he hadn’t expected you to talk to him so suddenly.
“Huh…?”
“The flowers,”
you repeated with a small smile.
“You come here a lot, so I thought you’d have favorites.”
For some reason, that seemed to make him nervous.
His eyes moved to the flowers in your hands, then back to you, then briefly to the floor.
Cute.
Way too cute for someone who looked like that.
“I don’t know much about flowers…”
he murmured.
You stepped a little closer, showing him a small bunch of white flowers.
“These are easy to take care of.”
Taesan looked at them carefully.
But every time you glanced up, he was already looking at you first.
And every time, he looked away just a second too late.
“What about these?”
he asked, pointing at another bouquet just to keep hearing you talk.
You ended up explaining way more about flowers than any normal customer would ever need to know.
And he listened to all of it.
Actually listened.
Quietly nodding, asking small questions every now and then, holding the bouquets carefully in his tattooed hands while looking at you like you were more interesting than anything else in the shop.
After that, you started expecting him a little.
Without really wanting to admit it.
You got used to seeing him walk through the door dressed all in black with that serious expression, only to turn completely shy whenever you smiled at him first.
And that was exactly why you didn’t expect what happened a few days later.
You were trying to drag large flower pots and heavy bags of soil into the shop by yourself, barely managing to move them across the floor outside.
“Just a little more…”
you muttered to yourself, trying to lift one.
But suddenly, the weight disappeared from your hands.
You blinked in confusion.
Taesan already had the bag thrown over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
“What—?”
At first, he didn’t even look at you.
He simply carried everything inside carefully before coming back for the rest.
You could only stare after him, surprised.
When he finally returned for the last flower pot, he glanced up at you briefly.
And that’s when you noticed it.
His ears were completely red.
Like he had only just realized what he’d done.
“Why did I do that so impulsively?” he was probably thinking.
And honestly…
it was adorable.
Much more adorable than someone that intimidating had any right to be.
“Thank you,”
you said when he placed the last flower pot inside.
Taesan adjusted the sleeve over his hand, avoiding your eyes.
“It wasn’t that heavy.”
A lie.
A small laugh escaped you.
And this time, instead of stepping away or going back to work, you moved closer to him.
Close enough for him to look up again.
“Taesan.”
“Hm?”
“Do you want to go out with me?”
Silence.
Literal silence.
His eyes widened slightly.
Like his brain had completely stopped working for a second.
“…What?”
he asked quietly.
He didn’t look intimidating at all anymore.
Now he just looked like a completely nervous guy standing in front of the person he liked.
Your smile softened.
“A date,”
you repeated.
“With you.”
Taesan stared at you for a few more seconds before suddenly lowering his head, clearly trying to hide how red he’d gotten.
And even then, he nodded quickly.
Too quickly.
“Yes,”
he murmured almost immediately.
Then he looked back up at you again, still red all the way to his ears.
