── some recent finds i have since kept close to my heart & decided to add onto this dear list of recommendations ! thank you all forever, pretty writers.
guide ── ಇ =favourite 𑁍 =fluff ꩜ =angst 𖤓 =suggestive
THE BOYZ
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jaehyun
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[02:04] [3.7k] 𑁍 ꩜
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how about you? [1.4k] 𑁍
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sweet like nectar (pt. 01) (pt. 02) [15.3k] 𑁍 ꩜
are we friends? [10.7k] 𑁍
we overlap [16.6k] 𑁍
juyeon
all about you 13.7k 𑁍
hyungseo
rescue protocol [29k] ಇ 𑁍 ꩜
moon river [4k] ꩜
youngjae
extra cheesy [31k] ಇ 𑁍 ꩜
flight risk [31k] ಇ 𑁍 ꩜
gold stars [9.3k] ಇ 𑁍
red flavor [7.8k] 𑁍 ꩜
kiss me if you can [4.8k] 𑁍
how we make sunny days [3k] 𑁍
first to know you, first to love you [10k] 𑁍 ꩜
on the bright side [8.2k] 𑁍
birthday present(s) [1k] 𑁍
sleeveless [2.5k] 𖤓
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deobi day special request delievery [1.2k] 𑁍
lean on me [1.3k] 𑁍 ꩜
SEVENTEEN
holding them [4.8k] 𑁍
jisoo
mansae [N/A]
you're in love with me [0.5k] ಇ 𑁍
prove it, you won't [19k] 𑁍 ꩜
my life [4.4k] 𑁍 ꩜
making out [0.7k] 𑁍 𖤓
nicknames [0.9k] 𑁍
let it snow [9.1k] ಇ 𑁍
how to be a heartbreaker [0.9k] 𑁍
fade into you [4.8k] 𑁍
swindled [3.1k] 𑁍
pinky promise [5.9k] 𑁍
prom night [0.8k] ಇ 𑁍
svt university event [0.8k+] 𑁍
lies and butterflies [19.2k] ಇ 𑁍
dude, nice try! [9.4k+] 𑁍
junhui
pulse points [15.9k] ಇ 𑁍
meet cute: the pottery class [2.2k] 𑁍
first kiss [1.9k] 𑁍
seokmin
the physics of love [5.5k] 𑁍
minghao
hi (i love you) [5.5k] 𑁍
liminal space [3.1k] ꩜
hansol
sweetest thing [7.5k] ಇ 𑁍
every page is empty [3.3k] 𑁍
on idiocy, bugs and the prospect of forever. [0.9k] 𑁍
genre. academic rivals to lovers trope!, student!sunghoon, student!reader, high school academy, a little angst
w.c. 8.7k+
summary. sunghoon swears he hates you for taking his achievements from him but between the late nights of doing calculus and the quiet afternoons of literature, sunghoon has unconsciously made your corner in his mind well-established, and he can try to deny with all his might but even he has to face that this rivalry, whatever this is, is beginning to mean much more than what it's supposed to be.
a.n. this took me a while to write because i don't know how to convey hate properly other than shouting at people because you're encompassed with hatred so whole. nonetheless, writing this was a learning journey and i hope everyone in life learns that a little sadness in life is what brings the joy of life to you. this fic is mainly inspired by taylor's midnight rain and i hope this doesn't find you by ann liang which i read in a single sitting btw (and the sequel!). sunghoon just reminded a little too much of julius gong but we won't get into that.
i was making my own name, you were chasing that fame
THE FIRST TIME SUNGHOON PROPERLY LAID EYES ON YOU WAS WHEN YOUR NAME REPLACED HIS ON THE SCHOOL’S RESULTS LIST.
It was his sophomore year at Decelis Academy and he stood in front of the bulletin board for the first time in his life, fuming and mildly irked instead of his usual pride and satisfaction. Firstly because of the figure two next to his name and secondly because of yours which was above his.
The murmurs began circling the crowd surrounding him and there you were. There was no need for you to struggle getting through because people always made way for you. Why wouldn’t they? You were Decelis’ Golden Girl.
Sunghoon casts you a slow glance, and it’s where he’s realized this is the first time he’s actually seen you face to face despite the many encounters he’s had with you. You stood there in your crisply ironed uniform, hair down with not a single hair out of place— further adding to the annoyance blooming in his chest. The corner of his lip twitches downwards and remains etched on his face. You gave him a small smile and he absolutely despised how innocent you look. As if you didn’t just burst the safety bubble he was living in.
So he turned and walked away with his ego bruised and reputation shaken.
Sunghoon’s known you for a long time. Even before you began sticking around with Jake, his best friend and Decelis’ Golden Boy—what a match, he scoffed. Your families go way back but he’s not one to go into that.
You were in all his advanced classes except for one in which you took different electives where you preferred geography and him with history. You were in the same clubs as him: yearbook committee, debate club, student council and the like. He didn’t know how he didn’t see this coming. You were never one to shut up either.
In English literature, he would be in the midst of elaborating his point of view on the novel and you would speak up from behind him because you’re conveniently seated behind him in classes and counter-argue against what he just said. What’s worse was how your points were completely and utterly valid and he’s internally debating with his brain and stating, “Why didn’t I fucking think of that first?”
In physics, when both of you were called up to the front to solve the calculations. You never needed to say it for him to sense that this was in some way a competition; and when you complete the calculations first, his body is brimmed with ire and the grip he had on the chalk tightens. Worse when you flash him that small smile, the one that literally says: “I’m better than you, deal with it.” Something that should remain insignificant to him but he holds with a hatred so encompassing.
He’s never free from you. Not only does he have to face you in classes, but in almost all his extracurriculars. In debate club where you entirely obliterate him in front of all the others, in student council meetings where your ideas are far more entertaining and insufferably well-organized. In the multiple competitions where you both were encouraged to sign up, he had to see you during his basketball practices because Jake brought you. In track, where you willingly volunteer to race him when the class remains silent. You’re terribly infuriating.
What appalls him the most is how intelligent you are. How he’s invariably scared because it takes him so much effort to actually keep up with you now that your name is always beside if not above him.
Effort.
That’s also the one thing you never seem to show and probably why he despises you so much. Because you never seem to be struggling. Ever. You managed an almost perfect score on that incredibly challenging math paper where the class average was 64 percent. He still remembers the sick smile you gave him that day.
“What’d you get?” he asked politely, twisting his body to face you, feigning casualty.
You flashed him that golden girl smile, and with a flush in your cheeks you showed him. 98%. Bold, red, and a 10 mark difference from his. What a sick joke. Of course, it was much better than class average but when it came between you and him, this was incredibly subpar. His stomach has never felt so hollow and his fists have never wanted to ram up against something hard more than now.
Now, he’s seventeen and the school results list for the first term of his final year in Decelis Academy has been posted on the bulletin board. He walks with Jake towards the crowd forming at the board and they make way for him.
The strings tightened around his lungs loosened when he saw his name plastered at the very top with yours directly below him, and a rare smile settles onto his lips. Just as that day in sophomore year, he feels your soft gaze on the side of his face.
His neck turns to glance at you and before thinking, his mouth beats him to it: “Better luck next time huh?”
You laugh softly, stepping next to him in front of the bulletin board and he hates that even that small insubstantial move makes his chest tighten for reasons that have nothing to do with the results.
“Guess I have to try harder next term then. Watch your back Park,” he barely registers what you said because that smile that slips onto your face is doing something it shouldn’t and it’s unsettling him in all the ways he can’t name.
my boy was a montage, a slow motion, a love potion
You were twelve when you found out that you had a big, fat, school girl crush on Park Sunghoon.
P.E was held at the field that day. It was the dedicated week where the boys would play football and it only meant one thing: the girls could just sit there and watch. Playing with them wasn’t much fun—lessons learnt through experience—they’d only whine if you score against them and say everything’s unfair. You knew the mechanism of Decelis’ boys way before anyone else.
So you watched, along with the rest of the girls in your class. The magic didn’t happen until after the game of football was over.
It happened like those falling in love montages that happened in the movies: when time seemed to slow to a stop, everything passed in slow motion and for a heartbeat, all you could see was him—the curve of his soft smile, sunlight caught in the messy strands of his hair, and your world seemed to just…stop. He was walking there with his group of friends after football and didn’t have any idea that he made your heart abnormally start and stop.
You’ve always known Park Sunghoon.
Your families were close business partners and every once in a while, you’d see him looking sharp and proper in his suit at a gala and you’d be in your dress but never once had he looked at you. If he wasn’t playing the piano then he’d be somewhere else, and you’ve never been able to find him yet.
You used to think it was just a phase, that one day when you’re older the spell would wear off but… it just never did. Nope, it stayed like moss on a rock and you’ve been enchanted ever since.
Even at twelve, he was well-behaved and disciplined and it’s not a wonder why only his name was next to first place all the time. This never changed even as you grew older.
You’ve revisited that memory regularly year by year, followed by new memories of the older, mature Sunghoon. There’s just something so appealing about Park Sunghoon when he wasn’t all prim and proper. That messy haired, soft smile, red-faced Sunghoon. It made him more human, more real, more reachable.
At thirteen, you’ve learned how to appreciate his cleaning up in business events. His hair would be slicked back, and his posture perfect. At fourteen, you’ve even turned to wearing your best dresses, perfecting your hair in hopes that he’d give a mere glance at you at galas.
It was at fourteen too when he gained that spark of popularity. Of course, a person like Sunghoon wasn’t meant to be hidden but at fourteen came that growth spurt and the smooth transition into a rather deep voice. Unlike most of the boys at Decelis, puberty graced him with such warmth and ultimately you’ve learned to give up because just as you appreciate his attractive looks and intellect, so did the other girls who went ahead to do the same.
Every week without fail there would be at least one confession that rings through the halls of Decelis Academy and into your ears, then a breath of relief that’s pulled from you once you’ve heard he’s politely rejected her. Every time that gut spilling, heart tugging feeling pulls at you. Constantly reminding you that one day, he’s going to say yes.
Feeling like time was running out, you’ve devised your own plan. Park Sunghoon has always had his eyes on that bulletin board. What if—
Oh yes. You were in this for the long game.
That summer you turned fifteen, you’ve put your work in. When sophomore year of Decelis Academy began, you walked through the familiar halls with an air of confidence you’ve never felt before. Things felt lighter this time around. In a matter of months of the first term, you’ve gained your first title and much like its name: it felt golden. And that was only the first part.
The second was doing your extreme best in the first term assessments—needless to say, it worked. Those summer extensions helped you significantly. If you’re being honest with yourself, while the whole plan was to get Sunghoon to notice you, there were multiple times where your thoughts never even drift to him.
Between the sunny afternoons lost in the calculating math problems and nights spent untangling connotations behind poems, you found yourself falling in love with learning and the quiet satisfaction of understanding intricate concepts. You wondered how something this simple had felt impossible before.
And in sophomore year of Decelis, you spoke more. With every intention and reason. You made sure every word you said was deliberate, measured, and meant to be taken seriously. On the few occasions you’ve interrupted Sunghoon—mostly because something in you refused to stay silent after one of his points— you made sure it counted.
But when the first term results were posted and you could clearly see him in the centre of the crowd looking at that bulletin board with a furrow in his brows, it’s like that day when you were twelve all over again.
The crowd made way for you to reach him and for the first time ever, Park Sunghoon looked at you. That ten second eye contact was enough to bring a warm flush to your cheeks, and you gave him a nervous smile. The moment was over when he turned and left, leaving you standing there alone and the crowd dispersed with his absence.
The moment doesn’t last long when Jake appears out of nowhere, casually slinging an arm over your shoulder as he leaned in to scan the results.
“‘Sup pretty girl. How'd you do this time ‘round?” he questions with that familiar grin of his.
He answers his own question when he sees your name at the very top, eyes reaching his eyebrows, “No way! You’re on a different level, gorgeous. But I always knew you could do it.”
You’re soft on him as you usually are, “Thanks, Jakey,” your head drops against his arm, finding its place like muscle memory.
The comfortable silence never lasts long with Jake so he prods next, “Sooo, did it work? Did prince charming finally look at you?”
With his question, the corners of your lips can’t help but quirk into a shy smile and Jake with your silence turns to glance at you. Seeing your red cheeks and your growing smile, he’s quick to tease, “Oh, so it did!”
You let out quiet giggles, feeling giddy because yes, it did. It worked.
“Come then my little mastermind, I'll walk you to your class,” Jake offers his arm out to you and you gladly accept. Conversation starts easily from there all the way until he’s dropped you off, clinging onto you even at the last seconds.
From there on, competing with Sunghoon filled you with enough adrenaline to last a lifetime, it made you crave more. Not only were you able to immerse yourself in academic experience in and out of school, you had the opportunity to see him every time. It’s kinda fun messing with Sunghoon anyway, seeing that cute frustrated look he gives you when you make a very convincing valid point, solving equations faster, and even scoring higher than him in tests.
Which leads to now, the first term in your final year of Decelis.
You’re walking towards the board where he already stands in the centre. Unlike back then, he’s already familiar with your banter so it’s easy for him to jab, “Better luck next time huh?”
The laugh you let out came out softer than you intended it to because you couldn’t help it. Even at seventeen he’s still tugging at the strings of your heart. What else can a girl do when faced with the boy she’s loved since twelve?
And it absolutely didn’t help how devastatingly gorgeous he’s become.
You’re brave enough to step and stand next to him, looking at the list. You could feel his eyes on you.
“Guess I have to try harder next term then. Watch your back Park,” you say with a grin, then finally making eye-contact with him. Your heart drums heavily in your heart and you’re sure your knees are about to give out.
Looking at him now, you wonder if this was what it felt like to finally reach him—and that maybe if you’d told him, he’d say yes the way he does in all your daydreams. You think of all the nights you’ve stayed up, doing past questions, memorizing quotes from thick novels and anything to feel like you were enough for him to finally look your way.
And when the nights feel heavier than usual, you find yourself quietly wishing he’d notice you—not for the grades, or for the podium but just for you.
i never think of her except when she's on tv
Following the years that follow ever since that day, Sunghoon has always known where you stood in his life.
You’re a pesky, nosy rat.
Always stealing his achievements right when it was just within his reach. Jealousy practically gnaws at him when you get the first place ribbon, the center podium, the recognition. The crescent moons on his palms were enough proof of that.
Yet—and he’d vehemently deny if he were asked to say this aloud— this rivalry kept him alive. Every triumph hits him deeper, tastes sweeter, like an instant dose of dopamine and he would know that all those late nights and dull afternoons at his desk would’ve been worth it because he would’ve won against you. Competing against you was something he couldn’t shake, it was more intoxicating than it should’ve been.
And he blames it when he thinks about you a little too often.
You were only supposed to be his competitor. You’re the only person who’s ever had the honor of making him irrevocably mad and it was supposed to stay that way. No— it is that way. Every thought of you was only supposed to push him harder to do better, sharper, a reminder that second place was never an option. That was all you were ever meant to be. Another name on that damned results list. Another face that saunters through the halls of Decelis.
Sunghoon has always prided himself at the mere fact that he knew where to draw the line. He knew not to overstep boundaries, knew when a teacher’s patience went thin every time he’s asked for extra credit to boost his points, knew when it wouldn’t do good if he pushed.
So when you stumble into his life, round eyes and gentle smiles, he refuses to believe that the line between hate and mild tolerance is blurring. Progressively, at that.
And he absolutely detests this feeling. It lays on his chest like something foreign, something wrong and it’s deeply unsettling. Because Sunghoon has always known what he wants. Always. He’s built his entire life knowing what he’s reaching for.
Now though, the question hangs.
Because he’s been seeing your face in flashes behind his eyelids and this was never supposed to happen to him. He’s hearing your voice, your smiles, your giggles when Jake says something remotely funny.
And so he forces himself with the will of a weak man to look away first. To push. To remind himself that you are merely a distraction and not someone that’s more than a competitor to him. To remind himself that you’re a no-good, opportunity stealing rat.
And he reminds himself every single time he catches himself slipping.
Every time he catches himself thinking of you when he shouldn’t be— in classes, in the way his pen pauses when he’s doing the minimal corrections on his paper, in the small breaks he gives himself before another study period. He reminds himself when his eyes lock on yours after exams, in competitions, in the hallways when you’re walking past each other and he reminds himself when there’s that fleeting pause like the world halts because you smiled at him again.
Of course, Sunghoon brushes this off because if he didn’t then he would’ve had to face the fact that this isn’t just some school spirited rivalry anymore.
So Sunghoon scorns himself with every slip, where he loses because it’s pathetic and mortifying. Because where was the Sunghoon that was sharp and clever and knew whatever that was wrong with him?
He reminds himself over and over that the thumping in his chest when you smile at him isn’t what he thought it was. That the way his stomach churns unbearably when someone else makes you laugh is just adrenaline and absolutely, definitely not jealousy. That whatever he feels is only fueled by competition and not anything genuine.
It’s well proven that lies were much easier to digest than uncomfortable truths so Sunghoon wills himself to believe this because it’s so much easier to pretend his thoughts aren’t turning into something so unrecognizable.
He buries these indistinguishable thoughts under vigorous routine. Longer hours at his desk, shorter breaks. He convinces himself that if he works harder, if he just places above you again, it’ll wash away—
Because just as Sunghoon is confused about it all, it terrifies him; how easy it was for you to maneuver your way into the inner workings of his mind.
So for now. For now, he’s content with pretending that you haven't ruined him.
He’ll pretend that his pulse doesn’t race when you stand too close or when your smile seems more delicate than usual. He’ll pretend he’s not disappointed when your teasing jabs aren’t directed to him, pretend he doesn’t instinctively look for you in every crowd. Pretend that he’s not meaning to ask if you were okay when he notices how your circles are heavier than usual, that he’s not keeping notes about your likes and dislikes from the all chatter Jake spews about you. Pretend that your light laughter doesn’t filter through his thoughts at night and keep him awake, staring at the ceiling.
Park Sunghoon has always loved balance.
He knows that if he disrupts this balance, he’ll not only ruin himself but whatever you have between you. This rivalry, this— whatever this is.
Because you were only supposed to be his competitor.
and he never thinks of me except on midnights like this
You met Jake when you were fourteen; at one of the fancy galas your parents were invited to.
You’d heard of the stories. How he and Sunghoon have always been stuck at the hip since their diaper days. Until he had to leave because his father had been promoted; that promotion came with a change of scenery: Australia. Now he’s back, and that friendship with Sunghoon? It remained as tight-knit as ever.
So when Sunghoon is roped into another conversation and Jake is left alone, you pretend you haven’t been looking in their direction the whole time. If fourteen year-old you had been much subtler, then you could’ve gotten away unscathed with a lot less embarrassment blooming in your cheeks but life didn’t always bend to your will at this age.
Unfortunately, Jake managed to catch your eyes before you could look away and within a second he’s sporting a grin that tickles the nape of your neck. When he starts walking in your direction, you profusely spin around, hoping to god that he’s walking to a person behind you or something.
“Could’ve been a little more subtle there,” Jake quips. Nope, definitely you.
Well the damage has already been done.“Hi,” you say, embarrassed.
Jake’s grin widens into a full teethed smile and you don’t blame yourself for losing your breath. He extends a warm hand, “Jake.”
As you reciprocate with a whisper of your name and a firm hold on his extended palm, Jake is quick to remark: “Makes sense for a pretty girl to have a pretty name,” he remarks with a tone so factual, it makes you giggle.
“Too much?” Jake grins sheepishly.
The laugh that escapes you is genuine and Jake practically beams when he hears it, you look at his face and know that Jake would be one of the few that would stick around.
“You do this with all the girls you meet?” You muse.
“Nah,” he says, looking away for a moment before his gaze finds yours again, “just ones that aren’t subtle when they’re looking,” he teases, the corner of his lips curling.
From then on, your friendship with Jake wasn't confined to galas, charity events or black dress gatherings. You didn’t know it then but Jake came to be your closest confidante, and you knew he’d keep your secrets and worries guarded more tightly than a safe ever could.
It didn’t mean he wasn’t annoying though. Jake always had a suspicion from the very first day he met you—that you had eyes for his best friend. And he was right. You should’ve seen him when you finally admitted how love-struck you are by Park Sunghoon.
Most times, Jake became your wingman. Other times, he was just… Jake. You never knew how to describe Jake in all his entirety. He’s warm and kind of stupid but also one of the smartest people you’ve met. He gives the best hugs and as of now he’s the only person who understands your troubles. Jake’s intrepid behaviour is what makes you admire him the most, that he’s not afraid to shy away from confrontation, and he isn’t afraid to be vulnerable.
It’s not a wonder that if he isn’t with Sunghoon— he’s with you.
“Why do you like him so much?” Jake asks on one of the days where both of you are enjoying the sun’s rays at the courtyard and your head is on his lap. He absentmindedly plays with your hair and you’ve never felt such comfort.
“He has a nice smile,” you say, not elaborating further.
Jake doesn’t miss his chance, “Not better than mine though, right? Come on, you love this smile,” the corner of your lips stretch into a full smile as you open your eyes to his radiant full of teeth smile and you agree.
The look in your eyes and the smile on your face tells Jake everything he needs and the silence that follows is comfortable.
But you remember a day…
The rain fell in buckets that late afternoon. You had just finished your student council duties and didn’t realize that time had gone by so quickly when you’re so busy.
The onslaught of wind came and the shivers that pass through you are hard to stop. But then a warm weight of gentle fabric lays on your shoulders and you’re agile enough to turn around to see who’d be so kind.
Park Sunghoon. Hair freshly washed and let down, in a change of clothes; so you know he’s just finished basketball practice.
“Wouldn’t want my competitor to be too ill for tomorrow’s quiz. You’d just say you weren’t under fair conditions,” He drawls, eyes glinting.
He has that certain lazy confidence in him, but you think you love this version of him the most. He’s unguarded and he knows he’s getting under your skin but you’re distracted right now.
God, how stunning can a person be? It’s just unfair for him to be so well-endowed with everything. And at this, you turn a little sour because you’ve already felt too much for this boy. Big feelings you’re trying hard to confront.
He doesn’t pick up the subtle hints you drop, but he keeps competing with you when he absolutely doesn't have to, keeps gloating his paper with a smug grin when he knows he’s scored higher than you. He’s got to at least feel something for you right?
Looking at him—the ends of his hair curling as the rain’s breeze passes, you’re pushed right back to the start. To that day when you were twelve all over again. And you’re starting to get sick of it.
You bite your lip, trying to keep yourself together and reply, “Thanks Hoon,” genuine and sincere, before: “But I would’ve done better than you at my worst,” the smile plastered on your face is plain and you wish he understands the longing you hold in your eyes.
broke her heart cause she was nice
Every year before the December holidays, Sunghoon’s parents host a winter gala.
A social gathering that brings together business and leisure. Networking, the main theme of the night but it’s where Sunghoon likes to judge people based on the rumors he’s heard and who they’re wearing.
This year he’s adorned head-to-toe in Prada, thanks to his mother’s loyalty to the brand and Jake is late. Again.
Sunghoon peers at his watch multiple times hoping Jake spawns as soon as possible before he’s roped into a conversation with the men that keep asking what he’s doing now as if he still isn’t in school or worse: the mothers that persistently ask if he’s still on the market for their daughters.
Sunghoon’s not new to this.
He keeps a strict routine when it comes to being at these events. He’d mingle around enough for everyone to at least see a glimpse of him, chatter here and there—or act like it, he’d play the piano as a way to make his parents have something to brag about him and when they’re distractedly talking about him, he’d slip away. Most often, he hangs around on the balconies and watches the stars if he could see them over the light pollution, but if not then he’d probably be on the rooftop—at least up here, it's easier to breathe and it doesn’t feel like he’s choking.
But then when he turns around to glance at the entryway, there you are. Striding in with your perfect posture and manicured nails. Heels with red bottoms, mesmerizing white dress from— from- Fuck. You’re insanely gorgeous. He isn’t able to pinpoint any flaws and he’s irritated at this fact.
Your hands are wrapped securely around another's so his eyes dart and they land on Jake—whatever. It’s not like he wanted to be the one next to you anyway.
Sunghoon needs a drink.
His strides towards the cocktail bar are quick and he gets there within a matter of seconds.
“Hi, can I get a glass of water? Please.” Water because he can’t afford to disrupt his formative brain mechanism and also because he’s not legal yet. And the bartender slides a glass to him which he chugs swiftly. Before he could get a refill, his mother calls out to him—
“Sunghoon!”
“I want you to meet Mrs. Kim, her daughter here is going to take the same course as you in university!” His mother beams.
He was wrong. This was the worst: when his mother herself, introduces him to one of her associates with daughters. He mentally rolls his eyes before straightening up and putting his best smile on. He really doesn’t know why his mother even tries, he’s reiterated at least a trillion times how he’s not interested and yet look where he is.
“Nice to meet you ma’am,“ he kisses Mrs. Kim’s hand, “and you—“ he kisses the daughter’s hand much to his reluctance.
“Oh, you young people go and talk!” His mother shoos and so he’s stuck there with this girl who’s not you— did he just think that? Abysmal.
For courtesy's sake, he makes small conversation.
“Can I get your name?” He flashes his million dollar smile. The one he knows spells people into listening to him.
And it works because with that she’s smiling shyly and the apple of her cheeks grow warm, “Sooha.”
“Well Sooha, I'm sure there are many people who absolutely love to be in my spot right now but I'm running late for my performance so I gotta run off,” This excuse is overused but it works on the new faces and he’s sure he’s never seen this face before.
Sunghoon knows it works when she’s scrambling to say it’s okay, and before he leaves he flashes that smile of his and kisses her hand. When he finally gets away from her, he’s quick to make way towards where the grand instrument is.
He’s right on time when the emcee gathers the guests attention, and announces his performance. When he takes his seat, the lights are softened and the conversations hushed. Faint clinks of glasses and gentle rustle of evening gowns fill the hall and then its muscle memory. His fingers touch the keys and the notes come along. Poised and unhurried.
When the melody ends, the applause comes in waves. Sunghoon feels the bloom of pride in his chest as the genteel recognition he’s given hits him. As he steps away from the grand, conversation resumes and like this he can get away.
Freedom is within his reach.
“Hoon!”
Said too soon.
Sunghoon’s eyebrows raise and he acknowledges Jake, “You were late again by the way,” he says pointedly.
Jake only puts his hands up in mock defense, “Hey, don’t blame me. Perfection takes time,” gesturing to his face.
Sunghoon only laughs, “Ridiculously funny, Sim.” Jake gives him a sleazy smile and this smile turns into a mischievous grin.
“Hey, you seen my date yet?” Sunghoon’s heart practically drops to his ass because yes, he has seen you, albeit from afar and he doesn’t think he can handle seeing you up close.
Before he can say anything, Jake’s already calling your name and then you’re standing right in front of him. Your hand moves to wrap around Jake’s bicep like muscle memory and a part of him twitches with disapproval.
“I’m surprised you're leaving your Physics cold for the night,” Sunghoon quips. He doesn’t even realize he’s said this until you respond promptly.
“Unlike you, I actually value real human connection.” Jake laughs at this and Sunghoon only glares at him to which he’s immune by now.
“Okay nerds, chill out. School off, and party on!”
Sunghoon can only look as Jake pulls you along to the cocktail bar and a beat of hate sits in his lungs. He’s mentally repeating ‘distraction’ in his mind as he escapes to the nearest balcony.
It’s nearing midnight when someone fiddles with the door to the balcony. His head cranes to look and it settles on a familiar dress.
He locks eyes with you and a breath passes, like one of those moments that makes him believe that the world stops spinning just for a second, “Found you.”
He turns his back to gaze at the city because there are no stars in sight tonight.
“Found me to gloat again?” Sunghoon scoffs.
“No but I could if you want? Since you’re so eager,” you muse, stepping closer. He’s awfully disappointed in himself when he realizes how terribly cold you must feel as the night's chill air tugs at your hair and runs through your arm. Sunghoon desperately goes against the half of him that’s basically tugging at his arm to place his blazer around your shivering body. He flexes his fingers trying to dismantle the feeling.
“How generous,” his voice is flat when he mutters. Face keeping that disinterested look.
“Didn’t take you as the type to run away after a performance. You practically eat praise for breakfast,” your voice is light enough for him to take it as a joke, “Is that why you didn’t stay long enough to enjoy the applause?”
But your words dropped on him like sparks on dry tinder, and it pulled a trigger he didn’t even know existed because just as you stole first place from him, so did he from his parent’s immeasurable expectations. Your achievements pushed him three steps back. That constant need to be perfect, the relentless pressure—he’s been exposed to this since he was a mere child.
There’s a reason he’s the best, why wouldn’t he be? He’s raised to excel. So, for you to even insinuate that he ever received praise effortlessly? It was infuriating, a betrayal of everything he had fought tooth and nail for. Sleep deprived afternoons and caffeine filled nights—they’re ultimate reminders that no one, least of all you, understood the flame that forged him.
And yet even as the hatred settles in his bones, he tries to keep things neutral.
“I didn’t feel like it,” he says feigning casualty even though he’s gritting his teeth.
But you don’t stop. You never do.
“Interesting. You love the attention though,” you counter, smirk tugging at your lips.
You’ve lit the match and Sunghoon gives an insincere laugh, “You say that like you know me.”
“Who wouldn’t? The Park’s always have people watching them,” the jab you give stings for no reason.
His eyes flicker towards you, burning his gaze onto the side of your face until you can't stand it so you look at him but he turns away, “You’re constantly one of them.” He makes sure his voice carries casually so the remark stings.
And he doesn’t know what comes over him because he knows this is where it would hurt. When your voice goes small and your face looks exactly like that. Like you’re unsure of where this conversation is going.
“I just meant you played well tonight.” Your voice goes quiet.
“Sure,” he exhales slowly and a white cloud forms, “but admit it. You don’t come to compliment me. You come to compete. Come to show you’re better and that’s all you ever fucking do.”
“No, I don’t,” your voice is smaller than before.
He finally faces you fully, he makes sure you can’t read his face. Because god knows you’re emotionally aware.
“Then what is this, huh?” He spits.
“I come to school one day, and my name’s not where it's supposed to be. And the week after that you’re bullshiting me in class all the damn time? Get a life,” his words are sharp, he makes sure they are.
“That—“ He cuts you off.
“—I know how this works! You talk to me so you can size me up. You make sure you’re still close enough to first place to feel good about yourself.”
“That’s not fair—“
“You want fair? I’ll give you fair. Stop chasing me. You keep trying to prove that you’re enough— Maybe you should just stop wasting your time.” The other half of him screams at him to stop talking. stop talking. stop talking.
He can see the liquid forming in your eyes and they glisten under the lights of the city and glass of high rise buildings, “Why are you saying this?” Your voice sounds hopeless as it comes with the quivering of your upper lip.
And as if Sunghoon couldn’t hurt you more, “Admit it, you’re obsessed with me. You run around Decelis thinking we’re equals just cause you got that first place once and won competitions I’ve joined since before you were even interested in them, but we’re not. Someone like you will always be behind me, because I'll always be one step ahead.”
When he hears his voice finally stop, his eyes fully register the state he’s put you in. You’re gripping the sides of your dress and you’re chewing on your lip with your eyes moistened.
The silence after was enough to kill him. But he’s gotta see through to this. It’s for the best. Whatever this is that’s going on between you is a distraction. This was the first rule taught to him: when a distraction comes to you—and it could be in the form of anything (objects, materials, people)—you get rid of it.
“Did you really have to be that honest?” He hears the quiver in your voice. He answers with his silence.
When you turn to leave, that sinister voice inside him manipulates him into finishing this off. To get rid of you. To get rid of this measly distraction.
“In case you didn’t get it through that thick brain of yours. I’m telling you to stay away from me. I’ve worked too hard for some silly girl who’s obsessed with me to ruin this.”
He need not say anymore as you slam the door open and make your escape. There’s a thrumming that happens throughout the entirety of Sunghoon’s body. That he did something right but also morbidly, offensively wrong.
He hears the distant sounds of laughter and music inside but he doesn’t reach for the warmth, knows he doesn’t deserve it, so Sunghoon stays there—out in the balcony where he can pretend the cold doesn’t sting.
Where he pretends his heart doesn’t shatter. Pretends that this is good for him. He would go back to Decelis and get back into his prime condition.
i wanted comfortable, he wanted that pain
It's been two weeks since Sunghoon’s burst on you.
Two weeks of your heart eating away at itself every time you slightly remember a thing or two he’s said. Of resolutely holding back tears when you so much as glimpse at the side of his face or the back of his head. Two weeks of that nagging feeling at the back of your head that reminds you of how much you still like him, of how your heart makes excuses to forgive this abrupt burst of anger—that false reassurance that keeps saying he probably had a bad day that night and you were unfortunately the tipping point of it all.
So, you keep your head up and pretend he didn’t just break your heart as recently as two weeks ago. How absolutely shattered you felt, how it was hard to gather pieces of yourself back together. And this you vow to keep to yourself.
You continue on with life at Decelis like you aren’t just one seat away from reaching him, to ask him why he said all those things, to ask if he meant them. To ask him if he was okay because for him to hold so much pent up anger inside he eventually threw it all on you made you want to dive into him, irrevocably and irreversibly. To assure him that you were willing to listen and you would’ve liked him even if he was just Sunghoon without all those titles they gave him.
For two weeks, you show up like Sunghoon didn’t remotely crush your heart that night. Playing pretend was easier than it was supposed to be. It was so perfectly uncomplicated to pretend that your heart wasn’t actively tightening every time you felt his gaze on you.
Your uniform remains pristine, your hair isn’t out of place, you laugh your usual laugh. You smile and wave to people who greet you, you go to classes on time, discuss with teachers routinely. You make sure your posture is straight, continue submitting homework on time, eat lunch in the courtyard with your friends. You socialize with people like usual, attend your extracurriculars, plan routes where you know you won’t see Sunghoon.
Because he told you himself that he didn’t want to see your face. And in between blinks during daybreak, the memory always flashes behind the lids of your eyes.
When you eventually find Jake at the cocktail bar, you clung onto his expensive suit. Upon reaching him, you bury head first into his chest because the tears were quick to run down your cheeks. Fat droplets of them.
Jake is no less than surprised. He’s holding you by your waist because you felt weak in the knees for a different reason. “Woah there princess, you drink too much?” he teases.
When he’s met with small sniffles from you and his shirt steadily getting wetter instead, he knows it’s serious. So he leads you to the entrance to leave, keeping you close to him. When you reach outside the venue, he’s already dialing your driver.
Jake waits for your tears to calm and provides soothing rubs onto your back. When he feels your tears stop, he gently lifts your head by your chin. You had half the heart to feel embarrassed about how you look right now, smeared with snot and runny mascara. “What happened, gorgeous? Who did this to you, hm?”
Hearing his gentle voice conversely made you tear up more because Sunghoon was harsh. God forbid a girl get hurt by words.
You shook your head back and forth, throat unwilling to open up every time you tried to get a word out. Your breathing gets uneven accompanied by more droplets running down your cheeks. Jake seeing your reaction embraces you, “It’s okay baby, you don’t have to tell me yet. It’s okay.”
When the car pulls up, Jake is there with you the entire way home.
You avoid Sunghoon as best as you can. Aside from seeing the back of his head in most of your classes and in the numerous clubs, you don’t let your eyes wander over his stunning face, his thick brows or his eyes that hold everything. You make sure you don’t look at him in the hallways, leaving lunch early so you can go the long way round to get to class so he doesn’t see you. You don’t ask him what he got in the business quiz or if he got the question for number 4 on the calculus paper correct.
You stopped seeking him. Force yourself to not look at him because he’s made it quite clear how he doesn’t want you.
But by god, did your heart hurt.
she stayed the same, all of me changed
Sunghoon’s never felt a disturbance in his force like this in years. Like an itch he can’t reach, like trying to grab a piece of paper but the wind keeps drifting it away, like the lead of his mechanical pencil breaking off after every click, like running out of ink mid essay, like his headphones dying 10 minutes into his normal running route.
He hasn’t seen your face for two weeks.
A part of him is ceremoniously glad that he doesn’t have to be met with how you look after what he’s done to you. Terrified at the mere fact that yes, he did say those things to you. Things he’s projected onto you. Things that he holds far deep in his heart that he’s undeniably horrified of.
Is it bad to say he misses you?
God, concentrating wasn’t as excruciating as it was now. What was happening to him? Why, of all times, when he has finally gotten rid of you that he thinks of you more than before?
The worst part was— in the fragile minutes he managed to catch a glimpse of you— how you didn’t seem to be affected at all. You’re still you. There’s that twist of hate and sorrow that lurches in his chest when he sees you completely fine when he’s indisputably affected by this and he was the one to say all those spiteful words.
Sunghoon’s never been so affected like this.
You smile, you laugh— and it hits him deeper now because he’s not used to you ignoring him but then again he asked for this. You’ve permanently ruined him— stripped him with the absence of all things that were familiar to him and he comes to the realization how much of himself he’s tied to the sound of your joy.
He reminds himself that it shouldn’t matter because the distraction is gone. Right?
He wanted this space. But watching you now—delicate laughter, tender voice, eyes still the same ones he could look at forever, he’s awfully reminded of the space you’ve left behind. You take up so much of his life and he’s only realizing it when you’re gone. What were the odds?
Sunghoon’s more distracted than ever. He’s slower in his calculations, his annotations in literature are surface level and his arguments don’t hit quite as hard as when he was debating with you, although you were always much better than him in this department. His study periods aren’t as productive as usual because he keeps thinking how you would’ve done the workings for this Physics worksheet or how you would go against his point in English.
Maybe this is what regret feels like. It consumes you whole and keeps eating away at you, and it just never disappears.
But then it happened on a Thursday.
Practice ran late and Decelis was empty. At least it should be, so he’s surprised to see you waiting at the main entrance of the academy. You’re sitting down on one of the benches and reading a book. There’s that faint crease between your brows and you do this when you’re ultimately concentrated on something. He doesn’t know why he remembers this—stupidly, vividly.
Maybe that was his problem. That he remembers everything about you even if he didn’t want to.
He shouldn’t remember the small smiles you give him when you get a higher mark than him in class, shouldn’t remember that you rub your hands before you run on the track, shouldn’t remember how Tuesdays were your ponytail days, or that you eat lunch in the courtyard everyday except Mondays because you’d be busy discussing about extra credits with any of the teachers.
He shouldn’t remember this, so why does he?
“Coach held you guys back again?”
He freezes.
Your book is tucked neatly on your lap and you’re looking at him. In the warm glow of the fading light, he can see the slight traces of eyebags under your eyes, your hair is a little mussed up from the wind. You’ve never looked more beautiful in his eyes.
And you’re talking to him which is more than what he deserves.
“Yeah…Jake kept forgetting the formation,” His voice is low when he answers you.
His response earns him a quiet laughter, like it was meant just for him. The silence that encapsulates the moment was thick…hesitant, uncertain. He knows that this could end right now. You’d walk away and he’d let you because he was a sick coward.
But you’re still here, sitting on that bench.
The next words you mutter catches him off guard. “I’ve liked you since we were twelve,” you say this like it can’t be helped.
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. Afraid that if he does, it’ll all end and he would’ve just been waking up from a dream. His heart shouts at him to practically say something, tightening itself to give a sign to never let you walk away from him again. But it felt impossible when the words were stuck in his throat, stubborn and sharp.
“...What?” His voice cracks before he can stop it.
“Park Sunghoon, I’ve had feelings for you since we were twelve,” you repeat. Shy, feathered, almost afraid of breaking the moment, “I still do.” The crimson that blooms in your cheeks and ears makes him want to kiss you stupid.
He can’t take this anymore.
Sunghoon steps to stand in front of you sitting on the bench and he kneels down to his knees. He sees the shock in your eyes, but his hands seek yours. The contact, when it happens, felt like electricity threading between two old, forgotten wires and it told him everything he needed to know.
Sunlight slips past you and it paints the edges of your hair gold and for the first time in weeks, he’s actually seeing you. Not the golden girl of Decelis, not his competitor, not the idea of you in his head but just…you.
He’s breathless.
There’s moisture behind his lids, and he begins, “You were a distraction.” You let out a breath.
“I was taught to get rid of distractions, to excel, to be better than everyone else because it was what was expected of me. Of a Park…” He hopes you see the sincerity in his eyes and continues, “But I never realized how much of my life you’ve filled. You’re…everywhere until you weren’t.”
“I want you to know that…even if you cost me my focus, you’re a distraction I’d willingly choose time and time again, and I'm sorry— for taking out my fears on you. You didn’t deserve that.” All the while his hands rub soothing circles on your palms.
Your features morph into an emotion he can’t read. You let go of his hands gently and there’s a dissatisfaction that runs through his spine.
But immediately after, your hand brushes his hair. the relief spread over his body from the top of his head and the tips of his toes. Are you still keeping him around? He’s still looking into your face, familiar and bright. Committing to memory how you looked on this Thursday when he’s on his knees and you’re above him backlit with the setting sun.
An easy smile slips its way onto your face,“I’ve always loved how you look after practice.” That gentle curve of your lips is enough to make his chest thump rapidly. Your thumbs brush over his thick brows next, easing the furrow and he’s breathing a sigh of relief— as if the stress he’s been carrying has been lifted with that one simple gesture.
“I was an idiot that night,” He humbly admits, unusual for him and it tastes weird on his tongue. You only hum in response, both hands now on the nape of his neck and it tickles but your touch is strangely calming to him. An oddness he openly accepts.
“Unfortunately, I like this idiot. Just as himself, with no title, nor surname.” The smile he lets out is bashful and his heart hammers against his chest, rejoicing, and he knows for certain his ears are steaming red right now. In this moment of time, he knows that you’re the only person who understands him.
Your next actions leave him stunned because your hands took their chance to coil around the collar of his shirt and pull him up to your eye level, “Well, well… looks like we are on the same level after all.”
The grin you give is mischievous and before he could say anything, your lips are on his. It takes him a second to register that this is actually happening, but when he does he doesn’t waste time to deepen the kiss. He feels your smile against his lips and he can’t help but smile back. Your teeth clash and you pull away from him but he can’t help himself; his lips chases yours as if some part of him has been waiting for this moment all along.
“Down boy,” your lilting laughter is music to his ears, and his eyes are filled with a brightness he can’t explain.
“Just because I can kiss you now doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for that night, Hoon,” you remind.
He slips on a languid smile, endeared with the nickname and the privilege to kiss you whenever he wants, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
For the first time in years, Sunghoon’s found something steady other than grades or reports. Something like hope. And maybe, just maybe, this is the start of making up for all the years he let slip by.
a.n. thanks for staying till the end!! likes, reblogs and comments are very much appreciated :) till next time!
in which jay gives you lessons on how to get (and fuck) jake sim.
synopsis: when your crush on jake sim turns into full-blown panic about your complete lack of experience, your best friend suggests the one person on campus who can help: jay park — the dangerously attractive, notoriously skilled senior with a reputation for being an incredible teacher.
what starts as innocent lessons in flirting, kissing, and confidence quickly spirals into something much hotter… and much more complicated. because the more jay teaches you how to drive jake crazy, the more you realize you only want him touching you.
pairing: jay x fem!reader (x jake)
wc: 34.6k
warnings: smut! light fluff and angst
cw: college au, love triangle, mutual pining, slow burn. themes of virginity, virginity loss, sexual inexperience, anxiety about intimacy. mentions of alcohol. explicit sexual content (kissing, making out, dry humping, handjob, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex.) heavy flirting and sexual tension, playful teasing, use of petnames, strong language.
a/n: even though today is my birthday, i wanted to be the one giving you a gift. so... yeah, here you go, the longest fic i've ever written. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did while writing! <3
the bass hums low through the crowded living room, a warm pulse that vibrates under your skin as you lean against the kitchen counter, half-hidden behind a cluster of red plastic cups.
the party is the usual saturday chaos — too many people crammed into this frat house off campus, bodies swaying and bumping into each other under the dim string lights someone messily hung on the ceiling. laughter spills over the music, loud, while the faint smell of cheap beer, cheap vodka, and even cheaper perfume hangs thick in the air, mixing with the occasional scent of cigarette smoke drifting in from the backyard. red cups litter every surface, and the floor already feels sticky under your sneakers from whatever got spilled earlier.
but your eyes stay fixed across the room, unable to look anywhere else, like some invisible string keeps pulling your gaze back no matter how much you tell yourself to stop.
jake sim stands near the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard, where the night air probably feels cooler and less suffocating than in here.
one hand is casually tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans, the fabric hugging his legs just right, while the other gestures animatedly as he talks to a girl you vaguely recognize from your literature class — maybe her name is karina or something close. she’s laughing at something he said, head tilted back in that carefree way, exposing the line of her throat, her fingers brushing his arm every few seconds like she can’t help touching him. the way she leans into his space screams interest, flirtiness, and he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he seems to welcome it, that charm radiating off him.
and jake — good god, jake looks perfect. the kind of perfect that makes your chest ache with a sharp, longing twist.
he’s wearing a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those toned forearms that flex subtly every time he moves his hand for emphasis. his hair falls softly over his forehead in that effortless, slightly tousled way, like he ran his fingers through it once and left it alone, knowing it would look devastating. the dim lighting catches on the sharp line of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes, and when he smiles at her, it’s the same warm, dimpled smile he’s given you a dozen times in the hallway or during group project meetings. the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making his whole face light up.
he leans in closer to hear her better over the music, nodding along with genuine interest, his full attention on her like she’s the only person in this entire crowded house.
that’s the thing about jake. when he focuses on someone, it feels like the rest of the world fades into background noise — no distractions, no half-measures. just him, fully present, making you feel seen in a way that’s dangerously addictive.
you swallow hard, fingers tightening around your barely-touched drink until the plastic creaks under your grip. the soda has gone warm and gass-less, but you don’t care. you haven’t taken more than a sip in the last twenty minutes anyway, too busy nursing this quiet ache while pretending to scroll on your phone every few seconds so no one notices you staring.
you’ve been crushing on him for four months now.
four long, torturous months of stolen glances across lecture halls, light flirting in the library where his knee would accidentally brush yours under the table, and random texts about class notes that somehow turned into conversations about favorite movies and late-night snacks and that one time he admitted he secretly loves cheesy romance dramas even though his friends would tease him endlessly for it.
and, the thing is, everybody knows jake doesn’t flirt casually. if he gives a girl that kind of attention — the lingering eye contact, the playful teasing texts at midnight, the way he remembers small details like how you take your coffee — it means he’s interested in something real. dating, commitment, the whole boyfriend package with hand-holding walks across campus and good morning messages that make your heart race.
he’s had two serious girlfriends in the past three years, one lasting several months where you’d see them together looking so effortlessly in sync, the other stretching a whole year where rumors said they were practically inseparable until things eventually ended on good terms. each one looking blissfully happy in his presence, glowing like they’d unlocked some secret level of connection and pleasure that you can only imagine.
and that’s exactly why your stomach twists into tight, anxious knots right now.
you’re a virgin. painfully, embarrassingly inexperienced.
you’ve kissed a couple guys before, sure — awkward fumbling in the dark during high school parties, all sloppy lips and unsure hands that never quite knew where to go or how to make it feel good. but nothing more. no one has ever touched you the way you know jake has touched his exes. you’ve overheard enough whispered conversations in the girls’ bathroom or seen the way those exes still look at him sometimes with fond, satisfied smiles.
jake is the type who probably knows exactly what he’s doing — patient, attentive, skilled in ways that leave girls breathless and glowing, satisfied down to their bones. the kind of guy who takes his time, learns what makes someone moan and shiver, who makes sex feel like an art form instead of a clumsy rush. and the thought of him finding out how clueless you are makes your cheeks burn even in the middle of this loud, overheated party, a flush creeping up your neck that has nothing to do with the alcohol you’re barely drinking.
what if you freeze up when things finally get intimate? what if your hands shake too much to touch him the right way, or you don’t know how to kiss him properly with that slow, deep confidence he probably expects? what if you can’t make him feel good, can’t match the energy of his past girlfriends who clearly knew how to please him back? what if he realizes you’re not on the same level — not experienced, not sexy, not adventurous enough — and the interest in his eyes dims? the flirting would stop. the texts would fade. he’d move on to someone who doesn’t need to google basic techniques in secret or lie awake at night worrying about being a disappointment in bed.
you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste the faint metallic taste, forcing your gaze away just as the girl leans up to whisper something in jake’s ear. her lips brush close, too close, and he laughs softly — that low, charming sound carrying across the room like a sweet melody cut through the bass. it’s warm and genuine, the kind that makes butterflies erupt in your stomach even from this distance.
you turn toward the counter instead, pretending to refill your cup from the half-empty punch bowl, the liquid sloshing messily as your hand trembles slightly. the ice cubes clink loudly in your cup, a small distraction from the way your heart pounds against your ribs.
around you, the party pulses on without pause. someone bumps your shoulder accidentally, muttering a quick sorry before disappearing back into the crowd. a group of girls nearby bursts into giggles over some inside joke, their voices high and tipsy. the music shifts to a slower track, something with heavy bass and breathy vocals that only makes the atmosphere feel more charged, more intimate despite the chaos. you glance back once more, unable to resist, and catch jake’s eyes flicking in your direction for the briefest second. does he see you? does that dimpled smile flicker with recognition? your breath catches, but then he’s turning back to the girl, saying something that makes her touch his arm again, and the moment slips away like smoke.
you set the cup down untouched, wiping your damp palms on the sides of your jeans. the insecurity sits heavy in your chest, a constant whisper reminding you that jake sim deserves someone who can keep up. someone confident. someone who knows how to flirt without second-guessing every word, how to touch without hesitation, how to make a guy like him lose control in the best ways.
and right now, that someone feels impossibly far from who you are — standing here in the corner, heart racing over nothing more than a smile across a crowded room.
the party swirls around you, alive and indifferent, but your mind stays trapped in that loop of what-ifs and quiet longing, the bass still humming low like a reminder that time is moving forward whether you’re ready or not.
“you’re doing that thing again,” a familiar voice says beside you.
yunjin appears like magic, sliding an arm around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. her long hair tickles your neck, smelling like coconut shampoo and the strawberry lip gloss she always wears. she’s been your best friend since freshman orientation — loud where you’re quiet, confident where you overthink everything.
“what thing?” you mumble, even though you already know.
“the ‘staring at jake like he hung the moon but also might destroy my entire soul’ thing.” she steals a sip from your cup and grimaces. “ugh, you’re drinking the watered-down shit again. come on, let’s get you something stronger.”
you let her drag you toward the other end of the kitchen, but your mind stays stuck on jake. even through the hazy, crowded warmth of the party, your eyes keep drifting back to where he’s laughing with some guys from the club soccer team. yunjin notices, of course. she always does, her grip tightening on your arm in a silent show of support while she pours something sweet and dangerously strong into a fresh red cup for you.
later that night, after the party finally winds down and the bass stops rattling your teeth, you’re both back in your shared off-campus apartment. the contrast is jarring, the heavy silence of the night settling over everything. the real conversation happens when the rest of the world is asleep. you’re sprawled on your bed in oversized pajamas, hair still slightly damp and curling from a quick shower, while yunjin sits cross-legged on the floor painting her nails a deep, glossy burgundy. the lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, amber glow across the room, and the distant city hums faintly outside the window.
“okay, spill,” she says without looking up, carefully dragging the tiny brush over her thumbnail. “you’ve been weird about jake for weeks. what’s the hold-up? he literally flirted with you for twenty minutes last tuesday in the café. he doesn’t do that unless he’s serious. he was giving you that puppy-dog look the whole time.”
you pull your knees tightly to your chest, hugging them until your knuckles turn white. the weight of the secret has been crushing you for days, and the words finally tumble out before you can stop them.
“i’m scared, yunjin. really scared.”
she glances up instantly, the brush hovering inches above her index finger. the playful tease drops from her face. “scared of what? jake’s a sweetheart. he’s not some asshole who’s going to play games with you.”
“it’s not him. it’s… me.” your voice drops to a pathetic whisper, your cheeks instantly heating up with a fierce, burning blush. you bury your chin in your knees. “i’m a virgin. completely. i’ve barely even done anything beyond clumsy high school kissing. and jake’s had actual girlfriends. serious ones. he knows what he’s doing, yunjin. what if i’m bad at it? what if i disappoint him? he’ll realize i’m not… enough. not experienced enough. not sexy enough. not whatever his exes were.”
yunjin sets the nail polish bottle down on a stray magazine slowly, giving you her full, undivided attention. her expression softens, the fierce protectiveness she always has for you melting into something tender, though there’s still a sharp spark of determination in her eyes.
“babe… first of all, that’s so normal. lots of people are virgins in college, even if they don't advertise it. second, if jake likes you — and he clearly does — he’s not going to expect you to be some kind of porn star on day one. he'd probably think it was sweet, honestly.” she pauses, watching your miserable expression. “but i get it. you want to feel confident. you don't want to be overthinking every single touch when you're finally alone with him. you want to blow his mind when it happens.”
you nod miserably, burying your face completely in your knees for a second, your voice muffled. “i just want to feel like I know what I'm doing. just a little bit.”
yunjin taps her freshly painted fingers on the carpet, her mind visibly whirring. then she smiles — that mischievous, slightly dangerous, scheming smile you know all too well. it’s the smile that usually precedes a terrible, brilliant idea.
“if you really want to impress him… there’s someone who can help.”
you peek at her over the tops of your knees, skeptical. “what do you mean? like a book? a podcast?”
“sunghoon’s friend. jay. jay park.” she says it like the name should mean something immediately, dropping it into the quiet room like a bombshell. “he’s discreet as hell. experienced — like, really experienced. girls talk about him in hushed tones in the sorority houses, trust me. apparently he’s an incredible teacher. no strings attached, just pure skill-building. he’s actually done this before for a couple of people who were in your exact shoes. helps them get confident, learn what they need to know. everything from flirting, body language, touching, all the way down to… you know.”
your eyes widen to the size of saucers. “you’re joking. you want me to ask a random guy to tutor me in sex?”
“dead serious. he’s not a fuckboy in the messy, heartbroken-trail way. more like… selective. efficient.” yunjin leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her tone shifting into something more serious. “and look, here's the thing. jay is known for fucking the girls he hangs out with, yeah. he has that reputation for a reason. but… you don't have to do that. he's not some caveman. jay is actually the best one on this entire campus to go to for advice, even if you never lay a finger on him.”
she waves a hand to emphasize her point, careful not to smudge her polish. “he might make an exception for you. you can literally just have the option of not sleeping with him. you can just go to him, tell him the situation, and let him give you advice. he knows how guys think, he knows what jake’s vibe is since they run in similar circles, and he can literally just talk you through it. teach you how to read the room, how to touch without being awkward. but if you do decide you want hands-on practice? he's the guy. if you approach him the right way and you’re honest, he’ll probably say yes to whatever level you’re comfortable with. he’s good at keeping secrets too. sunghoon swears he's the most trustworthy guy he knows.”
you stare at her, your heart hammering a rapid rhythm against your ribs. jay. you’ve seen him around campus, of course. everyone has. he’s impossible to miss — tall, with that sharp jawline, dark hair usually styled flawlessly, always dressed like he just stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. he has this quiet, heavy confidence mixed with a sharp, teasing look that makes people nervous to look him in the eye for too long. the mere idea of walking up to him and asking him for… lessons felt completely insane. humiliating. but beneath the embarrassment, a tiny, buried part of you felt a thrill that was absolutely terrifying.
“i couldn’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. “yunjin, that’s crazy. 'hey jay, can you teach me how to be good in bed so i can go sleep with your acquaintance?' he’ll laugh in my face.”
“is it crazier than stressing yourself sick over whether you’ll be good enough for jake? you're practically giving yourself an ulcer over a guy who hasn't even kissed you yet.” yunjin raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “look, you deserve to feel prepared. empowered. jay’s the guy for that, whether he's just talking to you over a drink or showing you what to do. no emotions, no drama, just practice and advice. think about it. just promise me you'll think about it.”
the conversation lingers long after yunjin finally packs up her nail polish and leaves your room, kissing your forehead goodnight and telling you to text her if you need to spiral more. you lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the name jay repeating in your head like a dare.
you lie there in the dark, the harsh blue glow of your phone illuminating your face in the otherwise pitch-black room. your thumb hovers precariously over the message bar, trembling slightly.
you had found jay’s contact info through a mutual friend's group chat earlier that night, your heart racing so fast you could hear it in your ears the entire time you were saving his number. now, at exactly 2:17 a.m., the sheer absurdity of the hour matches the sheer absurdity of what you're about to do. you type a sentence, delete it. type another, delete that too. you rewrite the message five times, your palms sweating against the glass screen, before you finally force your thumb to stay still and craft something that sounds at least semi-coherent.
you: hi… this is awkward but um. yunjin mentioned you might be able to help with some… lessons? about confidence and stuff. with guys. i’m really new to all of it and there’s this guy i like and i don’t want to mess it up. if you’re not interested that’s totally fine, sorry for bothering you this late.
you hit send.
the instant the little outgoing chime sounds, a wave of pure, instant regret crashes over you. you toss the phone away like it’s physically burning you, letting it land somewhere in the tangled blankets at the foot of your bed. you cover your face with both hands, groaning softly into the quiet room. this is ridiculous. it's humiliating. who even asks for something like this? jay park is going to think you're an absolute freak, or worse, he's going to screenshot it and show sunghoon.
a minute passes. then two. the silence in your room feels heavy, suffocating. you're just about to reach down and turn the phone completely off to save yourself further agony when the mattress vibrates.
buzz.
your heart leaps into your throat. you scramble through the covers, fishing for the device and unlocking it with shaking fingers.
jay: well this is a new way to get my attention. lessons, huh? for a specific guy? bold.
before you can even process the dry, teasing tone of his text, another message bubbles up right underneath it.
jay: meet me tomorrow at the café near the east library. 4pm. we can talk details. don’t overthink it too much, newbie.
your stomach flips hard, dropping into a dizzying freefall. he said yes. kind of. it’s incredibly teasing, dripping with the exact kind of effortless confidence that usually intimidates you, but it’s still a yes. he didn't laugh you off. he didn't tell you to lose his number.
you roll onto your back, dropping the phone onto your chest and staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you. the shadows from the blades cut rhythmic patterns across the ceiling, but they do nothing to soothe your mind, which is currently racing at a thousand miles an hour.
what the hell are you actually doing?
asking jay park — the campus mystery, the guy who walks through hallways like he owns them, the one with that intense, piercing stare that makes people look away first — to teach you how to flirt, how to touch, how to… god, how to do everything. and you're doing it all just so you can feel like you're enough for jake sim. the contrast between the two boys couldn't be wider: jake, with his warm, sweet, golden-retriever energy and easy smiles, and jay, who feels like a sharp knife, dark leather jackets, and expensive cologne.
but underneath the suffocating layers of panic and embarrassment, a tiny, unfamiliar spark begins to take hold. it’s a spark of excitement. of real hope. yunjin was right; you've been putting yourself through misery over your lack of experience. maybe this is exactly what you need to break out of your own head. maybe jay really can turn you into someone confident, someone desirable — someone who won’t freeze up or panic when jake finally makes a real move.
you pull the heavy blanket higher up over your shoulders, curling onto your side as your phone screen finally times out and dims, plunging the room back into total darkness.
tomorrow at 4 p.m. there's no backing out now. you're really doing this.
and as exhaustion finally starts to get to you, a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh escapes your lips into the quiet apartment.
what have you gotten yourself into?
-------
the next afternoon, 4:00 p.m. arrives far too quickly.
the café near the east library is tucked away in a quieter corner of the campus, mostly populated by grad students typing furiously on laptops and the heavy smell of roasted coffee beans. you change your outfit three times before leaving the apartment, finally settling on something casual but not too casual, your hands sweating the entire walk over.
when you push the glass door open, the little bell chiming above you feels like a death threat. you look around the dimly lit space, and there he is.
jay is sitting at a small corner table near the back window, looking entirely too calm and entirely too hot for a thursday afternoon. he’s wearing a simple black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, and his dark hair is perfectly styled, just like always. he has a half-empty iced americano in front of him, his thumb casually scrolling through his phone. there’s a quiet, effortless aura of arrogance around him, but as he catches movement and looks up, his sharp features soften into a playful, lazy smirk.
“you’re exactly on time,” he says, his voice a low, smooth rumble that instantly makes your stomach do a flip. he slides the empty chair opposite him out with his foot. “sit. you look like you’re about to faint.”
you sink into the chair, gripping your tote bag tightly against your chest like a shield. “hi. thank you for coming.”
“relax, newbie. i don’t bite,” he teases, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. he studies your burning, red face for a second before a soft chuckle escapes him. “you know, you could have just told me the whole story in the text. saved yourself some typing.”
you blink, confused. “what do you mean?”
jay leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a dangerous amount of amusement. “yunjin told sunghoon. sunghoon told me. so, i already know the full context.” his smirk widens, making him look devastatingly handsome. “so you want to learn how to fuck properly for jake sim? bold.”
your entire face explodes in a fierce, blinding heat. you literally feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, and for a terrifying, very long second, you consider hiding under the table or running away as fast as you can. you bury your face in your hands, your voice muffled and laced with pure mortification. “oh my god. i am going to kill yunjin. i am actually going to murder her.”
jay lets out a genuine, low laugh at your reaction, the sound rich and surprisingly warm. “don’t kill her yet. she’s just looking out for you. and honestly? it’s refreshing. most girls try a lot harder to play it cool around me.”
you slowly drop your hands, your cheeks still burning a bright pink. “i don't even know what i'm doing here. this is insane.”
“it’s only insane if you make it insane,” jay says calmly, his playful tone softening just a fraction into something a bit more business-like. he pushes a clean napkin and a pen toward you, though he keeps his eyes on your face. “let’s treat this like an introduction. an assessment. before we can fix anything, i need to know what we’re working with. list all the things you think you’re bad at. everything you're worried about. so i know what to focus on.”
you stare at the blank napkin, swallowing hard. the vulnerability of it feels immense, but you’re already here, and you’re already completely humiliated. you take a deep breath and start listing them off, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper so the barista won’t hear.
“flirting,” you start, counting on your fingers instead of writing it down. “i freeze up. and… kissing. i’ve only ever done clumsy high school kissing, nothing serious. touching… like, knowing where to put my hands without being awkward. sex, obviously, since i’ve never done it. and… just confidence in general. i overthink everything until i ruin the mood.”
jay listens quietly, his sharp eyes tracking the movement of your fingers. he doesn't laugh, and he doesn't tease you this time. he just nods slowly, absorbing the information.
“okay. that’s a solid list,” he says. then, his gaze drops to how tightly you’re still clutching your bag, your knuckles white, your shoulders tense and pulled high. his eyes lift back to yours, perceptive and sharp. “you’re terrified i’m going to try to jump you, aren’t you?”
your breath hitches. you open your mouth to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. you are skeptical about getting physical with him. the idea of practicing on jay park feels like playing with fire, and you’re fully aware you might get burned.
jay sighs softly, leaning back again, his posture completely relaxed to contrast your tension. “look at me.”
you look up, meeting his intense stare.
“yunjin told you i have a reputation, and she’s right. i’m not going to sit here and pretend i’m a saint,” jay says, his tone completely direct, peer-to-peer, without a shred of judgment. “but i don’t do anything without absolute consent. i can see you’re stressed out of your mind right now. so, let’s take the pressure off. we are not getting physical. the ‘lessons’ will be entirely theoretical. just talking, advice, breaking down how guys think, and giving you the blueprint. unless you explicitly ask to change that later down the line, we keep our hands to ourselves. deal?”
the relief that washes over you is so sudden and heavy that your shoulders visibly drop. “deal. thank you. seriously.”
“don’t thank me yet, newbie. you’re still going to have to work on that confidence,” jay says, that familiar, teasing grin creeping back onto his face. he stands up, grabbing his iced coffee and sliding his phone into his pocket. “we’re done for today. meet me at my dorm tomorrow afternoon. third floor of the west quad, room 314. we’ll start the actual work then.”
he gives you one last, lingering look — a mix of amusement and something else you can’t quite read — before turning and walking out of the café, leaving you alone at the table with a racing heart and the sudden realization that you’re actually going through with this.
-------
the next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside room 314 in the west quad, your heart doing gymnastics against your ribs. you take three deep, stabilizing breaths before finally raising a shaking hand to knock.
the door swings open almost immediately, and jay stands there looking effortlessly put-together in a gray hoodie and sweatpants. his hair is slightly messy today, falling over his forehead, which somehow makes him look even more intimidatingly handsome.
“you’re on time again. i like that,” he says, stepping back to let you in.
his dorm is surprisingly clean and smells faintly of sandalwood and expensive laundry detergent. there’s a vinyl player in the corner, a desk stacked with textbooks, and a neatly made bed. jay walks over to his desk chair, spins it around to face the bed, and motions for you to sit on the mattress.
“alright, newbie. welcome to lesson one,” jay says, his tone shifting into something surprisingly focused. he sits down, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “today is all about the fundamentals. eye contact, body language, and light teasing. if you can't master the tension before you even touch a guy, everything else falls flat. so, we start here.”
you nod, swallowing hard, trying to look like a good student. “okay. what do i do?”
“first thing: eye contact,” jay says, leaning forward slightly. his dark eyes lock onto yours, intense and unblinking. “when you’re talking to jake, you have a habit of looking down at your shoes or glancing away every three seconds. it makes you look like you’re guilty of a crime. i want you to hold my gaze. don’t look away until i do.”
you brace yourself and look straight into his eyes. one second passes. then two. the sheer intensity of his stare feels like a physical weight in the room. by second four, your heart is pounding, your throat feels dry, and your eyes instinctively dart toward the window.
jay lets out a soft, amused scoff. “four seconds. tragic. again.”
you lock eyes with him again, biting the inside of your cheek. this time, you manage to hold it, but you can feel your face flushing a bright, furious pink.
jay watches the blush spread across your cheeks, a slow, lazy half-smile spreading across his face. he’s clearly enjoying how easily he can fluster you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “you’re cute when you’re panicking, you know that? but you need to relax your shoulders. you look like a statue.”
“it’s hard,” you complain, your voice a little high. “you’re staring at me like a hawk.”
“jake is going to stare at you too, newbie. you need to get used to it,” jay teases, leaning back in his chair with a playful grin. “alright, let’s move on to flirting and light teasing. pretend i’m jake. we’re at a party, i just walked up to you, and i say, ‘hey, i like your outfit.’ how do you respond?”
you clear your throat, trying to channel every romantic comedy you’ve ever watched. you try to mimic the slow, confident smirk jay always uses, but your lips twitch awkwardly.
“oh, this old thing?” you say, your voice dripping with a completely unnatural, overly dramatic theatricality. you even throw in a bizarre little hair flip that feels entirely forced. “thanks. i guess you don’t look too bad yourself.”
the room goes completely silent.
jay just stares at you for three long seconds, his expression an unbelievable mix of utter disbelief and pure, unadulterated amusement. then, he buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him.
“oh my god,” jay groans, looking up at you with tears of laughter in his eyes. “that was… easily the worst thing i have ever heard in my entire life.”
“hey!” you yell, grabbing a stray pillow from his bed and throwing it at his chest. your face is practically purple with embarrassment. “i told you i was bad at this!”
jay catches the pillow effortlessly, still laughing. “bad? newbie, that wasn’t just bad. that was completely goofy. you sounded like a cartoon villain trying to seduce a detective. and what was that hair flip? did you have a muscle spasm?”
“stop laughing at me!” you hide your face in your hands, completely mortified. “this was a mistake. i’m leaving.”
“no, stay, sit down,” jay says, his laughter finally dying down into a wide, bright grin. he tosses the pillow back onto the bed and leans in closer, his voice dropping into a softer, playful murmur. “i'm sorry, i shouldn't laugh. it was honestly kind of endearing. but we definitely have our work cut out for us.”
you peek through your fingers at him, pouty and defensive. “fine. how am i supposed to say it, mr. expert?”
jay shifts in his chair, his entire demeanor changing in a split second. the laughter vanishes, replaced by a smooth, magnetic confidence that makes your breath hitch. he looks at you, his eyes dropping to your lips for a microsecond before rising back to your eyes. a small, knowing grin plays at the corner of his mouth.
“if i say ‘i like your outfit,’ you don’t act like a theater kid,” jay says softly, his voice a low, teasing purr that makes goosebumps break out on your arms. “you look him right in the eye, hold it for a second, smile just a little bit, and say… ‘thanks. i wore it hoping you’d notice.’”
you stare at him, your mouth slightly open, completely paralyzed by how smoothly he delivered the line. the air in the dorm suddenly feels incredibly thick, the playful atmosphere from a second ago completely evaporating into something heavy and charged.
jay holds your gaze for a beat longer, making sure the lesson lands, before breaking the tension with a quiet chuckle. he taps his fingers against his knee, leaning back in his chair. “see the difference? subtle. playful. now, let’s try it again. and this time, keep your hair exactly where it is.”
you swallow the lump in your throat, trying desperately to shake off the weird shiver that just ran down your spine. he’s just demonstrating, you remind yourself. he does this for fun.
“okay,” you mutter, pulling your knees up to your chest on his bed and trying to center yourself. “subtle. no theater-kid energy. got it.”
“alright. take two,” jay says, his expression shifting back into that smooth, predatory calm. he locks his eyes onto yours. “hey. i like your outfit.”
you force yourself not to look away. you look at his dark eyes, then let your gaze drop slightly to his lips — just like he did — before looking back up. you attempt a small, knowing smile, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
“thanks,” you say, your voice a little softer than usual, a little more genuine. “i wore it hoping you’d notice.”
jay doesn't laugh this time. he stays perfectly still, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in your bottom lip. for a second, his grin falters, replaced by a sharp, intense curiosity that makes your stomach do a violent flip. then, the lazy crooked smile creeps back onto his face, and he nods approvingly.
“better,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “way better. see? you don’t need to put on a performance. guys like jake — and guys like me — we can tell when a girl is trying too hard. authenticity is hotter than any script you could write. you just have to let yourself feel the tension instead of running away from it.”
the rest of the hour goes by in a blur of intense eye contact and brutal, playful critiques. jay puts you through a dozen different scenarios. he teaches you how to respond to a compliment without deflecting it, how to use a quiet pause in conversation to your advantage, and how a simple change in posture can make you look completely magnetic.
he doesn't miss a single chance to tease you, though. every time you stumble over your words or give a goofy response, he boops your nose with his pen or groans dramatically into his hands. but by the time the alarm on his phone buzzes to signal the end of the hour, you realize something shocking: you aren’t so uncomfortable anymore. you’re actually laughing with him.
“alright, session one complete,” jay says, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, pulling his hoodie up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his toned stomach. you quickly look away, your face heating up again. he catches you, of course, and just smirks. “homework for tonight: practice looking people in the eye. the cashier at the dining hall, your professors, yunjin. don’t look down.”
“fine, professor park,” you roll your eyes, sliding off his bed and grabbing your bag. “thanks. for not totally giving up on me.”
“i don't give up on my projects, newbie,” he says, walking you to the door. he opens it, leaning against the frame and looking down at you with a soft, surprisingly warm expression. “see you in two days. don't overthink it.”
“i'll try,” you murmur, giving him a small wave before turning and walking down the hallway.
the walk back to your apartment is a long one, and the cool evening air does nothing to calm the frantic state of your brain. you wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself, your sneakers clicking rhythmically against the pavement as you re-read every single moment of the last hour in your head.
your mind is a chaotic mess of conflicting thoughts.
first of all, jay was right. the theoretical approach did help. just understanding the mechanics of how to hold a gaze and how to drop your voice made you feel like a secret weapon was being built inside you. you find yourself imagining using those exact tricks on jake next tuesday at the café. you imagine looking jake in the eye, holding his gaze, and saying something subtle and confident. the thought makes your stomach flutter with a nervous, happy anticipation. it’s exactly what you wanted.
but as you cross the street near the campus green, another thought creeps in, unbidden and entirely unwelcome.
jay.
you pull a breath into your lungs, a strange, tight feeling in your chest. you had gone into that room completely terrified of him, expecting a cold, arrogant guy who would judge your total lack of experience. instead, he had been… patient. incredibly observant. and so frustratingly attractive that it felt like a safety hazard.
when he had delivered that line — i wore it hoping you’d notice — the look in his eyes hadn't felt like a lesson at all. it had felt entirely too real. the way his voice had dropped, the way he had effortlessly controlled the energy in the room… it was terrifying how easily he could manipulate your feelings with just a shift in his posture.
he’s a professional, you remind yourself sternly, walking up the steps to your apartment building. he has a reputation for a reason. he’s doing this to help you with jake. do not confuse the lines.
yet, as you unlock your front door and hear yunjin yelling something from the kitchen, you can’t shake the memory of jay’s lazy, knowing smirk from your mind. you had spent weeks stressing yourself sick over jake sim, but as you step into your apartment, you realize with a sudden wave of panic that learning how to play the game with jay park might be a hundred times more dangerous.
-------
two days later, you find yourself back outside room 314. you don't even need to take three deep breaths this time — only two.
when jay opens the door, he’s wearing a faded vintage band tee and dark jeans, looking like he just rolled out of bed but somehow still managed to look effortlessly attractive. he takes one look at your face, steps back to let you in, and closes the door with a quiet click.
“welcome back, newbie,” he says, a lazy grin already spreading across his face. “did you do your homework? did you look the dining hall lady in the eye, or did you stare at your tater tots again?”
“i looked her straight in the eye,” you say proudly, tossing your tote bag onto his desk chair. “she looked confused, but i didn’t look down once.”
“proud of you,” jay chuckles, walking over to his mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. he takes a sip before turning his full attention to you, his eyes sweeping over your outfit before locking onto yours. “alright, today is lesson two. we’re graduating from eye contact. today is all about compliments, voice tone, and what i like to call ‘innocent’ touching. leaning in, brushing an arm, breaking the physical barrier without making it a big deal. ready?”
you nod, though your stomach does a familiar little nervous flip. “ready.”
“good. sit on the bed,” jay commands smoothly, pulling his desk chair over so he’s sitting directly across from you again, only this time, he hitches the chair closer. his knees are barely a few inches from yours. the proximity alone makes the air feel instantly thick. “let’s start with compliments and tone. a lot of girls think giving a compliment means squealing and saying ‘oh my god your hair looks so good today!’ that’s friend-zone energy. jake doesn't need another cheerleader. he needs to know you see him as a man. understand?”
“yeah,” you murmur, swallowing hard.
“so, voice tone is everything. drop your volume. speak from your chest, not your throat. make him lean in to hear you,” jay instructs, his own voice dropping into that low, gravelly pitch that makes your ears tingle. “let’s try it. i walk up to you. i’m jake. i’m wearing a nice cologne. compliment me.”
you take a second to clear your throat, trying to channel your inner siren. you lean forward slightly, look him in the eye, and speak in what you think is a sultry whisper. “wow, jay. you smell really… nice. like a tree.”
jay blinks. the room is dead silent for three seconds.
then, he lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, burying his face in his hands. “like a tree? like a tree? oh my god, newbie, please tell me you’re joking.”
“it’s sandalwood!” you protest, your face instantly turning a furious shade of crimson as you grab his pillow again, though this time he anticipates it and firmly plants a hand on it before you can throw it. “you literally smell like sandalwood and cedar! that’s a tree!”
“you sound like a park ranger,” jay groans, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulls the pillow out of your hands. “and your voice went all breathy and weird at the end, like you were running out of oxygen. i said drop your pitch, not sound like you have asthma.”
“i told you i’m bad at this!” you whine, burying your burning face in your hands. “this is why i’m a virgin, jay. i have negative game.”
“hey, look at me,” jay says, his voice softening, though the vibrant amusement is still dancing in his dark eyes. he gently reaches out and taps your wrist until you drop your hands from your face. “it’s fine. that’s why you’re here. let’s try it again, but don’t think about the specific words. don’t describe the scent. just focus on how it makes you feel. and keep the voice steady. smooth. try it.”
you take a deep breath, looking into his eyes. you wait a beat, letting the silence stretch just like he taught you in lesson one. then, keeping your voice low and stable, you say, “you smell really good today. it’s distracting.”
jay pauses. his smirk falters for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening just a tiny bit as he processes the delivery. a slow, appreciative smile replaces his laughter. “there we go. that’s the tone. smooth, grounded, a little bit dangerous. jake would literally lose his mind if you said that to him.”
a rush of pride swells in your chest. you actually did it.
“alright, now let’s add the physical element,” jay says, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “innocent touching is all about making it look accidental. it has to look accidental, but feel intentional. a brush of the shoulder when you laugh, a lingering touch on the arm when you’re emphasizing a point. it makes the moments stick, you know? let’s combine them. give me that same compliment, but this time, i want you to break the physical barrier.”
your heart restarts its frantic rhythm. touching him wasn’t part of the original plan, but this is entirely safe — just an arm, just a shoulder. theoretical practice in action.
“okay,” you whisper.
you look at him. you focus on your breathing, trying to get rid of the tension in your shoulders. you lean in slightly, your eyes dropping to his lips before rising back to his eyes. you reach your hand out, your fingers trembling just a fraction, and gently brush your fingertips against his forearm, letting them linger on the soft fabric of his sleeve.
“you smell really good today,” you say softly, your voice perfectly steady this time. “it’s distracting.”
you expect jay to pull back, or to laugh, or to give you another critique. instead, jay doesn't even flinch. he doesn't get nervous at all; if anything, the touch seems to ground him. his eyes track your hand on his arm, and then slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head, a devastatingly handsome, wicked grin pulling at his lips.
he doesn't break your touch. instead, he leans forward, bringing his face so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
“is it?” jay murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, completely turning the tables on you. “if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie… you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.”
your breath hitches completely. your heart thumps so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. he’s completely unbothered, completely in control, flirting back with an effortless grace that leaves you completely breathless.
“you… you cheated,” you squeak out, frantically pulling your hand back and sitting straight up, your face hot enough to fry an egg. “you’re not supposed to flirt back! you’re supposed to be jake!”
jay lets out a low, rich chuckle, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, looking immensely pleased with himself. “jake is going to flirt back, newbie. if a girl touched him like that and gave him that compliment, he wouldn't just sit there like a log. he’s going to lean in. you need to learn how to handle the counter-attack.”
you pout, crossing your arms defensively. “you’re just showing off.”
“maybe a little,” he admits, his eyes crinkling with that playful, arrogant charm. “but you did great. seriously. the touch was perfect — light, lingering, just enough to make a guy notice. let’s try another one. this time, let’s practice the ‘laugh and lean.’ when i say something funny, you lean in, laugh naturally, and let your shoulder brush mine. let’s see if you can handle it without panicking.”
for the next hour, the room feels like a battlefield of tension and laughter. you practice over and over again. you try leaning in to whisper something “secretive” in his ear, your breath brushing against his neck, which makes jay’s jaw tighten for a brief second before he recovers with a smooth, teasing remark. you practice brushing a stray piece of lint off his shoulder, letting your fingers drag slowly down his chest.
every time you do it well, jay praises you, his voice warm and encouraging, but he never lets you get too comfortable. he always pushes back — catching your wrist gently, leaning into your space, or dropping a low, dangerous compliment right back to test your boundaries. he doesn't get flustered, but you notice that as the lesson goes on, his jokes get a little quieter, his smirks a little softer, and his dark eyes stay locked onto yours with an intensity that makes it harder and harder to remember that this is just a game.
“alright,” jay finally says, his voice a bit rough as he checks his phone. “that’s enough torturing you for one day.”
you sink back against his pillows, completely exhausted but tingling with a weird, electric energy. “i think i actually did okay today.”
“you did better than okay,” jay says, standing up and looking down at you. he reaches out, and for a second, you think he’s going to tease you again, but instead, he gently runs his thumb over the side of your cheek, a surprisingly tender gesture that makes your heart stop. “you’re a quick learner, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”
he pulls his hand back smoothly, leaving your skin tingling where his thumb had just been. he walks to the door, opening it with that signature, lazy smirk.
“go home, get some rest. next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics. try not to lose sleep over it.”
you scramble off the bed, grabbing your bag and practically running past him into the hallway, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm as his quiet laughter follows you down the corridor.
the next monday, you’re sitting in the back row of your lecture hall, pretending to take notes on a PowerPoint about microeconomics. in reality, you’ve just been drawing mindless spirals in the margin of your notebook, your brain completely occupied by the memory of jay’s thumb brushing against your cheek.
“next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics.”
the memory of his low, rough voice echoes in your head, making you shiver despite the aggressive air conditioning in the auditorium.
suddenly, a sharp elbow digs into your ribs.
“you’re doing a new thing,” yunjin whispers loudly, leaning over the shared desk. she has her laptop open, but instead of notes, she has a blank word document filled with a massive, stylized question mark. “the ‘staring into the abyss like you’re trying to decode the matrix’ thing. spill. now.”
“shh,” you hiss, keeping your eyes glued to the professor. “we’re in the middle of class.”
“the professor is seventy-five and doesn’t have his hearing aids turned up, babe. talk,” yunjin demands, sliding her chair a microscopic inch closer to yours. her eyes narrow, her strawberry lip gloss catching the fluorescent lights as she tilts her head. “it’s been days. you’ve been acting weirdly quiet, you didn’t spiral once this weekend, and you’ve been practicing weirdly intense eye contact with the barista at the campus cafe. which means… the lessons started. how is jay park?”
your face immediately flares up, the heat rising rapidly from your neck to your cheeks. you grab your highlighter and aggressively color over a random definition on your paper. “it’s fine. it’s going fine.”
“‘it’s fine’ does not make a girl turn the color of a fire hydrant,” yunjin points out, a massive, predatory grin spreading across her face. she leans in so close her coconut-scented hair brushes your shoulder. “oh my god. did you guys do it? did he break his rule? did you break the no-fucking clause already? details, give me details!”
“no! oh my god, no!” you whisper-yell, frantically looking around to see if any of the athletes in the row ahead of you heard. luckily, they’re all asleep. you drop your voice to a desperate, tiny whisper. “we didn’t do anything. i told you, it’s completely theoretical. he promised.”
“okay, okay, keeping it professional. i respect it,” yunjin says, waving a dismissive hand, though her eyes are still dancing with intense curiosity. “so what exactly happens in a ‘theoretical’ sex lesson with jay park? does he use a whiteboard? powerpoint slides?”
“no,” you mumble, hiding the lower half of your face behind your hand. “he… we just sit in his dorm. he makes me practice scenarios. the first lesson was just eye contact and light teasing. he basically told me i have the flirting skills of a cartoon villain.”
yunjin bursts out into a short, choked laugh, quickly covering her mouth with her sleeve when the professor coughs. “i mean, he’s not wrong, babe. remember freshman year when you tried to wink at that guy on the club team and looked like you were having a neurological event?”
“i’m better now!” you defend yourself, your voice tight. “jay fixed it. well, he’s fixing it. we had lesson two a couple days ago.”
yunjin leans in even closer, her notebook completely forgotten. “and? what was lesson two?”
“compliments. voice tone. and… innocent touching,” you whisper, your chest tightening just thinking about it. “like, leaning in and brushing his arm. or laughing and letting our shoulders touch.”
yunjin’s jaw literally drops. she stares at you, her eyes wide. “wait. you touched jay park? the guy who usually looks like he’ll have you legally removed from his presence if you breathe his oxygen? how did he react? did he flinch?”
“no, that’s the thing,” you groan, burying your face in your notebook for a second before looking back at her miserably. “he didn't flinch at all. yunjin, he’s completely immune to me. when i gave him the compliment and touched his arm, i thought i did a really good job. i dropped my voice, i held his gaze, all of it. but then he just… he didn't even blink. he just leaned all the way into my face and flirted back. he said something like, ‘if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie, you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.’”
yunjin lets out a low, silent gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “oh my god. newbie? he calls you newbie? that is so disgustingly hot, i think i’m going to throw up.”
“it’s not hot, it’s terrifying!” you whined, chewing on the cap of your pen. “he is so effortlessly in control of the room. every time i think i’m getting the hang of it, he just raises the stakes to test if i’ll panic. he spent the whole hour praising me when i did it right, but then he'd immediately counter-attack to show me how a guy would react. by the end of it, my heart was beating so hard i thought i was going to pass out.”
yunjin studies your face, her playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more analytical, a small, knowing grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “and what about jake? are you thinking about jake when you’re doing all this?”
the question catches you completely off guard. you pause, your pen hovering over the paper.
“i… yeah,” you say, though the answer feels a little delayed, a little less certain than it should be. “of course i am. the whole point of this is so i don’t ruin things with jake. i keep imagining using the tricks on him.”
“right. of course,” yunjin says softly, though the look she gives you is incredibly perceptive. she taps her chin. “so, what’s next on the syllabus, student of the year?”
you swallow hard, the bell suddenly ringing to signal the end of the lecture. you pack your laptop into your bag with slightly trembling hands, refusing to look yunjin in the eye as you mutter the final detail.
“kissing mechanics. we’re doing kissing next.”
yunjin pauses mid-stride as you both walk out into the crowded hallway, a massive, thrilled grin spreading across her face. “oh, babe. you are playing with actual fireworks. good luck surviving that one.”
-------
the next afternoon, you find yourself walking back up the stairs of the west quad. your nerves are completely fried, mostly because yunjin’s warning about "playing with fireworks" has been looping in your brain for the last twenty-four hours. kissing mechanics. the words alone make your pulse skyrocket.
when jay opens the door to room 314, he’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and charcoal grey cargo pants. he looks you up and down, a faint, amused smile lingering on his lips. "come on in, newbie."
you step into the familiar, sandalwood-scented space and immediately drop your bag by his desk, hopping onto the edge of his bed. before he can even sit down in his usual chair, the words start spilling out of your mouth in an anxious rush.
"okay, so something happened," you blurts out, waving your hands around. "jake came up to me yesterday at the student union. he was wearing his soccer jersey and he literally leaned against my locker and told me my hair looked pretty."
jay pauses, capping his water bottle and looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "and? did you use the eye contact?"
"yes! i held his gaze for like, five whole seconds," you say proudly, leaning forward. "and then i tried to do the subtle, playful voice thing you taught me. i looked at his jersey and said, 'thanks, you don't look too bad yourself.' but jay, the second the words left my mouth, i panicked. i got so incredibly awkward. i think my shoulders went up to my ears, and i literally backed into the locker door so hard it made a loud clanging sound."
jay stares at you for a beat, and then he breaks. he covers his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him. "you backed into a locker? newbie, please tell me you didn't."
"i did!" you groan, burying your face in his pillows. "it was terrible. but… the weird part is, it might not have ruined everything? he’s been texting me literally all day today. look."
you scramble to pull out your phone, unlocking it and flashing the screen at him. there’s a string of text messages from jake, filled with emojis and casual questions about your week.
jay steps closer, leaning down slightly to look at the screen. his eyes scan the notifications, and a low, thoughtful hum hums in his throat. he straightens back up, crossing his arms over his chest, his playful smirk turning into a highly analytical expression.
"okay, first of all, the text volume is good. he's definitely hooked," jay says, tilting his head. "but based on your little locker incident, i'm officially changing the syllabus for today."
you peek up from the pillow. "wait, what? aren't we doing kissing mechanics today?"
"absolutely not," jay says smoothly, a wicked, completely teasing grin spreading across his sharp features. "no offense, newbie, but if you're still crashing into structural steel because a guy complimented your hair, you are legally not ready for the kissing lesson. you'd probably faint on him."
"hey!" you protest, sitting straight up and kicking your legs out, though you can't help the blush spreading across your face. "i was just caught off guard!"
"exactly. which is why we need to build your confidence up through texts and pictures first," jay says, walking over to his closet and leaning his shoulder against the frame. "given how much he's texting you right now, it’s the perfect opportunity. so, lesson three: how to dress sexier, body language upkeep, and sending suggestive texts and photos."
your jaw drops. "photos? like… selfies?"
"relax, i don't mean nudes," jay scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes. "i mean the kind of photos that make a guy stare at his phone for ten minutes straight. subtle hints. showing off your collarbone, an arched back, a casual half-smile. the kind of stuff that says 'i'm not trying,' even though you absolutely are."
he walks over to your bag and picks it up, tossing it onto the bed next to you. "dump it out. let’s see what clothes you brought today, and then we're going to fix your text game."
for the next hour, jay takes his role entirely too seriously. he makes you stand up to practice your posture — forcing your shoulders down, teaching you how to subtly arch your back when you're sitting so your silhouette looks sharper, and showing you how to cross your legs to elongate your frame.
then comes the text interrogation. he sits right next to you on the bed, his shoulder pressing against yours, looking over your screen as you type.
"no, delete that exclamation point. it makes you sound too eager," jay commands, his thumb reaching over to tap your screen. "type this instead: 'busy right now, but i might have time for you later.' it creates mystery. it makes him want to compete for your attention."
"isn't that a little mean?" you ask, looking up at him.
"it's not mean, it's a hook," jay murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on yours from mere inches away. "trust me. watch how fast he replies."
you hit send. less than thirty seconds later, jake replies: 'what are you up to? let me know when you're free x'.
you stare at the screen in absolute shock. "oh my god. you're a wizard."
"i'm a guy. i know how our brains work," jay smirks, entirely pleased with himself. "now, let's seal the deal. we're sending a photo. stand up."
you get up, your heart doing a nervous dance as jay picks up your phone. he walks you over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of his door, positioning you just right where the warm afternoon light hits your face.
"your sweater is too high. pull it slightly off one shoulder," jay instructs, his voice dropping into that focused, professional tone.
you hesitantly tug the knit fabric down, exposing your collarbone. jay steps behind you, looking at your reflection in the mirror. he frowns slightly, stepping closer until his chest is almost pressed against your back. he reaches out, his warm, large hands gently gripping your waist to adjust your posture, tilting your hips just a fraction.
"don't look directly at the camera like a deer in headlights," jay murmurs near your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "look slightly down, tilt your chin up. think about something that makes you feel good."
your whole body feels like it's on fire from his touch. your reflection in the mirror shows your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your eyes dark and wide. jay raises your phone, snapping a few photos. he pulls away smoothly, scrolling through the gallery before handing the phone back to you.
you look at the screen and literally gasp. the photo doesn't even look like you. it looks incredibly soft, effortless, and undeniably sexy. your collarbone stands out, your lips are slightly parted, and the flush on your cheeks looks intentional.
"send him that one," jay says, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms, watching your reaction with an intensely satisfied smirk. "and don't add a caption. just let him suffer."
you hit send, your hands shaking. almost instantly, the typing bubbles appear from jake's contact.
they bounce up and down, then disappear, then start up again. jake is clearly panicking on the other end, deleting and rewriting his response just like you had done nights ago.
jay steps closer, leaning over your shoulder to look down at the screen. his chest gently brushes your back, the warm, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne enveloping you completely. “look at that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble right next to your ear. “he’s losing his mind. i told you.”
finally, the text comes through.
jake: oh wow. you look really pretty. where are you?
you automatically start typing a reply, your fingers flying across the keyboard. i’m just hanging out at a friend’s dorm.
“stop, stop, stop,” jay says, his hand suddenly coming down over yours to physically halt your thumbs. his palms are warm and broad, completely wrapping around your hands. a jolt of electricity zaps straight up your arms. he doesn't pull away immediately; instead, he slowly guides your hands down, forcing you to lower the phone. “what did i say about theater-kid energy? you’re giving away too much information, newbie. you’re killing the mystery.”
“but he asked where i am!” you protest, looking up at him over your shoulder. your faces are incredibly close, so close you can count the dark lashes framing his piercing eyes.
jay just smiles, that slow, devastatingly confident grin that makes him look entirely too in control. he reaches out and smoothly takes the phone right out of your fingers. “he doesn’t get to know where you are. he didn't earn that yet. right now, he’s sitting in his room staring at a photo of your bare shoulder. we need to lean into that.”
he taps the screen, typing out a message with one hand while keeping his eyes locked on yours. “if he asks where you are, you don’t give him a location. you give him a tease.”
he turns the phone around to show you what he wrote.
you: somewhere you’re not. 😉
your jaw drops. “jay! that is so forward! i can't say that!”
“you didn't say it, i did. now watch,” he says, tapping send before you can grab the device back.
you watch the screen in an agony of suspense. the response from jake is almost instantaneous this time.
jake: that’s not fair. maybe i want to be there.
your breath hitches. jake has never talked to you like this before. usually, his texts are sweet, casual, and safe. jay’s little formula is completely shifting the dynamic, turning a simple crush into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.
“see?” jay says, his tone dripping with playful smugness as he slides the phone back into your hands. he leans his hip against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms and looking down at you. “he’s chasing now. when a guy says ‘maybe i want to be there,’ he’s testing the waters. he wants to see if the door is open. so, what do you do?”
“i… i tell him he can come over?” you guess, completely out of your depth.
jay groans, tossing his head back dramatically. “no! god, newbie, you’re trying to speed-run this. if you invite him over now, you’re giving up all your power. you have to make him work for it. keep him on his toes.”
he steps back into your personal space, the playful arrogance in his eyes shifting into something focused and instructional. he grabs your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up so you’re forced to look directly into his dark eyes.
“this is the suggestive texting masterclass,” jay explains softly, his thumb lightly brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. “you always want to imply a double meaning. you want him to read your texts and wonder if you’re being totally innocent or incredibly dirty. it keeps his mind completely occupied with thoughts of you.”
he lets go of your chin, but the ghost of his touch leaves a burning trail on your skin. he points at your phone. “type this: ‘i don’t know, jake. i’m kind of a handful. not sure you could handle it.’”
your fingers are practically sweating as you type out the words exactly as he dictated. you hit send.
the typing bubbles appear immediately.
jake: try me. i’m pretty good at handling things.
you let out a soft, choked gasp, completely floored by the sheer boldness of jake's reply. your face is burning hot, your heart hammering against your ribs. you look up at jay, wide-eyed and completely breathless. “oh my god. it worked. it actually worked.”
jay doesn't look surprised at all. if anything, he’s studying your reaction with an intense, quiet curiosity. his eyes drop to your flushed cheeks, then down to your parted lips, before slowly rising back to meet your gaze. the playful, teasing smirk slowly fades from his face, replaced by a heavy, unreadable expression.
“of course it worked,” jay murmurs, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. he steps a fraction closer, completely erasing the distance between you until your clothes are almost brushing. “you’re a beautiful girl, newbie. when you actually give a guy a green light, he’s going to run straight through it.”
the air in the dorm room becomes completely stagnant, thick with a sudden, suffocating wave of tension. jay is looking at you with an intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his gaze feels heavy, physical, like a hand tracing the curve of your neck. for a terrifying, thrilling second, you forget all about your phone, all about jake’s texts, and all about the rules of these lessons.
you stare up at him, your heart in your throat, completely paralyzed by how easily he can shift the gravity in the room.
jay holds your gaze for one more lingering, breathless second. then, just as quickly as it appeared, the heavy tension snaps. a lazy, familiar smirk creeps back onto his sharp features, and he steps back, breaking the spell.
“alright, lock your phone,” jay says, tapping the top of your head playfully. “that’s enough digital damage for today. leave him on read for a few hours. let him stew in his own thoughts while he waits for you to reply.”
you quickly lock your screen, nodding dumbly as you try to force your lungs to remember how to breathe normally.
“lesson three concluded,” jay says, walking over to the door and swinging it open, looking entirely unbothered by the emotional hurricane he just caused in your chest. he gives you a sharp, teasing wink. “next time, newbie… we’re finally doing kissing mechanics. don’t forget to practice your posture before then.”
-------
four days pass, and your life feels like it has been completely split into two entirely different realities.
on one side of the screen, there’s the jake sim reality. and to your absolute shock, jay’s blueprint is working flawlessly. jake has been pursuing you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. when you see him on campus now, he doesn't just give you a sweet, friendly wave from across the quad. he actively detours to walk with you to class. when you talk, his eyes don't wander; they stay locked onto your face, and he looks at you with this intense, focused hunger that makes your stomach do backflips.
last night, he texted you out of nowhere at 11:00 p.m. just to say he saw a sweater in a store window that reminded him of the photo you sent, adding a little tongue-in-cheek comment about how he's still waiting to find out where "somewhere you're not" is.
it's everything you wanted. you're finally getting the boy you’ve been pining over since freshman orientation. you should be ecstatic. you should be texting yunjin in a flurry of capital letters and celebratory emojis.
but instead, you find yourself staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dead of night, feeling completely untethered.
the truth is a terrifying, heavy weight in your chest, and admitting it to yourself feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. because every time jake texts you, a tiny, dark voice in the back of your mind whispers that it isn’t actually your game he’s falling for. it’s jay’s. you’re just the actress reciting lines written by a boy who understands the mechanics of desire like the back of his hand.
and then there's the next lesson.
kissing mechanics.
your stomach drops into a cold abyss every time you think about it. you’re terrified. actual, physical kissing is a universe away from just holding eye contact or letting your shoulders brush during a laugh. it means jay’s hands on you. it means his face inches from yours, his lips touching yours, his sharp jawline, his heavy, low breathing. even if it’s entirely "theoretical" — even if he's just using his fingers to map out where to press or demonstrating the pacing on a pillow or explaining the biology of how a guy reacts — the mere thought of being that close to him makes your chest tighten until it hurts.
but beneath the suffocating layers of panic, there is an even darker, more humiliating truth that you barely have the courage to acknowledge in the privacy of your own head.
you were disappointed.
when you walked into room 314 a few days ago, fully braced for the kissing lesson, your heart had been pounding because you thought you were finally going to cross that terrifying physical threshold with him. and when jay had laughed, called you a newbie, and casually pushed the lesson back because you "weren't ready," a sudden, sharp pang of rejection had sliced right through you.
you had spent the rest of that afternoon acting annoyed and pouty, but deep down, your skin had been practically begging for the exact thing you claimed to be afraid of. you had wanted him to look at you and decide you were ready. you had wanted to know what his lips felt like, even if it was just a clinical demonstration.
it's a dangerous, toxic thought. jay is your tutor. he’s sunghoon’s best friend, a guy known for his selective, zero-strings-attached reputation, and he is actively helping you construct a trap to catch jake. confusing your feelings now would be absolute social suicide. it would ruin everything.
you roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tightly around your shoulders as you look at your phone. tomorrow afternoon is the day. there are no more text modules left to practice. no more posture corrections or wardrobe updates.
tomorrow, you have to look jay park in the eye and let him teach you how to kiss.
and as you close your eyes, trying to force yourself to sleep, you realize with a jolt of pure panic that you aren't sure which reality you're more afraid of anymore: the one where you finally kiss jake sim, or the one where you have to watch jay pull away from you when the lesson is over.
-------
the rain is drumming a steady rhythm against the glass of room 314 when you walk in. the afternoon light is weak, casting the dorm in a hazy, intimate shadow that immediately makes your throat feel dry. jay is sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs spread, hands loosely clasped between his knees. he’s wearing a soft, oversized gray crewneck sweater, looking entirely relaxed, while your nerves are stretched so tight they’re practically screaming.
“welcome back, newbie,” jay says, his voice softer than usual, matching the quiet hum of the rain. he tracks your movement as you set your bag down, his eyes lingering on your tense shoulders. “you look like you’re walking to the gallows.”
“i’m just… anticipating,” you mumble, sitting on the opposite end of the bed, pulling your knees to your chest.
jay watches you for a beat, a faint, understanding smile touching his lips. “right. lesson four. kissing mechanics.” he shifts, leaning back against his headboard, his expression turning professional, though his dark eyes retain that sharp, observant glint. “before we start, a reminder of the rules. we agreed on a strict blueprint. entirely theoretical. no physical interaction. i’m here to give you the breakdown so you can take it to jake. clear?”
“clear,” you say. you try to sound relieved. you try to make your voice bright and cooperative. but a small, involuntary drop in your tone betrays you, a tiny hesitation that doesn’t escape his notice. a sudden, heavy wave of disappointment washes through you, sharp and humiliating, and you hate yourself for feeling it. you should be grateful for the boundary, but your skin feels suddenly cold.
jay’s eyes narrow slightly, analyzing the split-second change in your expression, but he doesn't comment on it. instead, he clears his throat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“alright. let’s break down the mechanics,” jay begins, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always makes your pulse spike. “kissing isn’t just about the lips, newbie. if you just dive in, it’s clumsy. it starts with the pacing. when jake leans in, you don’t rush to meet him halfway. you let him do the work. you tilt your chin up, keep your lips slightly parted — just a fraction — and breathe out softly. it signals invitation.”
you nod, trying to memorize the words, but your brain is panicking because jay is demonstrating the head tilt himself, his sharp jawline defining itself in the dim amber light of his desk lamp.
“when the actual contact happens, you start slow,” jay continues, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. “it’s a gentle pressure. one lip tucked between his. you hold it for a beat, let the warmth build, and then you shift. it’s a rhythm. you use your hands — remember lesson two? — you let your fingers rest right on the side of his neck, just below the jaw. your thumb rests on his cheekstone. it stabilizes the movement, and it drives a guy absolutely crazy because it feels grounding.”
as he speaks, jay mimics the hand placement in the air, his long, elegant fingers moving with a slow grace that makes you track them like a hawk. the air in the room is growing increasingly thick, the space between you on the mattress suddenly feeling incredibly small.
“now,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “let’s practice the approach. the build-up of tension right before the lips touch is fifty percent of the kiss. if you panic there, the whole thing is ruined.”
he slides down the mattress, closing the distance between you until he’s sitting cross-legged directly in front of you. your knees are practically brushing.
“i’m going to act as if i’m going to kiss you,” jay instructs softly, his playful arrogance completely gone, replaced by a quiet, suffocating gravity. “i’m going to get close. your job is to hold eye contact, keep your breathing steady, and do not pull away. understand?”
“yes,” you whisper, your heart hammering so loudly against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it.
“look at me,” he commands gently.
you look up. jay leans in slowly.
the world outside the window completely ceases to exist. his movements are deliberate, agonizingly drawn out, giving your brain time to register every single detail. you see the dark depth of his eyes, the slight curve of his nose, the perfect, soft shape of his lips. he tilts his head to the side, a fraction of an inch, mapping out the angle perfectly.
closer. you can smell the rich, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed with the clean scent of his skin.
closer. his chest is almost touching yours, the warmth radiating off his body enveloping you in a heat wave. your breath catches in your throat, your lips parting automatically, exactly the way he taught you. your eyes flutter, desperately wanting to close, but you force them to stay open, locked onto his.
he stops.
his lips are barely half an inch from yours. you can feel the literal heat of his breath brushing against your skin, hovering right over your mouth. the tension in the microscopic space between you is a physical, electric current, pulling at you, begging you to lean forward just a millimeter to erase the agony of the distance. your heart is in your throat. you are completely paralyzed, drowning in the proximity of him.
jay stays perfectly still for three agonizing, breathless seconds, his gaze raking over your eyes, your nose, your trembling mouth. his jaw tightens, a sudden, fierce flash of hunger crossing his features before he forces it down.
slowly, deliberately, jay pulls back. the sudden rush of cool air between you feels like a physical shock. he sits straight up, clearing his throat, though his breathing is visibly shallower than it was five minutes ago.
“just like that,” jay says, his voice a little rough, a little strained. “you held the gaze. you didn't panic. do that with jake, and he’ll—”
the mention of jake’s name feels like a bucket of ice water, snapping something inside you. you look at jay — at his parted lips, his flushed neck, the sheer, unbothered control he’s trying to fake — and a sudden, reckless wave of desperation overrides every single rule, every single boundary, and every shred of your common sense.
and then something you would've never expected comes out of your mouth:
“jay, can you give me a practical example?”
the words hang in the air. jay freezes, his usual smirk vanishing. and for the first time since you walked into room 314, jay park looks completely caught off guard. his dark eyes widen just a fraction, his posture locking up as he stares at you in absolute silence. he stares at your face like he’s waiting for you to say you’re joking. the only sound in the room is the sound of the rain against the windowpane.
“what?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he tilts his head, blinking down at you like he’s entirely convinced his ears are playing tricks on him. “what did you just say, newbie?”
the sudden realization of what just tumbled out of your mouth hits you like a physical blow. your stomach plummets, and a fierce, blinding heat instantly erupts across your cheeks, burning all the way down to your neck. you instinctively try to pull your knees tighter to your chest, wanting nothing more than to shrink into a microscopic atom and disappear into the mattress.
“i… um,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to a mortified, breathless whisper. you look down at your hands, your fingers frantically twisting the fabric of your pajama pants. “i said… can you give me a practical example? like… a real one.”
jay doesn't move. he just stays cross-legged in front of you, absorbing your words. then, slowly, the shock on his face melts away. a brilliant, wicked, and entirely amused grin spreads across his sharp features. he lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates deep in his chest, leaning back slightly on his hands as he studies your purple face.
“wow,” jay murmurs, his tone dripping with pure, unadulterated amusement. “the quiet girl strikes again. you really are full of surprises, aren't you?”
“stop laughing at me!” you whine, hiding your face in your hands. your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your teeth. “i’m being serious! i’m trying to be logical about this!”
“logical?” jay teases, his voice filled with a quiet, shaking laughter. he reaches out and gently, but firmly, tugs your wrists away from your face so you’re forced to look at him. he doesn't let go of your hands, keeping his fingers loosely looped around your wrists. “okay, professor. please, explain the logic to me. i’m dying to hear this.”
you swallow hard, your eyes darting everywhere but his lips. you try to summon every ounce of justification your panicked brain can manufacture.
“well… because!” you stammer, your voice incredibly shy, filled with an embarrassed pitch. “you said it yourself! you said kissing is all about the rhythm and the pacing. and— and you said if i panic during the approach, the whole thing is ruined! how am i supposed to know if i’m going to panic with jake if i haven't actually practiced the real thing? what if my timing is completely off? what if i accidentally bump teeth with him, jay? that would be traumatizing!”
jay listens to your anxious, stuttering speech, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. he looks incredibly smug, entirely enjoying how completely flustered you are.
“so,” jay says slowly, a lazy, teasing purr in his voice as he lightly squeezes your wrists. “let me get this straight. purely for educational purposes… for my duties as your instructor… you think we should break the non-physical clause. for the sake of science.”
“yes!” you whisper-yell, your face burning hotter, if that was even physically possible. “it’s just… a hands-on lab! like chemistry class! it makes perfect sense!”
“chemistry, huh?” jay echoes, his voice dropping an octave, the vibrant laughter in his eyes shifting into something much darker, much more intense.
he slowly releases your wrists, but he doesn't move back. instead, he slides even closer on the mattress, completely invading your personal space until the heat radiating from his body wraps around you like a blanket. the playful, mocking expression of his face softens into something dangerous.
“you’re a terrible liar, newbie,” jay murmurs, his eyes dropping to your parted lips, staring at them for a long, unhurried second before rising back to yours. “you’re not thinking about jake sim’s teeth right now. and you’re definitely not thinking about science.”
your breath hitches completely, your voice trapped in your throat.
“but…” jay whispers, his hand slowly rising to cup the side of your face, his broad palm warm against your burning cheek, his thumb gently resting right on your cheekbone — exactly where he had just described a minute ago. “if you’re really that worried about failing your practical exam… i guess your teacher is just going to have to show you how it’s done.”
jay doesn't give you a chance to think, to backtrack, or to let the embarrassment completely swallow you whole.
his fingers anchor themselves gently behind your neck, his thumb still resting right on your cheekbone, stabilizing you exactly the way he had mapped out verbally just moments before. he leans in, but there is no hesitation this time. the agonizing half-inch of space between your lips vanishes in a split second.
when his lips first touch yours, a gasp catches in your throat, and jay uses that exact fraction of a second to deepen the pressure. his lips are incredibly soft but firm, moving against yours with a practiced, devastating slow rhythm. a full-body shiver ripples through you, your hands automatically reaching out to clutch at the fabric of his soft gray sweater just to keep yourself grounded.
“breathe, newbie,” jay whispers against your mouth, his voice a low, rough vibration that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. “don't hold your breath. follow me, don't overthink it.”
he pulls back just a millimeter, letting the cool air hit your wet lips before tilting his head to a slightly different angle and sliding right back in. it's a gentle, heavy pressure. he tucks your lower lip between his, sucking on it so softly it makes a quiet, embarrassing sound echo in the quiet dorm room. you try to copy the movement, your lips parting a little more as you attempt to match his pace.
“there you go,” jay murmurs, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he praises you mid-kiss. his hand slides from your neck down to your shoulder, his broad palm squeezing gently through your clothes. “keep your hands right there. stay relaxed. you’re doing perfect.”
he leads you flawlessly, controlling the entire gravity of the moment. every time you feel like you're about to lose your mind from the sheer intensity of it, jay slows things down, lingering in a soft, pressing rhythm that lets you catch up. your eyes have completely fluttered shut now, the darkness making the sensation of his lips, his warm hands, and the intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne a thousand times more overwhelming. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the heat of his mouth, forgetting about the rain outside, forgetting about the syllabus, forgetting about everything.
when jay finally draws back, he does it slowly, his lips brushing against yours one last time before he fully breaks the contact.
the sudden loss of warmth leaves you feeling completely dazed. you slowly blink your eyes open, your chest heaving as you try to force air back into your lungs. jay is still hovering inches away from your face. his dark hair is slightly messy, his own breathing is visibly shallower, and his usually perfectly composed lips are a dark, flushed red. he’s staring down at you with a heavy, unreadable gaze that is entirely devoid of his usual playful arrogance.
for three long seconds, neither of you says a word.
then, reality comes crashing back down on you with the force of a tidal wave.
oh my god. you just kissed jay park. you practically begged him to do it. you used a fake excuse about "science" and "chemistry class" just to get him to put his hands on you.
a massive, blinding wave of mortification slaps you across the face. your cheeks explode into a furious, bright purple flush. you instantly let go of his sweater as if it had turned into white-hot iron, scrambling backward on the mattress until your back hits his headboard. you pull your knees all the way to your chest, burying your face completely in your arms, a small, choked groan escaping your throat.
“hey,” jay’s smooth voice breaks the silence, a soft, familiar chuckle bubbling up in his chest. you hear the mattress shift as he slides closer to you. “what are you hiding for? you’re the one who demanded a practical exam, professor.”
“please don’t look at me,” you whine into your knees, your voice incredibly muffled and strained with pure embarrassment. “i am going to jump out of that window. i am actually going to die right here on your bed.”
“don’t die yet, we still have to grade you,” jay teases, his tone dropping into that lazy, effortless purr. you feel his long fingers gently tap the top of your head. “come on, look up. i promise i won’t tease you too bad.”
you slowly, hesitantly lift your chin just enough to peek at him through the gap in your arms. jay is sitting right there, leaning his elbow on his knee with his chin resting in his palm, watching you with an incredibly amused, knowing grin.
“so,” jay murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto your wide, panicked ones. “how was the lesson? did it help clarify the mechanics for you?”
“i… yes,” you squeak out, your face still burning hot.
you pull your arms tighter around your legs, your heart still hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs. you are completely, thoroughly embarrassed — more humiliated than you have ever been in your entire life. but beneath the suffocating layers of shyness, as you look at jay's slightly curved lips, you feel a terrifyingly honest truth settling deep in your chest.
you liked it. you liked it a lot. in fact, you liked it so much that the mere thought of taking these newly learned "mechanics" and using them on jake sim suddenly felt entirely, completely impossible.
-------
you keep your mouth shut. you don’t tell yunjin. in fact, you don’t tell a single living soul.
when you get back to your shared apartment that evening, yunjin is sitting on the kitchen counter eating dry cereal straight from the box, her eyes instantly narrowing into little laser beams the second the front door clicks shut. you quickly mutter something about having a massive headache from the library lights, sprint into your bedroom, and lock the door behind you. if you open your mouth, even just to breathe, you’re terrified the taste of jay’s strawberry-and-mint lip balm will somehow manifest in the air and give you away.
you spend the next two days in a state of absolute, localized hysteria.
the embarrassment is a physical weight, pressing down on your chest until you feel lightheaded. you can't stop replaying the feeling of his broad palm cradling your jaw, the specific, gravelly pitch of his voice when he whispered “breathe, newbie,” and the agonizingly soft, rhythmic pull of his lips against yours. you had loved it. you had loved it so much that just thinking about it while sitting in a Tuesday morning lecture makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip.
and that’s not even the worst part. the worst part — the thing that is currently keeping you awake at 3:00 a.m. staring at your ceiling fan — is how the lesson had actually ended.
right before you had practically bolted out of his dorm room, your face still a catastrophic shade of purple, jay had stood by the door with his hands shoved casually into his cargo pants. he had looked down at you, that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk firmly back in place, and murmured: “since you passed your practical exam with such high marks, newbie… i’ll let you call the shots for lesson five. it can be anything you want. think about it.”
anything you want.
how are you supposed to walk back into room 314 on thursday afternoon, look jay park in his incredibly symmetrical, aristocratic face, and say: 'oh, yeah, hi, remember how i said i wanted to learn for science? well, the science was great, can we please just make out for another hour?'
you can’t. you literally cannot do that. it would destroy the flimsy, pathetic shield of "educational purposes" you’ve been hiding behind. it would mean admitting that you aren't a student trying to impress jake sim anymore; it would mean admitting that jay has completely, effortlessly rewired your brain in the span of three weeks.
speaking of jake, his reality is becoming increasingly harder to navigate. he texts you a picture of a coffee cup on Wednesday morning: 'at the café near the library. wish you were somewhere i am today.'
you stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. a week ago, a text like that would have made you scream into your pillow. it’s exactly what you wanted. it’s a direct reference to the tease jay helped you send him. but now, looking at the letters, all you can think about is jay’s chest pressed against your back, his warm hands adjusting your waist in front of the mirror, and his low voice telling you to let him suffer.
when you reply with a simple, sweet 'awkward timing, i'm stuck in a study group! next time x', it feels like you’re writing a script for a play you’ve completely lost interest in starring in.
by thursday afternoon, your anxiety has reached a fever pitch. you change your sweater twice, eventually settling on a high-necked, oversized crewneck that offers absolutely zero skin-to-air vulnerability. you walk up the stairs of the west quad like a prisoner marching to the electric chair, your knees feeling strangely hollow.
when you reach room 314, you stand outside the heavy wooden door for a full sixty seconds, your hand raised to knock, your heart hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs.
just be normal, you tell yourself, closing your eyes tightly. ask him to practice advanced flirting. ask him to break down how to read body language across a crowded room. do not look at his mouth. do not think about his hands.
you take one final, deep breath, brace your shoulders, and knock.
the door swings open, and jay is standing there looking entirely too comfortable in a soft cream-colored knit sweater and dark trousers. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, his gaze dropping to your high-necked crewneck before rising back to your face with a slow, knowing amusement.
“well, look who it is,” jay says, stepping back to let you into the room. the door closes behind you with a quiet, solid click that feels incredibly final. “come on in, newbie. i was starting to think you’d skipped town.”
“i wouldn’t skip town,” you mumble, keeping your eyes trained firmly on his desk as you walk past him. you sit on the very edge of his bed, your posture rigid and stiff, your hands tightly clasped in your lap.
jay doesn't sit in his desk chair this time. instead, he walks over and leans his hip against the edge of the mattress, just a couple of feet away from you. he crosses his arms, tilting his head as his sharp, observant eyes trace the tense line of your shoulders, the frantic way your fingers are twitching, and the obvious blush already coloring your cheeks.
“alright,” jay murmurs, his voice low and conversational. “lesson five. you’re calling the shots today. what’s on the agenda, professor? more chemistry labs, or are we pivoting?”
you clear your throat aggressively, trying to sound as clinical and professional as possible. “i think… i think we should practice advanced flirting. like, body language across a crowded room, or how to subtly command attention in a group conversation. i think that’s a really logical next step for jake.”
jay doesn't say anything for a long, agonizing beat. he just stands there, watching you stumble over your words. then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips, his eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated mischief. he knows you're lying. he can see right through your pathetic little shield, and he is clearly planning on playing dirty.
“advanced flirting in a crowd,” jay repeats smoothly, nodding his head as if he’s taking you completely seriously. “okay. sure. let’s practice that. but you know, advanced flirting isn’t just about looking across a room, newbie. it’s about what you do when you finally get close to someone in a crowded, loud space. when the music is too loud and you have to make them listen to only you.”
before you can even process his words, jay moves.
he slides onto the bed, shifting his weight until he is sitting directly beside you. his thigh presses flush against yours, the heavy, intoxicating warmth of his body immediately enveloping you. your breath hitches, your entire body going completely rigid as you stare straight ahead, terrified to look at him.
“let’s set the scene,” jay whispers, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through the mattress. he leans in closer, his chest brushing against your arm. “we’re at a busy bar. the music is throwing heavy bass. jake is standing right next to you, but there are people everywhere, pushing into your space. if you just talk normally, he won't hear you. you have to close the distance.”
he leans over, his face entering your peripheral vision. you bite your lip, staring straight ahead at his closet door, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs it feels painful.
then, jay eliminates the space entirely.
he leans over your shoulder, his chest pressing firmly against your back. he tilts his head, burying his face right in the crook of your neck, just an inch away from your sensitive skin. his hot, heavy breath fans out across your jawline and the side of your neck, sending a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine. you let out a soft, helpless gasp, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of your own sweater.
“if you want him to notice you,” jay murmurs, his lips brushing against the tiny hairs on your neck as he speaks, his voice a devastatingly hot, quiet rumble right against your ear, “you don’t shout over the noise. you lean in. right here. where it’s quiet.”
you can feel the warmth of his lips moving, the heat of his skin radiating into yours. the air in the room is completely gone, replaced by the suffocating, heavy scent of his sandalwood cologne. your mind is a chaotic, blurred mess; you can’t think about jake, you can’t think about advanced flirting, you can’t think about anything other than the agonizing friction of jay’s body pressed against yours.
“and then,” jay continues softly, his hand slowly rising to rest on the curve of your waist, his large palm squeezing gently through your thick sweater, anchoring you to him, “you tell him something confidential. something that makes him forget the entire room exists.”
he lingers there for an agonizing, breathless three seconds, his breath hot against your ear, letting the agonizing tension build until you’re practically trembling under his touch. you’re completely paralyzed, your lips parted, waiting, secretly begging for him to just turn your face and kiss you again.
instead, jay slowly draws his head back just a fraction. he doesn't move his body away, keeping his chest pressed to your back and his hand firmly on your waist, but he tilts his head so he can look at the side of your face. his eyes are dark, intense.
“but we aren't at a crowded bar, newbie,” jay whispers, his voice dropping even lower, turning into something raw and fiercely honest. his thumb rubs a slow circle into your waist. “it’s just you and me in a quiet room. and your shoulders are up to your ears because you’re lying to me.”
you swallow hard, a shaky breath escaping your lips.
jay leans in just a millimeter closer, his lips almost brushing your earlobe. “so stop playing games with me. look at me and tell me what you really want to do for lesson five.”
you swallow hard, the feel of his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of your sweater making it completely impossible to form a coherent thought. your gaze is frozen on the wrinkled blankets of his bed, your pulse hammering a rapid rhythm in your ears. jay doesn't move. he stays right there, his chest warm against your back, his breath a steady, intoxicating heat against the side of your neck, patiently waiting you out.
"i'm waiting, newbie," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr that completely undoes the last shred of your resolve.
"i... i want to practice kissing again," you blurts out, the words rushing out of you in a desperate, breathless squeak.
the hand on your waist pauses for a fraction of a second. jay doesn't immediately pull back, but you can feel the slight shift in his posture, the way his jaw tightens against your hair. you quickly scramble to cover your track, the sheer embarrassment forcing your brain into overdrive as you try to construct a pathetic safety net of logic.
"because— because of the mechanics!" you stammer quickly, your voice dropping to a mortified whisper as you twist your fingers together. "the last time... i was entirely caught off guard, jay. and i felt like i was completely awful at it. i didn't know where to put my hands, and my timing was definitely off, and... and if i'm going to be ready for jake, i need to actually make sure i can do the rhythm properly without freezing up. it’s just for the lesson. for practice."
the silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife. for three agonizing seconds, you’re entirely convinced you’ve gone too far, that he’s going to laugh at your transparent excuse and tell you the lesson is over.
then, slowly, jay draws back.
you force yourself to turn your head, your cheeks burning a bright, furious pink as you look at him. jay is studying your face, his dark eyes incredibly heavy and focused. the playful, arrogant smirk you expected isn't there; instead, his lips are parted slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your eyes with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"for practice," he echoes, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates straight to your core.
"yes," you whisper.
"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into something thick and serious. he slides closer, crossing his legs so he’s sitting directly in front of you, completely erasing the distance. "if we’re going to fix your rhythm, we need to do it right. look at me."
you lift your chin, your eyes locking onto his. jay doesn't hesitate this time. his large, warm hand rises, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring right on your jawline to tilt your face up. he leans in, and before your brain can even register the proximity, his lips are pressing firmly against yours.
the contact is an immediate shock of heat. unlike the brief practical exam from days ago, jay doesn't start with a gentle question. he slides his lips over yours with a slow, heavy confidence, guiding your mouth to open slightly with a soft, persistent pressure.
"put your hands on my shoulders," jay whispers directly against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he pulls back just a millimeter to give the instruction. "don't just let them hang there. hold onto me."
your hands shake as you lift them, your fingers clutching tightly at the soft cream fabric of his knit sweater. the moment your palms make contact with his broad shoulders, jay lets out a low, approving hum deep in his throat. he tilts his head to the opposite angle, his lips sealing over yours again, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate pace.
he teaches you through the movement itself. when your movements get too rushed or frantic from the sheer panic of how good it feels, jay uses the firm grip on the back of your neck to slow you down, lingering in a heavy, pressing rhythm that forces you to match his breath. his tongue lightly brushes against your bottom lip, a subtle, electrifying hint that makes a quiet, helpless sound escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your jawline, pulling you closer until your chest is completely pressed against his.
the "practice kiss" begins to stretch, the boundaries of the lesson blurring until the air in the dorm room feels thick and heavy with a sudden, suffocating wave of genuine friction. it isn't just a clinical demonstration anymore. his lips are moving against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his breathing turning shallow and rough against your cheek. your fingers tangle deeper into the knit of his sweater, your body leaning entirely into his warmth, completely lost in the intoxicating taste of him. it’s a full-on makeout, a lingering, breathless collision that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim.
suddenly, as if realizing exactly how far the line has been crossed, jay stiffens.
he pulls away, his hand sliding out of your hair as he abruptly breaks the contact.
the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you gasping for air, your lips tingling and flushed a deep red. you scramble back a few inches, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as reality comes crashing down on you like ice water.
the silence in the room is deafening, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. jay is sitting right in front of you, his dark hair completely messy from your fingers, his chest heaving under his sweater. he looks completely ungrounded, his eyes staring down at his own hands for a long, heavy beat before he finally forces himself to look up at you.
the atmosphere is thick with a sharp, suffocating awkwardness. both of you are completely aware that that wasn't on the syllabus.
jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying desperately to summon his usual composed, unbothered demeanor.
“that was… good,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and completely lacking its usual playful smugness. he avoids looking directly at your lips, his dark eyes focusing on your forehead instead as he slides off the bed and stands up. “your timing is… it’s fine. we’ll work on it.”
the minute those words leave jay’s mouth, the spell breaks entirely. you don't even wait for him to officially dismiss you. you practically scramble off the edge of his bed, your sneakers skidding slightly on the hardwood floor of his dorm as you snatch your tote bag from his desk chair with trembling hands.
“i— i have to go,” you stammer, your voice a high, frantic squeak that you barely recognize. you can't even look him in the eye; your gaze is glued to the door handle as you sprint toward it. “i have… a study group. and a paper. thank you for the lesson!”
you yank the door open and fling yourself out into the hallway, slamming it shut behind you before jay can even utter a response.
the walk — or rather, the hyperventilating run — back to your apartment is a blur of pure, unadulterated panic. your chest feels incredibly tight, your lungs burning as the cool evening air hits your face, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire still burning on your lips. your lips are tingling, slightly swollen, and heavy with the undeniable taste of him.
it’s for jake, you tell yourself, your fingers gripping the straps of your tote bag so tightly your knuckles turn a stark, ghostly white. it’s entirely for jake.
you turn the corner past the campus library, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you mentally repeat the words like a sacred mantra. the only reason i asked him to do that is because jake is going to kiss me soon. yunjin said jay is the best teacher. i just needed hands-on experience so i don’t humiliate myself when jake finally makes a move. it’s an educational baseline. that’s all it is.
but the anxious pacing of your thoughts only gets faster, louder, and more desperate.
if i didn't practice with jay, i would have frozen up with jake. jay was just correcting my rhythm. he said my timing was fine. so now, when jake kisses me, it’s going to be perfect. i’m doing this to save my future with jake. jay is just an instrument. a tutor. a textbook.
you push open the heavy glass door to your apartment building, practically taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator feels too slow, too claustrophobic for the storm currently raging inside your head.
it doesn't matter that my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. it doesn't matter that i forgot how to breathe. it doesn't matter that i wanted him to keep going. you reach your front door, fumbling blindly with your keys, your hands shaking so violently that the metal clicks loudly against the lock. it’s for jake. it’s all for jake sim. it has to be.
you unlock the door and burst inside, instantly slamming it behind you and leaning your back against the wood, letting out a long, shaky exhale. the apartment is dark and quiet — yunjin isn't home yet — which is a blessing, because if she took one look at your wild eyes and bitten lips, she would know instantly that you didn't just practice advanced flirting.
you drop your bag on the floor and walk straight into the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overhead light. you lean over the sink and stare at your reflection in the mirror.
your cheeks are still flushed a deep, telltale crimson. your hair is slightly unruly where jay's fingers had tangled into it, and your lips are undeniably darker, stung red from the heavy, lingering pressure of his mouth. you look completely undone. you look like a girl who just got thoroughly made out with by jay park.
your phone suddenly buzzes in your pocket, the sharp vibration making you jump.
with a racing heart, you pull it out. a notification blocks the screen.
jake: hey! just finished soccer practice. totally random, but are you free to grab dinner tomorrow night? just the two of us? 😊
you stare at the glowing text, the emojis, the sweet, easy invitation from the boy you’ve been dreaming about for months. it’s the exact moment you’ve been working toward. the ultimate goal. the reason you embarrassed yourself, the reason you sent the photos, the reason you walked into room 314 in the first place.
you lift your eyes back to your reflection in the mirror, your thumb hovering over the screen to type out a reply.
see? you think, your mind screaming at you to believe the lie as a cold sweat breaks out across your palms. it worked. the lessons worked. everything i did today… it was all just so i could be ready for tomorrow night. with jake.
but as you finally press your thumb to the glass to type 'i'd love to', your eyes automatically drift down to your own lips, and the phantom sensation of jay's heavy, rough breathing against your skin returns with a fierce, suffocating intensity that leaves you completely breathless.
-------
the afternoon sun is hitting the windows of room 314 when you walk in, casting long, warm bars of light across the hardwood floor. it’s a sharp contrast to the stormy darkness of your last lesson, but the familiar scent of sandalwood and clean laundry still hits you the second the door opens.
jay is sitting at his desk, casually typing something on his laptop, but he looks up the moment you step inside. his dark eyes immediately track your movement as you set your tote bag down by the door. he looks entirely composed, the previous lesson's awkwardness seemingly evaporated from his demeanor, replaced by his usual calm, lazy aura.
“welcome back, newbie,” jay says smoothly, closing his laptop with a quiet click. he stands up, stretching his arms slightly before walking over to his mini-fridge. “how was the big date?”
you sit down on the edge of his mattress, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. just the mention of yesterday makes a strange swirl of emotions tighten in your stomach.
“it was… really nice,” you say softly, staring down at the pattern of his blanket. “jake was amazing. he took me to that little Italian place downtown, the one with the string lights. he paid for everything, even when i tried to argue with him. and he was just so sweet, jay. he listened to me talk about my classes, he laughed at my jokes, and he walked me all the way back to my apartment building.”
jay leans against the edge of his desk, taking a sip of water, his eyes locked onto your face. “sounds like a textbook perfect date. so why do you look like someone just kicked your puppy?”
you swallow the lump in your throat, your voice dropping to a shy, embarrassed whisper. “because… he didn't kiss me.”
jay pauses, his water bottle halfway down from his lips. a sudden, sharp curiosity flashes in his eyes. “he didn't?”
“no,” you groan, burying your face in your knees for a second before looking back up at him, completely miserable. “we stood on the porch of my building for like three whole minutes. i did the eye contact. i did the posture thing you taught me. i held his gaze, my lips were parted, i did everything right! but he just… he smiled, ruffled my hair, told me he had an amazing time, and said goodnight. i don’t get it. did i do something wrong? did he see right through me?”
jay stares at you for a beat, and then, a slow, incredibly wicked smirk begins to crawl onto his face. the intense seriousness from the end of your last lesson is gone, replaced by a wave of pure, triumphant amusement. he sets his water bottle down on the desk and steps closer to the bed.
“newbie, you didn't do anything wrong,” jay says, his voice a low, deeply satisfied rumble. “you’re just dealing with jake sim. the guy is a traditionalist. he’s old-school. he’s not going to lunges at a girl on the very first dinner date, especially not a girl he actually respects and likes as much as he clearly likes you.”
he hitches his usual desk chair over, spinning it around to sit directly in front of you, his knees inches from yours. “honestly? this is perfect for us. it means we’re officially two steps ahead of him.”
you blink, confused. “two steps ahead? what do you mean?”
“i mean,” jay says, leaning forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a suffocating amount of focus, “by the time he finally gets the nerve to make a real move on you, you’re not just going to know how to handle a basic kiss. you’re going to be a master. which brings us to today's actual syllabus.”
he rests his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that instantly sets your pulse racing. “today, we’re moving past the initial contact. we’re talking about a full-on makeout. the pacing, the breathing, how to build the physical escalation without getting overwhelmed. how to take control of the rhythm so he’s the one losing his mind, not you.”
your breath hitches completely. the memory of how your last "practice kiss" had spiraled into a lingering, breathless fog flashes through your brain, making your lips tingle instantly.
jay studies the sudden, bright pink flush spreading across your cheeks. his smile softens just a fraction, a quiet, intense gravity taking over his features. he leans in a microscopic inch closer, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to yours.
“so,” jay murmurs, his voice a heavy, dangerous purr. “do you want today's lesson to be purely theoretical… or do you want a practical example, newbie?”
your heart is thumping so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. you know you should say theoretical. you know you should protect your sanity, preserve the lie that this is all just an educational game for jake. but as you look at jay — at his sharp jawline, his messy dark hair, his perfect, parted lips — the desperation from days ago takes over completely.
you don’t say a word. you just look him straight in the eye and nod your head, a tiny, submissive gesture.
“good girl,” jay whispers, the words vibrating straight down your spine.
he doesn't waste a single second. jay slides out of the chair and onto the mattress, crossing his legs right in front of you. his large, warm hand rises instantly, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring firmly against your jawline to tilt your face up.
“remember the pacing,” jay murmurs right before his lips touch yours. “let me lead first.”
the instant his mouth seals over yours, the entire world outside room 314 completely vanishes. his lips are incredibly soft but heavy with a firm, demanding pressure that immediately makes a soft, helpless sigh escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin of your jaw, guiding your mouth to open just a fraction more.
“breathe through your nose, newbie,” he whispers against your lips, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he shifts the angle of his head, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. “don’t rush it. follow my pace.”
you lift your hands, your fingers shaking as you clutch tightly at the soft fabric of his knit sweater, pulling yourself closer until your chest is flush against his. jay lets out a low, rough hum of approval deep in his throat at the touch, his grip on the back of your neck tightening just enough to anchor you completely.
the kiss quickly deepens, the boundaries of a simple "lesson" shattering instantly into a heavy, intoxicating fog. jay shows you how to escalate the tension; his lips move against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his tongue lightly tracing your bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth in a soft, agonizing tug that leaves you completely breathless.
“when the energy shifts,” jay murmurs, his voice raspy as he briefly parts from your lips to trace a line of burning kisses along your jawline, his lips hovering right over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, “you use your hands to change the dynamic. don’t just hold my sweater. slide your hands up. touch his neck.”
as if under a spell, you follow his whispered instructions. you let your hands slide up his broad chest, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his neck, your thumbs resting just below his sharp jawline. the physical contact makes jay let out a sharp, ragged exhale against your skin.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with a fierce, heavy intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his chest is heaving under his sweater, his lips dark and swollen.
“just like that,” jay whispers, his large hand sliding down from your neck to firmly grip your waist, pulling your hips a fraction closer to his on the mattress. “you control the distance. if he gets too frantic, you hold him right there. if you want more… you pull him back in.”
he doesn't wait for you to pull him. jay leans back down, his mouth crashing back onto yours with a sudden, overwhelming wave of passion that makes your head spin. it’s a full-on, breathless makeout, his lips parting yours completely, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle into your waist through your shirt. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the intoxicating taste of him, your fingers tangling into his dark hair as you match his pace, completely forgetting who this lesson was supposed to be for.
when jay finally draws back, it is agonizingly slow, his lips lingering against yours in three short, pressing kisses before he completely breaks the contact.
the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you shivering, your chest heaving as you desperately try to force air back into your lungs. jay stays hovering inches away, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a brief, breathless second before he slowly straightens up. his breathing is completely ungrounded, his eyes dark as he stares down at your thoroughly kissed, flushed face.
the silence in the room is suffocating, heavy with the weight of what just happened.
jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts back on the mattress, trying to force his usual lazy, unbothered smirk back onto his face — though his trembling fingers completely give him away.
“that was… the baseline,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and entirely devoid of his usual arrogance. he looks away from your lips, his gaze tracking a stray shadow on the wall instead. “we’ll… we’ll stop there for today. your pacing is fine, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”
he stands up quickly, walking over to the door to open it for you, but as you scramble off the bed with a racing heart, you realize with a sudden wave of absolute panic that you don't care about jake sim's reaction at all anymore.
-------
you would be lying to yourself if you had said you hadn't been eager for more after that. you were. in fact, you started meeting jay almost every day so you could "practice" making out.
it became an unspoken, addictive routine. you didn't even wait for a scheduled thursday afternoon anymore. a quick, vague text from jay — ‘my room’s free if you want to study’ — and you would find yourself walking toward room 314 with your heart already doing double-flips inside your chest. you didn't even bring your notebooks anymore. what was the point of pretending?
with every single day that passed, the lessons started escalating little by little, the boundaries of "basic mechanics" crumbling into dust.
one afternoon, the air in his dorm room felt so suffocatingly hot that your hands grew bold. jay was guiding you through a deeper rhythm, his lips heavy and possessive against yours, when your fingers strayed from the hem of his sweater and slid up, slipping underneath the fabric. your bare palms pressed flat against the warm, solid skin of his lower back. you remember the exact way his entire body had rigidified for a split second, a low, ragged growl catching in his throat before he completely lost his composure, his lips turning frantic against yours.
another day, the lesson wasn't about the mouth at all. jay had backed you up against his closed closet door, his large hands anchoring your wrists gently against the wood above your head. “advanced escalation,” he had whispered against your skin, his voice a dangerous, gravelly rasp right before he buried his face in your neck. he had kissed his way down your jawline, his lips warm and demanding as he sucked softly on the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, leaving a faint, stinging heat that made your knees turn to literal water.
but the most shocking shift — the one that still makes your face burn a furious purple when you think about it during lectures — happened just two days ago.
jay had been sitting in the middle of his unmade bed, watching you pace around his room as you anxiously rambled on about your nerves. without a word, he had reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down. before your brain could even process the movement, jay's hands were on your waist, lifting you up and guiding you until you were completely straddling his lap, your knees resting on either side of his thighs.
your whole body had gone into a state of absolute shock, your face inches from his. but jay hadn't teased you. he had just looked up at you with those dark, fiercely intense eyes, his thumbs rubbing slow, heavy circles into your hips. “this is how you handle the proximity,” he had murmured. and then he had pulled you down by your neck.
you had kissed for a whole hour. a full, breathless, uninterrupted sixty minutes where your hands were tangled in his hair, his broad chest was crushed against yours, and his mouth was relentlessly teaching you a rhythm that made your entire soul ache. your body had fit perfectly against his, the heat between you completely consuming the small room. and you had enjoyed every single, agonizing second of it.
still, despite the bare skin, the bruised lips, and the sheer intimacy of sitting on his lap, you kept trying to convince yourself it was all because of jake.
every night, when you lay awake in your own bed staring at the ceiling, you forced yourself to repeat the old script. it’s not because of jay. jay park has absolutely nothing to do with it. he’s just an instructor. he’s just incredibly good at what he does because he’s experienced, and i am just a good student taking advantage of a resource.
you told yourself that the violent butterflies in your stomach, the way your hands shook whenever you touched his skin, and the desperate hunger you felt every time he leaned in were all just a biological reaction. you were just enjoying the physical sensation of making out because, in the back of your mind, you were projecting. you were simply thinking about doing all of these things with jake sim. jay was just the proxy, the placeholder, the mannequin you were using to perfect your technique so that when the time finally came, you would drive jake absolutely crazy.
or at least… that’s what you said to yourself.
-------
you keep your mouth shut, maintaining the absolute lockdown on your secret. whenever yunjin asks how the lessons are going, you look her straight in the eye and lie through your teeth, insisting it’s all strictly theoretical. you tell her jay is just drawing diagrams and explaining body language, all while your lips are still practically stinging from being thoroughly devoured by him just an hour prior.
in the meantime, you keep hanging out with jake. he takes you to get ice cream, he walks you to class, and he remains the perfect, sweet gentleman. but whenever he holds your hand or leans in to give you a polite, fleeting peck on the cheek, a bizarre, hollow sensation settles in your chest. you keep expecting the earth to move, expecting to feel that white-hot, electric current that roars through your veins every time you walk into room 314. but it never comes. you’re just building up to it, you tell yourself desperately. the real spark will happen later. jay is just priming you.
and then comes today's lesson.
the afternoon sun is completely blocked out by the heavy curtains jay drew across his window, plunging the dorm room into a dark, suffocatingly intimate haze. you’re sitting directly on his lap, your legs straddling his thighs. the friction between your bodies is a living, breathing thing. you've grown bold over the past week; your hands are slipped entirely beneath his oversized tee, your palms pressed flat against the hot, defined muscles of his chest. your hips shift instinctively, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the friction, your mouth moving against his in a deep, wet rhythm that leaves you both completely breathledd.
jay lets out a sharp, ragged groan directly into your mouth. his hands, which had been anchoring your hips, suddenly tighten with a bruising force. he abruptly pulls his head back, his breathing incredibly shallow and heavy as he forces you to stop moving.
his dark hair is completely unruly, his lips a dark, swollen crimson. he looks up at you, his eyes clouded with a raw, fierce hunger that makes your stomach do a violent flip.
“jesus, newbie,” jay rasps, his chest heaving under his shirt as his hands steady your trembling waist. he takes a long, ragged breath, his voice dropping into an incredibly low, gravelly register. “hold on. stop moving for a second.”
you blink down at him, dazed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “what? did i… did i do it wrong?”
jay lets out a low, breathless chuckle, though his jaw remains incredibly tight. “no. you didn't do it wrong. that’s the problem. the way you move…” he pauses, his intense gaze raking over your flushed face, tracking the absolute innocence in your wide eyes. a sudden, heavy curiosity settles over his features. “have you actually ever done anything sexual before this? like, at all?”
the question hits you like a bucket of ice water. a fierce, blinding wave of mortification instantly erupts across your cheeks. you instinctively try to shift off his lap, but his grip on your waist tightens, keeping you anchored right there against his heat.
“no,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to an incredibly shy, embarrassed whisper. you look down at his collarbone, unable to hold his gaze. “i haven't. i’ve never… i’ve never done anything. i told you, i'm a total newbie.”
jay stares at you, a complex flash of emotion crossing his face — surprise, a sudden wave of protectiveness, and a trace of possessiveness that he quickly tries to mask. he clears his throat, his thumb rubbing a slow, grounding circle into your hip.
“right,” jay murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “okay. well. you’re doing great for a beginner.”
you swallow hard, the frantic script in your head screaming at you to take control, to justify why you're enjoying this so much, why you’re pushing the boundaries. you look at his perfectly parted lips, then back up to his dark eyes, and a reckless, desperate thought tumbles right out of your mouth.
“jay… can you teach me about the rest of it?”
jay freezes, his hand instantly stopping its movement on your hip. “the rest of it?”
“yes,” you stammer, your voice incredibly small but filled with a panicked, stubborn determination. you force the lie out, hiding behind your golden shield. “i mean… for jake! what if things escalate on our next date? what if he wants to go further? i don’t want to be completely clueless. i want to know how to make him feel good. i need to learn how sex works. the mechanics.”
jay studies your face for a long, agonizingly silent beat. the air in the room feels impossibly thick. you can feel the sudden, intense heat radiating from his lap, a physical reminder of exactly what your grinding had done to him. but jay is a professional, and more than that, he refuses to pressure you or take advantage of the ridiculous web of lies you've spun.
slowly, deliberately, jay lifts his hands and gently guides you off his lap. the sudden loss of his warmth makes you shiver. he sits back against his headboard, pulling one knee up to his chest, his expression shifting into something clinical, serious, and entirely focused.
“alright, newbie,” jay says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that commands your absolute attention. “if you want to talk about how to make a guy feel good, we’re keeping this strictly theoretical. understand? no hands-on for this part.”
you nod quickly, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, your hands tightly clasped in your lap as your face burns hot.
“good. then let’s start with manual stimulation. handjobs,” jay begins, his tone conversational but his words dripping with a raw, explicit honesty that makes your jaw drop. “it’s not just about gripping and sliding. the anatomy is sensitive. a guy's nerves are concentrated right at the head, especially underneath, on the frenulum. if you just pull the skin up and down dry, it’s uncomfortable. you need friction control. you use lubrication, or even just saliva, and you start with a firm but gentle grip at the base.”
you feel your eyes widening, your brain frantically trying to take mental notes as he speaks. jay doesn't break eye contact; he looks straight at you, using clinical but undeniably dirty language that makes your heart thump in your throat.
“the rhythm is everything,” jay continues smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a heavy, suffocating purr. “you match his breathing. a slow, steady stroke all the way from the base to the top, and when you reach the head, you twist your thumb gently over the top. it builds the pressure. you don’t speed up until his breath catches. you pay attention to his sounds.”
“o-oh,” you squeak, your hands twisting together. “i… okay. slow rhythm. twist at the top.”
“exactly,” jay says, a faint, amused half-smile touching his lips at your absolute mortification, though his eyes remain heavy and intense. “now, if things go further… oral. blowjobs. this is where most girls panic because they think about their teeth. your teeth should never touch his skin, newbie. you keep your lips curled completely over them. like an anchor.”
you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. your cheeks are a catastrophic shade of purple, but you are hanging on every single syllable.
“the technique isn’t just about depth,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “it’s about suction and warmth. you use the roof of your mouth and your tongue to create a vacuum. you start slow, swirling your tongue around the head before taking him in. and the most important part? the pacing. you don’t just stay at the top; you move down to the base, using one hand to stroke the shaft while your mouth handles the rest. dual stimulation.”
he pauses, leaning forward just a fraction, his voice dropping into a whisper that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.
“and you never, ever break eye contact,” jay whispers, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying amount of gravity. “when you’re down there, you look up at him. through your lashes. you let him see exactly what you’re doing to him. it drives a guy absolutely insane, newbie. it completely breaks his control.”
you sit there, completely paralyzed, your chest heaving as you absorb the intense, explicit breakdown. you are utterly mortified, entirely overwhelmed, and your brain is screaming at you that you are supposed to be picturing jake sim during this entire lecture.
but as you look at jay — at the way his jaw tightens, the way his low, gravelly voice sounds saying those explicit words, and the dark, possessive heat hidden deep in his eyes — you realize with a sudden wave of pure terror that jake’s face hasn't crossed your mind even once.
you sit there at the foot of his bed, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you can hear it in your ears. the explicit details of his words are still hanging heavy in the dim, warm air of the dorm room. your hands are knotted tightly in the fabric of your sweater, your palms slick with a nervous sweat.
you look down at his lap, then back up to his dark, unhurried eyes. the golden shield of your excuse — the lie that this is all a clinical preparation for a future with jake sim — feels incredibly heavy, but it’s the only armor you have left.
"jay," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. you swallow hard, your face burning a catastrophic shade of crimson as you force the words out. "if... if the rhythm and the grip are that specific... what if i mess it up? what if i'm too rough, or too loose? can you... can you give me another practical example?"
jay’s entire body tenses. the casual, leaning posture against his headboard locks up instantly. his eyes widen just a fraction, his gaze dropping to your trembling hands before snapping back up to look at your face. the heavy, silent tension in room 314 returns with the force of a physical blow.
"newbie," jay rasps, his voice rougher and deeper than before. he clears his throat, his knuckles whitening as his hands grip the mattress. "we said strictly theoretical for this. i'm not trying to rush you into anything."
"i'm not rushed," you lie desperately, leaning forward just a fraction, your heart in your throat. "i just... i need to know if i'm doing it right. for the baseline. please, jay."
jay stares at you for three agonizing, breathless seconds. his jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle tick under his sharp skin. he lets out a long, slow, ragged exhale through his teeth, the restraint he’s been maintaining for weeks visibly fracturing.
"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. "come here."
you move on your knees, sliding across the mattress until you're sitting right beside his thigh. your knees are trembling. jay reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of his dark trousers, and with a low rustle of fabric, he frees himself.
your breath catches completely. he is already thick, fully erect, and a dark, heavy flush is painting his skin. the pure, raw reality of it makes your mind go entirely blank.
"don't look away," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably steady despite the shallow rise and fall of his chest. "wrap your fingers like this."
he reaches out, his broad, warm hand wrapping around yours to guide it. he positions your fingers at the very base of his shaft, curling them in a firm, even cylinder. his skin feels smooth, white-hot, and pulsing beneath your touch.
"now, look at me," jay whispers, his face inches from yours. "stroke up. slow. all the way to the top."
you slowly move your hand upward, the physical friction sending a jolt of pure electricity straight up your arm. your heart is beating in an erratic rhythm against your ribs.
"good. just like that, newbie," jay praises you, a low, breathy rumble in his throat. his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, a soft, encouraging look melting his usual sharp features. "now, when you hit the head... slower at the top. twist your thumb over the frenulum. exactly like i explained."
you follow his instructions perfectly, slowing the motion, your thumb dragging gently over the ultra-sensitive rim.
"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sudden, ragged groan, his eyes instantly fluttering shut as his head thumps back against the headboard. the sound is deep, unvarnished, and completely intoxicating. "yes. right there. that's perfect, sweetheart. keep that exact pace."
hearing the pet name slip past his lips makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you keep going, your movements becoming smoother, more confident as you fall into the heavy, dragging rhythm. you watch his face, completely fascinated by the raw power you suddenly hold over him.
but as the seconds tick by, the clinical baseline completely disintegrates. the touch is too hot, the friction too intense, and jay’s carefully constructed control begins to dangerously slip.
his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his shirt. his sharp, dark brows furrow in a look that almost resembles pain. he lets out another heavy, broken groan, a sudden, involuntary jerk rippling through his lower half as his hips instinctively thrust upward against the firm pressure of your hand.
"jay," you whisper, completely captivated by the sight of him losing his mind beneath your touch.
"keep going... shit, don't stop," he swears under his breath, his voice rough and completely ungrounded. his hand flies to your wrist, not to pull you away, but to physically lock your hand in place, his fingers squeezing tightly as he takes over the pace, forcing your hand to move faster, harder against him. another ragged, breathy moan escapes his lips, his jaw clenching so tightly his veins stand out against his neck. "you're too good at this... fuck, newbie..."
the sheer, overwhelming heat of the moment fills the quiet room, the sound of his ragged breathing and the soft, slick friction of your hand filling the space between you. you are utterly drowning in him, your thumb tracing the wetness at the tip, your own breathing turning heavy as you lean into his space.
you look up through your lashes, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with a fierce, possessive hunger. and that’s when the old, desperate script in your head panics, trying one last time to pull you back to safety.
"is this… how i should do it for jake?" you whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.
jay freezes.
the pleasure on his face vanishes instantly. his hand snaps down, gripping your wrist hard enough to still you completely. his eyes open, sharp and raw.
jay stares down at you, his chest heaving, his lips parted as he absorbs the name. for a second, something painful flashes across his face — hurt, anger, and something deeper. he exhales shakily, then gently but firmly removes your hand from him. the silence that crashes into the room is suffocating.
he reaches down, gently but firmly removing your hand from his skin, and quietly covers himself back up, shifting his weight to sit back against the wall.
the sudden loss of contact leaves your hand feeling cold, your fingers tingling. the blinding wave of embarrassment returns, your cheeks exploding into a furious red flush as you realize what you just said.
“newbie…” he says quietly, voice rough. “don’t do that.”
you feel sick with embarrassment. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—”
but jay doesn't lash out. he doesn't tease you, and he doesn't bring up the name. instead, he just looks down at your flustered, wide-eyed face, a soft, incredibly gentle expression taking over his sharp features.
"hey," jay murmurs, his voice still low and beautifully rough from the aftereffects of the pleasure. he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently patting the top of your head, his fingers lightly smoothing down your messy hair. "don't look at me like that. you didn't do anything wrong."
you look up at him through your bangs, your heart still thumping softly. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have..."
"it's fine," jay interrupts softly, a faint, tired but genuinely warm smile touching his lips. his hand slides down from your head to rest gently on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "you're a fast learner, newbie. really fast. you passed the lesson."
he sits there, his hand warm and heavy on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your shirt. it’s a soft, lingering moment of aftercare that feels entirely too domestic, entirely too real for a simple tutoring session. and as you look at his gentle smile, your hand still warm from his skin, the lie about jake feels smaller and more pathetic than it ever has before.
-------
when thursday afternoon rolls around, the tension inside your chest is so thick you can barely swallow. the walk to the west quad feels different today; the golden armor of your excuses is getting heavier, cracking, but the raw curiosity burning in your veins is too loud to ignore.
when you knock on the door to room 314, jay opens it almost instantly. he’s wearing a loose, dark gray t-shirt and light gray sweatpants, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, a quiet, intense gravity in his gaze that lets you know he hasn't forgotten a single second of tuesday's handjob lesson either.
"come in, newbie," jay murmurs, stepping aside.
you walk in and immediately sit cross-legged in the center of his unmade bed, your hands tucked between your knees to hide how much they’re shaking. jay closes the door, the heavy click sealing the two of you in the quiet, sandalwood-scented dimness of his room.
he doesn't sit in his desk chair. he walks straight to the edge of the mattress, standing right in front of you, looking down with his hands shoved casually into his sweatpants pockets. "alright. lesson seven. what are we breaking down today?"
you look up at him, your cheeks instantly exploding into a fierce, burning crimson. you swallow hard, your fingers twisting together as you force the words out. "i... i want to learn how to give a blowjob. you explained the theory on tuesday, but... i’ve always been curious about how the actual tongue work and depth feel. i want the practical example, jay."
jay’s entire posture locks up. his eyes darken significantly, a sudden, heavy wave of heat rolling off his body as he stares down at your flushed, determined face. he takes a slow, ragged breath through his nose, his jaw clenching tightly.
"newbie," jay rasps, his voice incredibly deep and rough. "are you absolutely sure about this? once we cross this line, there’s no turning back."
"i'm sure," you whisper, looking him straight in the eye.
jay doesn't say another word. he slowly pulls his hands out of his pockets and sits down on the edge of the bed, right in front of you. with a low, deliberate rustle of fabric, he pushes his sweatpants down, freeing his thick, fully erect length. he is already pulsing, a heavy, dark flush painting his white-hot skin.
"get down on your knees between my legs," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably patient, completely ridden of his usual mocking tone
you slide off the mattress, sinking onto your knees on the hardwood floor right between his thighs. your face is level with his lap, the raw heat of his arousal radiating against your cheeks.
"now, look at me," jay whispers, his large, warm hand rising to gently cup the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into your hair to steady you. "remember what i said. keep your lips curled completely over your teeth. let me feel your tongue first. swirl it right around the head."
you lean in, your hands hesitantly resting on the top of his firm thighs for balance. you slowly extend your tongue, dragging the wet, warm tip in a slow circle around the sensitive rim of his crown.
"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sharp, ragged gasp, his head immediately tossing back, his eyes fluttering shut as a deep shiver ripples through his lower half. his fingers tighten gently in your hair. "yes. just like that, baby. you're so warm, you feel so good."
"now, open up a little more," jay murmurs, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with an intense, suffocating pleasure. "take the top half in. use the roof of your mouth to create a gentle suction. don't rush the depth yet."
you part your lips, curling them firmly over your teeth as he instructed, and slowly slide your mouth over the thick, smooth head of his shaft. the sudden warmth and tightness of your mouth makes jay let out a low, broken moan deep in his chest. you pull back slightly, then slide forward again, your tongue swirling against him with every movement.
"you're doing so good, newbie," jay praises you, his voice a low, breathy rumble right above your head. his hand in your hair is incredibly sweet, gently guiding your rhythm, pacing your movements so you don’t choke. "you're so pretty looking up at me like that. god, you're perfect."
hearing him call you pretty makes a violent, hot flash of adrenaline surge through you. you grow bolder, sliding your mouth a little further down, letting your throat adapt to the thickness. you manage your breathing, taking steady, short inhales through your nose as your mouth works rhythmically against him.
the clinical nature of the lesson completely shatters. jay’s control begins to dangerously fracture under the wet, tight heat of your mouth. his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as his hips instinctively lift, thrusting a fraction deeper into your mouth with a heavy, unvarnished desperation.
"shit, look at you," jay groans out, a ragged, completely ungrounded swear escaping his lips as his grip on your hair tightens just enough to hold you in place. his eyes are locked onto yours, blazing with a raw, possessive hunger as you look up at him through your lashes. "look at you, sucking me off so good... fuck, sweetheart, you're driving me insane."
the explicit praise sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. you wrap your right hand around the base of his shaft, sliding it up and down in sync with the heavy suction of your mouth, creating a flawless, dual stimulation that completely breaks his remaining restraint.
jay let out a deep, guttural cry, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck, his hips moving faster, more rapidly against your mouth as he inches closer and closer to the edge.
"hold on— hold on, baby, stop," jay suddenly rasps, his breathing completely shattered. he gently but firmly pulls your head back by your hair, his chest heaving as he draws a long, shaky breath.
you blink up at him, your lips wet and flushed a deep red, your heart thumping violently. jay stares down at your face, his eyes incredibly heavy, full of a fierce, protective softness that completely melts his sharp features.
slowly, he reaches down, his thumb gently wiping away a drop of moisture from the corner of your mouth. a faint, breathless, and incredibly tender smile on his lips.
"you're a genius, newbie," jay whispers, his voice beautifully rough as he lightly taps your cheek. "lesson concluded. you're officially too good for this campus."
-------
when you arrive for the next lesson, the atmospheric pressure inside room 314 feels entirely different. the standard conversational buffer — the casual banter about classes, the lingering ghost of a mention of jake — is completely gone. when jay opens the door, he doesn’t say his usual witty greeting. he just looks at you, his dark eyes heavy and remarkably soft, and reaches down to gently take your bag from your hand, setting it by the desk.
"hey," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly timbre that instantly makes your pulse flutter.
"hey," you whisper back.
he closes the door with a quiet, deliberate click, locking it before turning back to you. he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, and his hair is a little messy, falling perfectly over his forehead. he doesn't wait for you to sit on the edge of the mattress; instead, he takes your hand, his long, warm fingers sliding effortlessly between yours, and guides you to the middle of the bed.
"we've spent a lot of time breaking down what makes a guy lose his mind," jay says softly, sitting down right in front of you, his knees brushing against your thighs. his free hand reaches up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your face up so you're forced to look directly into his eyes. "but that's only half the mechanics, newbie. you need to know what feels good for you, too. you need to know how your body reacts when someone is completely focused on you."
your breath catches, a fierce, sudden heat blooming across your chest. "jay..."
"i'm going to go slow, okay?" he interrupts gently, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners with a reassuring, incredibly tender smile. "no rushing. i'm going to teach you exactly how you're supposed to be touched."
he leans forward, his lips pressing softly against your forehead, then your temple, before trailing down to the sensitive column of your neck. a violent, delicious shiver ripples through your entire body as he kisses his way back up to your jawline, his lips warm and unhurried.
"lay down for me, sweetheart," jay whispers against your skin, his hands moving to your waist to gently guide you back onto the pillows.
you slide down, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as jay shifts, hovering over you, supported by his elbows on either side of your head. his gaze rakes over your flushed face, his expression so fiercely loving and sweet it makes your chest ache. he reaches down, his large, warm hand sliding under the hem of your top, his palm resting flat against the bare skin of your stomach. you let out a soft, sharp inhale at the sudden friction.
"just breathe," jay praises you, his voice a soft, comforting rumble as his fingers trail lower, gently nudging the waistband of your shorts. "let me do the work."
slowly, deliberately, he eases your clothes down, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs to the dim, warm air of the room. you instinctively try to pull your knees together, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you, but jay gently presses them apart, sliding his body between your legs to anchor you. he doesn't look away; his eyes stay locked onto yours as his fingers softly brush against the inner skin of your thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow, light strokes.
"you are so beautiful, newbie," he murmurs, leaning down to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting you fully before trailing his mouth down to your collarbone. "so pretty for me."
when his hand finally reaches the center of your heat, you let out a breathless, broken gasp, your fingers instantly clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. his fingers are warm, incredibly gentle as they find the small, sensitive bundle of nerves. he starts with light, circular motions, his thumb sliding over the slick skin with a practiced, effortless rhythm.
"there you go," jay whispers against your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he tracks the sudden, erratic hitch in your breathing. "feel that? that's the baseline. you just stay relaxed, let the heat build."
he introduces a single finger, sliding it slowly into your tight, wet heat. a soft, helpless moan escapes your throat, your hips instinctively lifting against his hand. jay lets out a low, rough hum of absolute approval deep in his chest, his finger moving in a slow, curling motion that targets a deep, heavy ache you didn't even know was there.
"look at me, sweetheart," he commands softly. you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of it, to find him staring down at you with an unvarnished, consuming intensity. "you're doing so good. you're so wet for me."
he continues the rhythm, his fingers moving inside you with a steady, heavy pace while his thumb keeps a relentless, agonizingly perfect pressure on your core. you feel the tension building rapidly, a hot, tight knot coiling tightly in your lower stomach. your hands tangle deep into his dark hair, pulling him closer as your breathing turns shallow and desperate.
"jay... jay," you whimpered, completely ungrounded by the overwhelming sensation.
"i've got you," he murmurs sweetly, kissing away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. he pulls his hand away for just a fraction of a second, making you let out a needy whine, before he shifts his body lower on the mattress.
he presses your knees open wider, his hands firmly gripping the undersides of your thighs to steady you. you look down through your lashes, your face burning a furious purple as jay leans his head down, his mouth replacing his fingers.
the first touch of his wet, warm tongue against your sensitive core makes your entire body arch off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room. jay's hands tighten on your thighs, anchoring you completely as his tongue sweeps upward in long, firm strokes, applying a heavy, steady suction that sends a violent, electric current straight down your spine.
"oh my god," you sob out, your fingers desperately clutching at the bedsheets as the coiling tension inside you completely snaps.
jay doesn't stop. he works through your release, his tongue moving in a relentless, beautifully deep rhythm, drinking you in as your body trembles and shakes beneath him. he holds you steady through the intense waves, his mouth warm and unbelievably patient against your sensitive skin until the final tremors slowly begin to fade.
when he finally slides back up the mattress, his face is flushed, his dark eyes shining with a deep, triumphant softness. he pulls the blankets up over your shivering shoulders, immediately wrapping his broad arms around you and pulling your back flush against his chest in a tight, protective embrace.
he leans down, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your warm neck.
"you did so perfect, newbie," jay whispers into your hair, his voice rough and beautifully thick as his large hand rests over your heart, feeling it hammer a frantic pace against his palm. "absolutely perfect."
the cool night air hits your face the moment you step out of the west quad, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging, white-hot fire burning beneath your skin. your limbs feel heavy, almost liquid, and every step you take on the concrete sidewalk feels strangely disconnected from reality.
the guilt catches up to you by the time you reach the campus quad. it settles into your stomach like a block of lead, heavy and suffocating.
you just had sex with jay park.
well, not full intercourse, but it was sexual. it was intimate. he touched you, he put his mouth on you, he held you through the most intense physical release of your life, and he wrapped his arms around you like you belonged to him. the raw, unvarnished memory of his wet tongue, his whispers of "sweetheart," and the protective warmth of his chest pressed against your back makes a violent shudder get to your core.
it's for jake, your brain screams, a frantic, high-pitched panic echoing in your head as you grip the straps of your tote bag until your knuckles turn white. the reason why you're doing this is for improving for jake. you're a newbie. you needed to know what a release felt like so you don't panic or freeze up when jake finally takes you to his bed. jay is just the instructor. he's a textbook. he has nothing to do with this.
but deep inside, in a dark, quiet corner of your soul that you are desperately trying to block out, you know it's a lie. you know text modules and posture corrections don't involve a guy worshiping your body until you're sobbing his name into his pillows.
still, you really try to convince yourself. you force the golden shield back into place, cementing the lie with sheer, stubborn willpower as you unlock the door to your apartment. yunjin's bedroom door is closed, the apartment blissfully dark. you tip-toe straight into your room, lock the door behind you, and collapse onto your bed without even changing out of your clothes.
the bed feels too big, too cold, and your skin is still tingling, practically begging for the touch that was just stripped away from it.
fine, you think desperately, staring up at the shadows on your ceiling. if it's for jake, prove it. fantasize about him.
your hands shake as you slide them down the denim of your shorts, slipping past the waistband to touch the lingering, hypersensitive heat between your thighs. you close your eyes tightly, forcing jake's face into your mind's eye. you picture the sweet way he ruffles your hair, the little Italian restaurant with the string lights, the gentle way he holds your hand across the table.
you start to move your fingers, replicating the exact circular rhythm jay had used on you just an hour ago. a soft, needy gasp escapes your lips into the quiet room. the heat builds rapidly, your body already primed and ready to boil over.
it's jake, you tell yourself, your breathing turning hurried as you pick up the pace. imagine jake doing this to you. imagine jake hovering over you in the dark.
you lean into the fantasy, letting the tight, coiling knot in your stomach take over. you bite your lip hard, letting your brain go insane — imagining the pretty sounds he’d make, mouth open in a slight “o” as his brows furrow, hair falling down, almost reaching that pretty nose adorned with the scar you love to feel between your—
wait.
jake doesn’t have a nose scar.
that’s jay.
your fingers freeze.
the world inside your bedroom completely grinds to a halt. you stare blankly at the dark ceiling, your hand slipping out from your shorts as if your skin had suddenly turned to ice. your heart is hammering, but it’s not from the pleasure anymore; it’s from pure, unadulterated terror.
you just pictured jay.
you were touching yourself, trying to build a future with the boy you’ve liked for months, and your brain completely bypassed him to conjure the exact, devastating image of jay park’s sharp jaw, his furrowed brows, and that tiny, pale scar cutting right across the bridge of his aristocratic nose.
a suffocating wave of reality hits you. it isn't jake. it has never been jake. not since you walked into room 314.
the next morning, the guilt is a physical sickness in your throat. you can’t look at your phone. when jake texts you a picture of a golden retriever he saw on his walk, you reply with a short, polite emoji, your stomach twisting into knots. you are entirely, completely compromised.
by monday afternoon, you know what you have to do. you can't keep going to room 314. if you walk back into that room, if you let him put his hands on your waist one more time, you will never be able to look jake sim in the eye again. you will lose the entire script.
with shaking thumbs, you open your chat with jay.
you: hey jay. i think we should stop the lessons. i think i have everything i need now. thank you for everything.
you hit send and immediately flip your phone face-down on your duvet, burying your face in your hands. you expect him to reply with his usual lazy, arrogant ‘sure thing, newbie’. you expect him to be relieved that his tutoring duties are officially over.
but three minutes later, your phone buzzes. then it buzzes again. and again.
jay: what do you mean? jay: did something happen? jay: newbie answer your phone. if i did something on thursday to make you uncomfortable you need to tell me. i told you we could go at your pace. did i pressure you?
the sheer, frantic panic in his messages makes your throat tighten. the cool, unbothered, perfectly composed jay park is completely gone, replaced by someone who sounds genuinely, deeply terrified that he hurt you.
you bite your lip, a stray tear slipping down your cheek as you type back.
you: no! no, jay, you didn't do anything wrong at all. you were perfect. it's just... things are getting serious with jake. he asked me out again this weekend. and since jake was the original purpose of the whole thing... i need to focus on him now. i have to be fair to him.
you watch the screen. the three little typing dots appear almost instantly. then they disappear. then they appear again. the silence stretching between your apartments feels agonizing.
finally, the phone buzzes one last time.
jay: right. the original purpose. jay: i get it. good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.
the text is so clinical, so brief, it feels like a physical slap. he doesn't fight it. he doesn't tease you. he just steps back into the box of the "instructor," closing the lid firmly behind him.
-------
the rest of the week passes in a gray, heavy blur. you don't go to the west quad. you take the long way around the library just so you don't have to risk seeing his tall silhouette walking past the glass windows.
friday night arrives, and you're sitting at the vanity in your bedroom, curling your hair for your second official date with jake. yunjin is leaning against your doorframe, watching you with a slight, curious frown.
"you're quiet today," yunjin notes, crossing her arms. "usually before a jake date you're bouncing off the walls. didn't your theoretical lessons with jay give you a confidence boost?"
"they did," you lie softly, your eyes fixed on your reflection. "i'm just... focused."
"well, jay's been acting weird too," yunjin shrugs, turning back toward the living room. "saw him at the student union yesterday. he looked like he hadn't slept in four days. completely tuned out."
your grip on the curling iron tightens so hard your palm aches. he's fine, you tell yourself desperately. he's jay park. he's glad to have his bed back to himself.
an hour later, you're sitting across from jake at a trendy, low-lit taco place downtown. the restaurant is loud, music bouncing off the brick walls. jake is looking at you with that sweet, boyish grin, talking animatedly about his soccer coach's ridiculous training schedule.
he's perfect. he's everything you wanted.
but as the noise of the restaurant swells, jake leans across the small wooden table, his face closing the distance to say something over the music. your brain immediately fires a memory — the heavy weight of jay's chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his low voice whispering 'we're in a quiet room, stop playing games with me.'
"hey," jake says, his hand reaching out to lightly tap your wrist. "you there? you looked like you were a million miles away."
"i'm here," you say, forcing a bright, sweet smile onto your face. "sorry, just listening."
when the date ends, jake walks you all the way back to your apartment building. the air on the porch is cool, the dim amber light of the streetlamp casting long shadows over the brick steps. it's the exact setup from a week ago. the final act.
jake stands close, his dark eyes looking down at you with a soft, undeniable affection. he reaches out, his fingers gently tucking a stray curl behind your ear. his hand is nice. it's sweet.
"i had a really great time tonight," jake whispers, leaning in slowly.
your heart spikes, your body automatically going rigid as you realize it’s happening. this is it. the practical application. jake tilts his head, his eyes dropping to your mouth before closing as he bridges the final inch.
his lips press against yours.
it is a perfectly nice kiss. it's gentle, polite, and safe. but as jake's mouth moves against yours, your brain does absolutely nothing. there is no white-hot rush of electricity. there is no heavy, suffocating gravity pulling at your soul. your hands stay flat against your sides, entirely lacking the desperate urge to slide beneath his shirt, to grip his broad shoulders, to tangle into his hair.
jake pulls back after a few seconds, a sweet, satisfied smile on his face. "goodnight," he murmurs, ruffling your hair gently before turning to walk down the steps.
you stand on the porch in the quiet night air, staring at his retreating back. your lips feel completely cold. your skin feels entirely empty. and as you turn the key in your apartment lock, a crushing, definitive truth finally breaks through the last of your defenses.
the lessons didn't prepare you for jake sim. they ruined you for anyone who isn't jay park.
-------
you keep trying.
you really, truly do. you go on a third date with jake to an indie movie theater, and a fourth date where he cooks dinner for you at his apartment. he is everything a boyfriend should be — attentive, sweet, incredibly handsome, and completely respectful. but every time he holds your hand, your fingers feel numb. every time he leans down to kiss you goodnight on your porch, your mind is a completely flat, silent room.
there are no shivers. there is no gravelly voice whispering “breathe, newbie” against your skin. there is no heavy, intoxicating scent of sandalwood.
you are physically with jake sim, but you are entirely haunted by jay park.
you miss him. you miss him so much it feels like a physical ache in the center of your chest. you miss the arrogant, lazy smirks that you eventually learned how to kiss right off his face. you miss the way his large, warm hands felt sliding underneath your sweater. you miss the breathless, quiet aftercare where he would just stroke your hair and tell you you did perfect.
you haven't received a single text from him in two weeks. your chat history sits at the bottom of your messages, a cold, clinical reminder of "the original purpose."
then comes tuesday afternoon.
you’re sitting on the living room rug of your apartment, your knees pulled to your chest as you stare blankly at a textbook you haven't actually read a page of in thirty minutes. yunjin is sitting on the couch right behind you, painting her toenails a vibrant shade of cherry red.
the apartment is completely quiet except for the rhythmic swipe, swipe of her nail brush.
"hey," yunjin speaks up suddenly, not looking up from her pinky toe. "so, i ran into jake at the gym earlier today."
your shoulders instantly tighten. "oh. yeah?"
"yeah. he was glowing, honestly," yunjin says, finally capping the nail polish and leaning back against the cushions. she looks down at the top of your head, her sharp eyes narrowing in a familiar, hyper-observant squint. "he said things are going amazingly with you. he literally told me you're the most perfect, sweet girl he’s ever met."
you let out a tiny, hollow sound that is supposed to be a laugh, but it sounds incredibly sad. "that's... nice."
"so..." yunjin trails off, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. her voice drops into a lighter, teasing tone. "come on. spill. how are the advanced lessons going? did jay's theoretical tutoring actually work? did he give you the magic playbook or what?"
at the mention of his name, something inside you completely snaps.
the two weeks of suffocating guilt, the crushing weight of the lies, the phantom feeling of jay's mouth on yours, and the sheer, exhausting misery of pretending to be happy with jake all come crashing down at once. your eyes suddenly sting with hot, angry tears, and a shaky, broken sob escapes your throat before you can even think to mask it.
yunjin freezes. her jaw practically drops to the floor as she watches your shoulders violently shake, your face burying themselves into your knees.
"wait— oh my god, hey," yunjin stammers, instantly sliding off the couch and dropping to the rug beside you. she wraps a panicked arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "what's wrong? did jake do something? did he hurt you? i will literally fight him right now—"
"no!" you sob out, your voice muffled and thick with tears as you shake your head against your knees. "no, jake didn't do anything! jake is perfect! he's so sweet!"
"then why are you crying like someone died?" yunjin asks, completely bewildered, her hand rubbing your back in a comforting motion. "if jake is perfect, what's wrong?"
you lift your head, your face a catastrophic, tear-stained shade of purple, your chest heaving as you look at your best friend.
"it's jay," you choke out, the truth finally tearing its way out of your chest.
yunjin blinks, her eyebrows furrowing in deep confusion. "jay? jay park? what does he have to do with you crying about jake?"
"the lessons," you whisper, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "they... they weren't theoretical, yunjin. i lied to you. i lied to everyone."
yunjin’s entire body goes completely still. her grip on your shoulder tightens as she stares at you, the dots in her highly perceptive brain suddenly trying to connect a picture she never expected to see. "what do you mean they weren't theoretical?"
"we... we did a practical lesson, a lot of them, actually," you confess, your voice cracking with pure, unadulterated embarrassment, but the relief of finally saying it out loud is a physical weight lifting off your lungs. "the first few weeks were just talking, but then... when he was telling me how to kiss someone correctly, i panicked because i thought i'd be bad at kissing jake. so i asked jay for a real example. and he kissed me."
yunjin’s eyes widen to the size of literal dinner saucers. "jay kissed you?"
"yes," you whine, covering your face with your hands. "and then it happened again. and again. and then we started meeting almost every single day. we weren't even studying anymore, yunjin. i would sit on his lap for a whole hour and we just made out on and on. and then last week... we... we did some more things, and he showed me what felt good for me, too. with his hands, and his— his mouth."
yunjin lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, her hand flying over her mouth. she looks completely, utterly flabbergasted, her jaw practically unhinged. "oh my god. oh my god. you and jay... you guys were sleeping together?"
"not all the way! but yes!" you cry out, pulling your hands away from your face, looking at her desperately. "and the whole time, i kept telling myself it was for jake. i kept saying 'oh, i'm just a newbie getting hands-on experience so i can be good for jake'. i even tried to touch myself thinking about jake afterwards, but yunjin... when i closed my eyes, all i could see was jay. i saw his face, and his hair, and his nose scar."
yunjin is staring at you like you’ve just spoken to her in a foreign language. she is completely speechless, processing the absolute bombshell you just dropped into her living room.
"so... so i stopped the lessons, everything," you whisper, your voice dropping to a broken, miserable murmur as you look down at your lap. "i texted him and told him i had to focus on jake. and he just said okay. and now i'm going on these dates with jake, and he's so nice, yunjin, he really is... but i… don't feel anything. when jake kisses me, it's just... cold. i don't want jake to touch me. i just want jay. i miss him so much it hurts, and i'm a horrible person because i used him as a textbook and now i've completely ruined everything."
you bury your face back in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you let the final wave of tears take over, waiting for yunjin to lecture you, to tell you how reckless you were, or to tell you how completely messy this entire situation is.
instead, yunjin lets out a long, slow, and incredibly deep exhale. she reaches out, gently pulling your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at her. the initial shock on her face has melted away, replaced by a look of sheer, unbelievable realization.
"my love," yunjin says slowly, her voice completely serious. "are you actually an idiot?"
you blink through your tears, sniffing. "what?"
"you think you used jay park?" yunjin asks, letting out a wild, disbelieving laugh. "are we talking about the same jay park? the guy who has half the girls on the humanities campus begging for a text back? the guy who doesn't let anyone into his personal space, let alone his dorm room?"
you wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve, confused. "but... it was a casual thing. he was just being a good instructor..."
"oh my god, you are a literal child," yunjin groans, throwing her hands up in the air. "listen to me. jay fucking park did not give you a 'practical lesson' because he cares about your future with jake sim. he did not spend an hour letting you straddle his lap and eat his face because he’s a dedicated tutor. he did those things because he is completely, utterly obsessed with you, you absolute moron!"
the conversation with yunjin stays ringing in your ears for the rest of the week, a loud, echoing truth that makes your chest feel completely hollow. he is completely, utterly obsessed with you. you want to believe it. god, you want to believe it so bad, but the memory of his final text — ‘good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.’ — stands like a massive brick wall between you and room 314.
and then, jake texts you.
it’s not a casual, low-effort ‘grab coffee?’ or a late-night invite to watch him play soccer. he sends a long, beautifully constructed message, asking you on a proper, official date to a high-end jazz lounge downtown that requires a reservation weeks in advance. he tells you he’s been noticing your new confidence lately — the way you hold yourself, the lingering eye contact, the ease in your posture — and that he likes you. a lot. he wants to make things official.
a month ago, a text like that would have made you collapse onto your bedroom floor in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. it was the ultimate finish line. the exact gold medal you had been sweating and crying for under jay's brutal, meticulous guidance.
so, you say yes. you force yourself to put on your prettiest dress, you spend an hour doing your makeup, and you walk down the steps of your building to meet jake’s car.
the jazz lounge is beautiful. the dim, amber lighting reflects off the polished mahogany tables, the music is soft and smooth, and jake looks incredibly handsome in a dark blazer. he handles the evening perfectly. he pulls out your chair, he orders the best wine on the menu, and he looks at you with a heavy, sweet admiration that makes your cheeks warm.
"you look absolutely stunning tonight," jake murmurs, reaching across the white tablecloth to gently squeeze your fingers. "honestly, i feel like a different girl walked down the steps today. you've always been gorgeous, but lately... there's just something about you. you're so captivating."
you force a soft smile, nodding your head. "thank you, jake. that's... really sweet."
but as his fingers linger on yours, the crushing reality of the evening finally settles over you.
it’s nice. it’s objectively perfect. but it feels completely, utterly empty.
you sit there, listening to the saxophone player on the stage, and you find yourself looking at the way jake laughs. it’s a nice laugh, but it doesn't make your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you look at his hands, and you realize you don't have the slightest urge to slip your fingers beneath his cuffs. you look at his lips, and the thought of his mouth on yours doesn't make your breath catch.
and in that exact, agonizing moment, the grand illusion you've been clinging to for weeks finally shatters into a million jagged pieces.
you aren't projecting. you aren't using jay as a proxy.
you are deeply, completely, and irrevocably in love with park jay.
the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, making your breath leave your lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. it isn't just about the mechanics or the white-hot heat of his mattress. it’s the way his dark eyes soften into a fierce, protective warmth whenever you look up at him through your lashes. it’s the patient, steady way he guides you when you panic, never pushing, always making sure you feel safe. it’s the quiet, breathless aftercare where he brushes the hair from your forehead, calling you sweetheart in a voice so thick and honest it makes your soul ache. it’s the easy, effortless way you laugh together between the heavy tension, the real, undeniable connection that you built brick by brick in that small, sandalwood-scented dorm room.
jay didn't teach you how to love jake sim. jay taught you how to love him.
"hey," jake's voice breaks through your thoughts, his brow furrowing with genuine concern as he leans in closer. "are you okay? you're really pale suddenly."
you look at jake — at his kind, sweet face — and you realize that staying here, pretending to be the girl he wants, is the cruelest thing you could possibly do to him. you can't live a lie anymore. the script is over.
"jake," you whisper, your voice trembling as you gently pull your hand back from his grip. "i'm... i'm so sorry. i can't do this."
jake blinks, completely caught off guard. "what? did i say something wrong?"
"no, you're perfect," you say, a tear finally spilling over your lashes as you grab your purse from the back of the chair. "you are absolutely wonderful, jake, i swear. but... my heart is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else for a long time, and it’s not fair to keep dragging you into it. i’m so, so sorry."
before he can even process the words, you stand up from the table and walk — almost run — straight out of the jazz lounge, leaving the music behind you.
the moment you hit the cool night air of the sidewalk, you don't call a cab. you don't go back to your apartment to cry to yunjin. you sprint.
your heels click loudly against the concrete as you rush toward the west quad, your lungs burning, your heart hammering a desperate, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. the wind completely ruins your curled hair, and your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, but you don't care. the only thing that matters is the distance between you and room 314, and you need to eliminate it right now.
you burst through the heavy glass doors of his building, practically flying up the stairs three at a time because the elevator is too slow, too claustrophobic for the sudden, desperate panic roaring through your veins.
you reach the third floor, your chest heaving as you run down the carpeted hallway until you're standing directly in front of his heavy wooden door.
you don't wait to compose yourself. you don't brace your shoulders or try to be normal. you lift your shaking hand and knock against the wood, loudly, your whole body trembling in the quiet corridor.
the heavy wooden door swings open almost immediately, the sudden movement revealing jay standing in the entryway. he’s wearing an oversized black hoodie and matching sweatpants, his dark hair messy as if he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly.
the second his dark eyes lock onto you, he freezes. his gaze sweeps over your ruined curls, the formal dress you’re wearing, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and the fresh tears spilling over your cheeks.
"newbie?" jay rasps, his voice completely stripping of its usual calm, unbothered composure. he steps forward, his hands instantly coming up to hover near your shoulders, completely shocked. "what— what are you doing here? why are you crying? did something happen with jake? did he hurt you? i swear to god i'll kill—"
"i'm in love with you," you blurts out, the words tearing out of your throat in a shaky, breathless sob before he can even finish his sentence.
jay stops dead in his tracks. his hands freeze in mid-air, his jaw dropping open just a fraction as his entire body goes completely rigid. the quiet corridor feels extremely silent, the heavy weight of your words hanging in the space between you.
"i'm in love with you," you repeat, a fresh wave of hot tears blurring your vision as you look up at his face. you feel incredibly shy, completely stripped of your armor, your voice dropping to a small, trembling whisper. "i went on the date with jake. he was perfect, jay. he took me to that jazz lounge, and he held my hand, and he told me i was beautiful... but it felt completely empty. i didn't want him to touch me. i didn't want him to kiss me. because the whole time, the only person i could think about was you. i thought about how you look at me, and how safe i feel when you hold me, and... and i realized i've been lying to myself for weeks. i don't want jake. i want you. i've always wanted you."
jay stares down at you, his expression completely blank for three long, agonizing seconds. you feel a sudden, terrifying wave of panic hit your stomach, convinced you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.
then, jay’s shoulders start to shake.
he drops his head back, a sudden, sharp bark of laughter escaping his lips. he keeps laughing, a breathless, rough sound that makes your heart sink into your shoes. he’s laughing at me, you think completely mortified, stepping back a fraction. yunjin was wrong, he thinks i'm pathetic—
before you can even take a full step away, jay moves.
his large hands shoot forward, wrapping securely around your waist, and with one heavy, desperate pull, he yanks you forward into his dorm room. the door slams shut behind you with a loud, final click, and suddenly, you are crushed completely against his broad chest.
jay wraps his strong arms around you, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. you can feel the heavy, erratic thumping of his heart against your ribs, his whole body trembling slightly as he holds you like you’re about to disappear.
"jay?" you squeak out, your hands hesitantly coming up to clutch at the thick fabric of his black hoodie.
"i'm not laughing at you, newbie," jay murmurs against your skin, his voice thick, ragged, and completely devoid of his usual arrogance. he lets out another low, disbelieving chuckle right into your hair, his grip tightening. "i'm just... i'm in complete disbelief. i can't believe you're actually standing here saying this to me."
he slowly draws his head back, keeping his large hands firmly anchored on your waist so you can't move away. his dark eyes are incredibly heavy, looking down at your tear-stained face with a raw, consuming tenderness that completely melts your heart.
"you are such a moron," jay whispers, a soft, beautiful smile finally breaking across his sharp features. "you really thought this was all just a clinical lesson for me? you think i let you straddle my lap for a whole hour because i'm a dedicated tutor?"
you sniff, looking up at him through your lashes. "yunjin said..."
"yunjin was right," jay interrupts softly, his thumb rising to gently wipe away a stray tear from your cheek, his touch unbelievably sweet. "i’ve liked you for weeks, sweetheart. even a month, probably. do you have any idea what it was like for me to sit in that chair and listen to you ramble on about jake sim every single week? i hated it. i hated every single time his name left your mouth. i wanted to throw him across the campus every time you showed me a text from him."
you blink, your heart spiking. "then why didn't you say anything?"
"because i was terrified," jay admits honestly, his jaw clenching slightly as his dark eyes lock onto yours. "you came to me so innocent, so focused on this dream you had of being with him. i was so scared that if i told you how i felt, i would pressure you. i was scared i'd ruin your confidence, or make you feel trapped in the lessons. i didn't want to hurt your feelings. so when you texted me on monday saying you were done..."
he pauses, his breathing turning shallow as he leans his forehead lightly against yours, his hot breath fanning across your lips.
"i was resigned," he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly, vulnerable register. "i decided to just let you go to him. i thought, if jake makes her happy, i'll just step back and let her have her perfect boyfriend. it almost killed me, newbie. i haven't slept a full hour since monday."
hearing his confession makes your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming wave of love. you lift your hands, your fingers tangling deep into the soft, dark hair at the back of his neck, pulling him that final, microscopic inch closer.
"you don't have to let me go," you whisper directly against his lips. "i'm right here."
"yeah," jay murmurs, his dark eyes flashing with that familiar, possessive heat right before his mouth crashes onto yours. "you're right here."
the weight of his confession still hangs in the air of his room, but the heavy emotional armor you’ve both been wearing for weeks has completely shattered. your fingers are knotted so tightly in the dark hair at the back of his neck that your knuckles ache, your body pulling flush against his broad chest until there is absolutely no space left between you.
jay doesn't give you a single second to breathe. the moment your lips touch, the familiar, intoxicating taste of him rushes over you, but this time, the desperate restraint he had been clinging to during the "lessons" is completely gone. his mouth crashes into yours with a raw, possessive hunger that makes your knees instantly turn to water. it isn't a demonstration. it isn't a baseline. it is a fierce, consuming claim that leaves you both dizzy.
"jay," you gasp against his lips, a soft, helpless sound escaping your throat as his mouth slides hungrily down your jawline, his teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.
"i've got you," jay rasps, his voice an incredibly deep, gravelly vibration against your neck. "i've got you, sweetheart. you're not going anywhere."
his large hands slide down from your waist, his broad palms gripping the undersides of your thighs with a sudden, bruising force. with one effortless, powerful lift, jay hoists you completely off the ground. you let out a sharp gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the three short steps over to his bed, collapsing both of you onto the unmade blankets.
the impact is soft, but the physical heat between you is instantly blinding. jay hovers directly over you, his heavy frame anchoring you to the mattress, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead as he looks down at your flushed, breathless face. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, blazing with a fierce, protective intensity that makes your heart thump wildly against your ribs.
"look at you," jay whispers, his chest heaving under his black hoodie as his thumb traces the swollen, red curve of your bottom lip. "you're actually here. in my bed. telling me you want me."
"i do," you breathe out, your hands sliding beneath the hem of his hoodie to press your bare palms flat against the warm, defined muscles of his lower back. "i want you so bad, jay."
a low, ragged growl catches in his throat at the touch of your bare skin. he leans back down, his mouth devouring yours in a deep, wet, frantic rhythm that completely shatters the last of your control. his tongue slides possessively over yours, guiding your mouth to open wider, drinking in every single soft, broken moan you make.
the physical friction escalates instantly. jay shifts his weight, his heavy hips settling right between your thighs, the thick, rigid length of his arousal pressing hard through his sweatpants directly against your core. your dress is hiked up around your waist, leaving only the thin fabric of your underwear between your bodies. instinctively, a desperate, white-hot hunger takes over your body, and your hips tilt upward, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the unbearable pressure.
"fuck," jay groans directly into your mouth, his eyes flying shut as his entire body goes completely rigid at the sudden friction. his hands move to your hips, his long fingers digging into your skin to hold you still, but the desperate, needy roll of your pelvis makes a rough, unvarnished swear escape his lips. "newbie... shit, hold on. you're going to break me."
"no," you whine, your hands slipping out from his hoodie to clutch tightly at his broad shoulders, your eyes fluttering open to look up at him through your lashes. "don't stop, jay. please. i've been thinking about this for weeks."
the admission completely breaks his remaining restraint. jay lets out a sharp, ragged exhale and lets his hips move, matching your upward tilts with a heavy, rhythmic grind of his own. the dry humping is agonizingly perfect, the thick, hard pressure of his length rubbing relentlessly against your hyper-sensitive core through the fabric of his clothes. every single slide makes your head spin, your fingers digging deep into the soft cotton of his hoodie as you arch your back off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room.
"yes, just like that," jay murmurs, his voice a ragged, breathless rasp as he buries his face back in your neck, his lips pressing a trail of burning, wet kisses along your collarbone. "let me feel you. god, you're so hot, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good."
he shifts the angle of his hips, grinding harder, deeper, targeting the exact spot that makes your whole body tremble. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the suffocating heat of his body, the rough friction between your thighs, and the intoxicating, raw intimacy of hearing him lose his mind beneath your touch. his chest is heaving violently against yours, his breathing shallow and rough as his hips thrust down in a fast, desperate rhythm that brings you both dangerously close to the edge.
"jay," you sob out, your head tossing back against the pillows, your core weeping with a desperate, heavy ache that dry humping can no longer satisfy. "jay, please. i don't want the clothes anymore. i want to feel you. really feel you."
jay stops his movement instantly. he draws back, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps as he looks down at you. his face is flushed, his eyes clouded with a fierce, overwhelming hunger, but beneath the passion, that deep, protective tenderness returns with a beautiful clarity.
"newbie," he whispers, his hands gently framing your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears from your cheeks. "are you sure? your first time... i want it to be perfect for you. i don't want to rush this."
"i'm sure," you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the anxious beating of your heart. you look straight into his dark eyes, your fingers rising to gently trace the tiny pale scar on his nose that had given the lie away. "i love you, jay. i want it to be you. teach me the rest."
a profound, heavy silence settles over the room, the raw emotion of your words melting away the last remnants of the old "lessons." this isn't an educational baseline anymore. this is a confession, a complete surrender, and jay handles it with a reverence that makes your eyes sting with happy tears.
"okay," jay whispers, his voice dropping into a soft, beautifully thick register. "okay, sweetheart."
slowly, deliberately, he sits back on his heels. his large, warm hands move to the hem of your dress, gently and carefully sliding the fabric up over your hips, your waist, and over your head, tossing it onto the floor. his eyes track the movement, his gaze raking over your exposed skin with an unvarnished, breathless admiration that makes you feel completely worshiped. he reaches down, his long fingers hooking into the sides of your underwear, easing them down your legs until you are completely bare beneath him.
"you are so beautiful," jay murmurs, his voice shaking slightly as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare stomach. "absolutely perfect."
he stands up briefly, pulling the black hoodie over his head and kicking his sweatpants away, revealing his broad, heavily defined chest and the thick, white-hot length of his arousal. when he slides back onto the mattress, the sheer, raw heat of his naked skin making contact with yours sends a violent shock of adrenaline through your veins.
he hovers over you again, but this time, he doesn't immediately move to progress things. he takes his time. his large, warm hand slides down your side, his palm resting flat against your hip as he gently coaxes your knees apart, sliding his body between your thighs. he leans down, his mouth sealing over yours in a slow, agonizingly sweet kiss that tastes of absolute devotion. his fingers slide down, finding the slick, dripping heat between your legs, and he uses two fingers to slowly stroke your core, priming you, making sure you are completely prepared for him.
"relax for me," jay whispers against your lips, his thumb applying a steady, heavy pressure that makes your hips instinctively lift. "i'm going to go so slow, sweetheart. if it hurts, you tell me to stop. understand?"
"i understand," you whimper, your fingers tangling into his dark hair, pulling his face down so you can kiss him again.
jay pulls his hand away, the sudden loss of contact making you let out a needy whine, but then you feel the heavy, smooth head of his shaft aligning directly against your tight, wet opening. the sheer thickness of him makes your breath hitch, your hands instantly clutching at the firm muscles of his shoulders.
"look at me," jay commands softly, his voice a low, gravelly purr.
you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of the moment, to find him staring down at you with a consuming, fierce possessiveness. his dark eyes are entirely focused on yours, locking you in place.
slowly, with an agonizingly careful, steady pressure, jay sinks his hips down.
the initial stretch is tight, a sharp, white-hot pinch of discomfort making your eyes widen as a soft, broken gasp escapes your parted lips. your body automatically tenses beneath him, your fingers digging deep into the skin of his shoulders.
instantly, jay stops. he freezes in place, only a fraction of his length inside you, his jaw clenching hard as he battles his own primal urge to thrust. a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin, but his entire focus remains totally on your comfort.
"i know, i know," jay murmurs sweetly, his face dipping down to press a series of soft, comforting kisses to your eyelids, your burning cheeks, and the tip of your nose. "breathe through your nose, newbie. just like i taught you. let your body adapt to me."
he reaches down, his large hand finding your core again, his thumb rubbing slow, heavy circles against your sensitive skin while he stays perfectly still inside you. the steady, masterful friction slowly melts away the sharp pinch, replacing the discomfort with a deep, heavy wave of slick, throbbing heat. your muscles slowly relax, opening up around him, practically begging for the rest of his weight.
"jay," you whisper, your hips giving a tiny, tentative upward nudge. "more. please."
"good girl," jay rasps, a low, broken hum of absolute approval escaping his chest.
he shifts his hands, wrapping his long fingers securely around your waist, anchoring you to the mattress. slowly, smoothly, he pushes his hips down the rest of the way, burying his entire length deep inside your tight, wet heat. a loud, unvarnished cry tears out of your throat, your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even closer as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him completely consumes your senses.
jay lets out a deep, guttural groan, his head burying themselves into the crook of your neck as he stays completely buried inside you for three long, breathless seconds, letting you adjust to the magnificent weight of him.
"you're so tight, sweetheart," jay whispers, his voice completely ungrounded, shaking with a raw emotion that has absolutely nothing to do with a lesson. "you feel so perfect around me. fuck. you're mine. you know that, right? you're completely mine now."
"i'm yours," you sob out, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers. "i'm yours, jay."
when he finally begins to move, it is the furthest thing from the clinical, calculated pacing of before. it is slow, incredibly deep, and heavy with a fierce, possessive passion. jay draws his hips back until he is almost entirely out, making you let out a needy, panicked gasp, before sliding back in with a long, smooth stroke that drives straight to the center of your ache.
“ah— jay!” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows as the relentless, deep rhythm takes over the small room.
he guides you through every single movement. when your breathing gets too frantic, jay uses his grip on your waist to lift your hips slightly, slowing the pace down, lingering deep inside you until your breath catches in sync with his. his mouth is everywhere — kissing your lips, your jaw, biting softly on your neck, leaving dark, faint marks on your skin that say louder than words exactly who you belong to.
"you're doing so good for me, baby," jay praises you, his voice a heavy rumble right against your ear. his breathing is completely shattered, his chest slick with sweat as it crushes against yours with every single deep, driving thrust. "look at you. you're taking all of me so perfectly. so pretty for me, sweetheart."
the explicit, loving praises send jolts of pure electricity straight down your spine. you grow bolder, your fingers digging into his hips as you match his pace, lifting your pelvis to meet his downward thrusts, creating a flawless, sharp friction that completely breaks his remaining restraint.
the pacing quickly turns heated, the slow tenderness fracturing beneath a sudden, overwhelming wave of raw, unadulterated passion. jay's dark brows furrow in a look of pure agony, swears escaping his lips with every single heavy, pounding thrust. he moves faster, deeper, his hips crashing against yours with a bruising, desperate force that makes the entire bed shake.
"jay... jay, i'm close," you sob out, the tight, hot knot in your lower stomach coiling so tightly you can barely breathe. your fingers tangle desperately into his damp hair, pulling him down, needing his mouth on yours as your climax approaches.
jay snaps his eyes open, his dark gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying, beautiful amount of gravity. "look at me," he rasps, his hips thrusting deep, holding you completely still beneath him. "look at me when you break, sweetheart. let me see you."
you look up through your lashes, staring straight into his cloudless, fierce eyes as he delivers three fast, incredibly deep thrusts. the coiling tension inside you completely snaps, a blinding wave of pure, white-hot release crashing over your entire body. you let out a loud, broken cry, your inner muscles clamping tightly around his length in violent, pulsing spasms.
the sudden, tight friction completely breaks jay's remaining control. he lets out a deep, guttural cry against your mouth, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck as his hips give one final, breathless thrust, burying himself as deep as physically possible inside you as his own release hits him.
jay stays buried deep inside you for a long moment, his chest pressed flush against your back as both of you come down from the high. his lips brush lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, like he can’t stop touching you even now.
“are you okay, pretty?” he murmurs, voice rough and low against your skin.
you nod, still catching your breath, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “more than okay.”
he hums in satisfaction and carefully pulls out, immediately rolling you over so you’re facing him. his large hand slides up your side, gentle and possessive at the same time, as he tucks you against his chest. for a while, neither of you speaks. the only sounds are your slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of campus life outside his window.
jay’s fingers trace slow circles on your bare back.
“so,” he says after a long beat, that familiar lazy grin creeping into his voice, “how do you feel now that you’ve graduated from my lessons?”
you let out a soft laugh, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. “i feel like an idiot.”
“yeah?” he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “took you long enough to figure it out.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing the tiny scar on his nose. “why didn’t you say anything sooner? all those weeks… you just kept teaching me like it didn’t kill you every time i mentioned jake.”
jay’s expression softens. he cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin with surprising tenderness.
“because you came to me wanting help to get another guy,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t going to be the asshole who messed with your head while you were vulnerable. even if it sucked. even if i wanted to throw my laptop across the room every time you showed me his texts.”
he leans in and kisses you slowly, deeply — nothing like the heated frenzy from earlier. this one feels like a promise.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“for the record,” he murmurs, smiling again, “you were never going to end up with jake. not after the first time you asked me for a ‘practical example.’ i knew it then. you were already mine.”
you groan, embarrassed but smiling. “you’re so cocky.”
“and you love it.”
you do.
jay pulls the blanket higher over your shoulders and wraps both arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. his lips brush your temple.
“no more lessons,” he whispers. “no more pretending. just this. just us.”
you press a soft kiss to his collarbone, already drifting off in the warmth of his embrace.
“just us,” you echo.
as sleep starts to pull you under, you feel jay smile against your hair.
you showed up to room 304 with your chem textbook feeling like an idiot, which wasn't great for the confidence. the tutoring program was supposed to match you with someone who actually understood ionic bonds and whatever the hell molarity meant, but you weren't expecting much. probably some random kid who'd make you feel worse about not getting it.
except you walked in and jake was sitting there.
jake. the guy from your chem lecture who always wore those worn-out hoodies and had the kind of smile that made you forget what the professor was saying. the one you'd been staring at for like three weeks straight, trying not to be obvious about it.
he looked up and his face did this thing—eyebrows raising just slightly, mouth curving into a smile.
"oh," he said, laughing. "you're my four o'clock?"
"i—yeah," you managed, frozen in the doorway. "didn't know you were one of the tutors."
"i started last week actually." he gestured to the seat next to him, still smiling.
you sat down, hyper-aware of how close the chairs were. he smelled like laundry detergent and something else you couldn't place. cedar, maybe?
"so," jake said, flipping open his notebook. "what're we working on? or is it like, everything?"
"everything," you admitted. "i don't know what happened. i was fine last semester and then we hit stoichiometry and my brain just logged off."
he laughed. "yeah, stoich is where people either get it or start planning to drop out."
"super encouraging, thanks."
"i'm kidding," he said, nudging your arm with his elbow. the touch lasted half a second but you felt it everywhere. "you'll be fine. i'm an amazing teacher."
you rolled your eyes but couldn't help smiling. "okay, amazing teacher. explain why i can't get number fourteen."
he leaned over to look at your worksheet, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. you tried to focus on the numbers but your brain was just screaming about the two inches of space between you.
"alright so," jake started, grabbing a pencil. "look—you've got your moles here, right? and you just need to convert using the ratio from the equation."
he walked you through it and honestly? the way he explained things actually made sense. he was patient, didn't make you feel stupid when you asked questions, and kept checking to make sure you were following.
"wait," you said, writing out the equation. "so i just multiply by this and then—"
"yeah, exactly." he watched you work through it, then grinned when you got the right answer. "see? you're not even bad at this. you just needed someone to explain it."
"or maybe you're just a good teacher."
"i did say that." he leaned back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "but yeah, you caught on fast. impressive."
you felt your face heat up. "it's basic chemistry."
"still." he was just looking at you now, not even pretending to check the worksheet. "you're cute when you concentrate."
your brain short-circuited. "what?"
"see, now you're doing the thing where you get flustered," he continued, grinning wider. "also cute."
"are you gonna help me with sixteen or just keep flirting?"
"i can multitask."
he did help you with sixteen, and seventeen, and eighteen. but he also kept throwing in random comments that made your stomach flip. at one point you got an answer wrong and he said "tragic" in this deadpan voice and you couldn’t help but laugh.
"okay, focus," he said, but he was laughing too. "we've still got like twenty minutes and you need to actually learn this."
"i am learning."
"you're learning that I'm funny. different thing."
you shoved his arm and he caught your hand for a second. the air felt different after that.
he cleared his throat. "so uh. do you have tutoring once a week or…"
"twice," you said. "if that's okay."
"yeah. yeah, that's okay."
"gives me an excuse to see you outside of class. since you sit like four rows away and never talk to me."
"i talk to you."
"you said 'hey' once. three weeks ago."
"i'm a little shy sometimes."
"you're not that shy right now."
he had a point. something about the empty classroom and the way he kept looking at you made it easier.
"you're easier to talk to than i thought you'd be," you admitted.
"what'd you think i'd be like?"
"i don't know. you're always with your friends and they're all loud and—"
"and i'm not?"
"you're quieter." you were definitely saying too much now but couldn't stop. "i don't know, i noticed that about you."
his expression shifted. "you noticed me?"
"i mean, yeah."
jake was quiet for a second, eyes dropping to your lips than back looking at you with a small smile. then he said, "can i try something?"
"like what?"
instead of answering he leaned in, slow enough that you could've moved away if you wanted to. you didn't want to.
his lips touched yours and it was somehow exactly what you expected and nothing like it at the same time. soft and a little uncertain, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. you kissed him back and felt him smile against your mouth.
when he pulled away you were both just staring at each other.
"so," he said quietly.
"yeah."
"good yeah or bad yeah?"
"good yeah."
he laughed, "okay just making sure."
you could still feel the feeling of his lips on yours. his hand was still resting on your cheek.
"we should probably finish the worksheet," you said, not moving.
"probably." he didn't move either. "or…"
"or?"
his eyes dropped to your mouth again and you knew exactly where this was going.
Summary: After your eventful mission in Raccoon City, you return at the DSO as a fully trained agent. As you and Mr. Kennedy meet again in a place you both thought to be abandoned, a deep intimate bond starts to form. As the months go by and the days grow colder, it only gets harder for the two of you to stay away from each other.
Warnings/notes: Fluff, angst, yearning, appearance of Chris Redfield and Sherry Birkin, protective Leon, jealous Leon, age difference, older!Leon, very slowburn, author's first language isn't English
The familiar smell of paperwork and ink fills your senses as you step through the doors that lead to the DSO offices. Being one of the most important places at the facility, the offices are situated on the highest floors. You’ve never had a problem with that. Until today. Your shoulders still ache from the mission as the muscles in your legs strain after the amount of stairs you just did. The mission earlier that day had taken its toll on you, and to your luck, the elevator was down as well.
Straightening your back, you try to catch your breath as you make your way to one of the head offices. Chris had convened an emergency meeting after the quick talk he had with Leon back at Raccoon City. To your surprise, he had demanded your presence as well.
So that’s where you are now, hurrying your footsteps after you’ve just left your harness at your own desk. As you walk through the corridors, you get bewildered looks from several staff members who had no idea what had happened to you.
A familiar face comes into your line of vision as you're walking. A woman in her forties, blond short hair, piercing blue eyes while supporting a radiant smile.
“Well shit girl, you look terrible.” Sherry Birkin laughs, her warm hand on your shoulder stopping you so she can look you up and down better.
“Well thanks Sherry. That’s very uplifting.” You chuckle in response. With you and Sherry being the only females in the building, you’ve gotten rather close over time. Both of you being a friend and confidant to each other.
You sigh as you continue your steps with Sherry now following right next to you. “I feel like I got run over by a truck.”
“How did it go?” Knowing it was your first ever mission, Sherry had been waiting impatiently for your return.
“What do you think?” You ask her while taking a turn to the left. The office you have to be at is at the far end of the hallway. A few people block your path, some of them carrying files while others make their way back to their own desk. As you squirm through them you hear Sherry chuckle next to you.
“Knowing you, this…” She says while looking you up and down. “…Could mean it either went really wrong or really well.”
You grin before looking at her. “Jonathan’s out.”
A gasp leaves her mouth, eyes wide and hand on her chest, feigning mock hurt. “No way…” A grin replaces her expression immediately as she moves closer, whispering so no one else will hear. “Thank God. Bet you’re not too upset about that.”
You hum before shaking your head. “You have no idea.” As you reach the end of the hallway, the closed door now in front of you, you stop to turn towards her. “Mr. Redfield has demanded I participate in an urgent meeting concerning the mission earlier today.”
Sherry’s eyes narrow slightly as she crosses her arms. “What the hell happened then?” You shake your head, moving your arm to reach for the door handle. “It’s a long story Sherry. I’ll tell you later. We must meet up tonight for dinner.”
She smiles. “I’ll hold you to it.” Before turning around. “Good luck in there with the big bad wolf.” She says, referring to Chris. You snort, showing her a toothy grin before turning the handle. “See you tonight Sherry.”
You hear her heels clicking behind you as she walks away. Opening the door, you’re almost blinded by the bright sunlight that fills the room. As you close it, you blink a few times to let your eyes adjust to the light. You step away from the door and take in the room.
A wooden desk is situated in the middle with a row of windows behind it, giving you a nice view of the city below. Two bookcases have been placed against the wall on the right, carrying various files and documents, with a printer next to it. An ugly painting from some unknown artist covers the wall on your left, a coffee machine underneath, situated on top of a small cabinet filled with bottles of liquor.
Four chairs are placed around the desk. Chris sits in one of them, his back towards the windows, elbows placed on the desk as he uses his hands to lean his head on. The other three chairs are placed on the other side of the desk. Two men are already sitting with only the chair in the middle being free, for what you’re guessing is meant for you. Their backs are towards you. The person on the left you recognize to be Jason Miller, one of the rookies from the other duo you saw today during the mission.
As you look to the chair on the right, you don’t need any time to recognize the person who’s sitting there, his shoulders and hair being a very recognizable feature. As your heart starts to beat a little faster you realize that even from behind, Leon Kennedy makes quite the impression.
You hear Chris clear his throat as he addresses you. “Thank you for joining us. Please, sit.” He waves his hand towards the empty chair. You move forward, grabbing the backrest of the chair before moving it slightly back. As you move down to take a seat, the faint scent of freshly washed linen fills your nose again. You recognise it to be Leon’s. You peak out of the corner of your eye as you slowly inspect him.
Just like you, he’s still filthy from before, both of your clothes and hair covered with dust and dirt as you’re in need of a hot shower. Leon gazes straight ahead, breathing controlled, as he seems to be concentrating on something through the window. His sleeves are still rolled up to the elbow, revealing his toned forearms, hairy with a few veins protruding from the skin. Sitting flat against the back of the chair, his legs are spread as he lets his hands rest on top of them. A black Hamilton watch is wrapped around his wrist, making you wonder about the scale of his net worth. Your heartbeat picks up at the proximity, making your palms sweat and knees shake. He probably doesn’t realize it, you think to yourself, but he looks so utterly manly.
“Are you alright miss?” Chris’s voice breaks you out of your daydreaming. You feel caught like a deer in the headlights. A blush climbs up your cheeks as you clear your throat. “I’m perfect Mr. Redfield, thank you. Please continue.” You swallow thickly, praying to the gods above he hadn't noticed you staring. If so, he chose not to give it much thought due to his lack of reaction.
“Very well…” He nods, eyes now fixating on you and Jason. “Congratulations you two. You’re the only ones who made it through the test today. You’ve probably noticed by now your fellow comrades have packed their bags and left the facility. Good. No time for weakness in a place like this.”
The man next to you, Jason, is awfully quiet, you think to yourself. As you turn your head to take a quick look at him, you notice the triumphant smile on his face. Not quite as cocky as you’ve seen men do many times before, but more honest and warm. Making you believe he’s happy with himself for making it this far in his training. He nods before speaking. “Thank you Mr. Redfield. I'm very happy to have pleased you today.”
Like he has heard that same sentence many times before, Chris waves his hand, mumbling a subtle ‘yeah yeah’ as he disregards his words. He starts again. “Mr. Kennedy and I have been going over your performances today. I have to admit, some were a bit worse than others…” He says as he looks at Jason to make a point, who in his turn looks down at his lap, probably remembering the things he has to work on. You hear Chris sigh before continuing. “What I’m trying to say is that we both want you to become a part of our team. At the DSO. As fully trained agents.”
You let out an inaudible gasp, the feeling of joy warming your insides as you feel the corners of your mouth curl up into a toothy grin. After three months of training, bravery and hard work, you have done it.
“Now if none of you object, which I don’t believe you will, I will get you registered in our systems, make sure we have your banking information so that we can deposit your salary, get you a badge and what not… But most importantly you will be assigned to a partner. Someone who will be your ally through all further missions. Someone who you must trust, while they trust you in return. Forming a bond that has to go on for a long time.”
Looking back at Jason he says. “Mr. Miller, you have proven yourself worthy today. At some moments you were even able to impress me. Therefore I will give you the chance to become my field partner if you’d like.”
Not a second passes before the words spurt out of Jason’s mouth. “Yes! Yes, of course. That would be amazing.” He’s ecstatic, fidgeting in his seat like a child who’s being told you’re gonna get him some ice cream.
“Very well then. There seems to be a lot more bioterrorism in Raccoon City than we first thought, according to Leon here.” He says, nodding over to the man sitting next to you. “I would like to check the area some more, look for things we might have missed on previous runs. Kennedy’s team found a nest of infected back in the tunnels leading to one of the old Umbrella labs. I want to make sure there aren’t any nests left.”
You see Jason’s Adam's apple bob, the smile from before slowly fading away, replacing it with a more stern and serious expression. He seems a bit unsure about the idea, hesitant even, opening his mouth before quickly closing it again. You don’t blame him though. If you had to face another horde of infected, you’d be scared as well.
A few seconds pass. All eyes on Jason. The tension in the room rises as you’re waiting for his next move. For what his reaction will be. Like it’s just another way of Chris trying to test him, like he hasn’t already been through enough.
Eventually you see him take in a deep breath as he sits straight, looking up to meet Chris’s gaze again. His eyes are clear and there’s more certainty in his voice as he speaks. “Seems like a good idea sir. You can count on me.”
You admire his braveness, though sadly, this is what’s required from the two of you from now on during missions... No fear, no hesitation. You just have to jump into the unknown and hope for the best.
Chris gives him a small smile in return, acknowledging his bravery and perseverance despite the dangerous challenge that lies ahead. “Good man.” He says before reaching into one of the drawers to his right. He takes out a yellow colored file and slides it over the desk. “This file holds a grand map of Raccoon City. Well at least of what’s left of it. There’s still a few hours to the day. I suggest you use that time to look it over and try to memorize as much as you can. It will make it easier for you to navigate through the city. And don’t stay up late. I want to leave early in the morning. Preferably at dawn and I need a partner that’s well rested.”
“I’ll be ready sir.” Jason replies without thinking. You wonder how good of a night's sleep he’s actually going to get knowing what he might see tomorrow. You wouldn’t sleep very well, that’s for sure. You didn’t even sleep well last night and you had no idea what was going to happen today.
As Jason reaches out to grab the file you start to get a little curious about who your partner might be. If you’re given a say in it you’d prefer Sherry even though she’s already made it clear that she prefers an office job over fieldwork, saying she’s gotten a little too old for that. Nevertheless she would make an awesome partner as you know you two click very well.
“Who’s my partner going to be?”
The question hangs in the air for a second as the room goes awfully quiet. You see Chris’s eyes widen slightly, eyebrows raised as if he doesn’t want you to ask him that question. Almost like he wants to avoid it. He inhales sharply and straightens his posture, his index finger tapping on the wooden surface of his desk. Clearing his throat he looks more towards his left with unease, eyes landing on Leon, who seems to shift beside you. A breath coming out of his mouth he seemed to have been holding for a while.
You look at him, then back at Chris, then back at Leon, then back at Chris. Neither of the two speaks.
You’re starting to panic, an unpleasant feeling filling your stomach as you feel your breathing change and your heartbeat quicken. Outwardly you remain as calm and composed as you can be. Though inwardly, the anxiety is working overtime. Why aren’t they answering your question? Is it a bad sign? Are you not qualified enough? They're not going to kick you out after completing your training, will they? Or is it your partner? Can’t they find anyone who you’ll match with? Or worse... Is there no one who wants to work with you? Is it because you’re a woman? Do people still look at you like you’re a helpless little girl? Fuck no, you had earned your place here. They can’t kick you out.
The clearing of a throat stops your thoughts from spiraling even further. As you look towards the sound, you realize it’s Leon, who now also has his eyes focussed on you together with Chris. You brace yourself for the inevitable as Leon’s lips part before speaking.
“They partnered you up with who?” Sherry almost shouts in your face, repeating the same question for the third time, not wanting to believe your answer. The water in your glass shakes as she grips the table tightly by the edges, leaning forward to make sure she heard you correctly the other two times. The two plates of spaghetti are still hot between you two as you put your fork down again to let it cool down, your back straightening as you give her the same answer.
“Leon S. Kennedy. The one and only.” You draw out, still not quite believing your own words yourself. It has been three hours since the meeting. Three hours of you reminiscing everything that was said.
“I understand if it’s not what you had in mind but… After what happened today, I would appreciate it if you considered me to be your partner. Like I told you earlier, I’ve never met anyone who compliments me in my strategies as well as you do, like we weren’t trained separately but together. You had my back today as well as I had yours. You don’t have to join me and you're certainly not obliged, but… I would be open to it. If you’re not interested, we can always find someone more… suitable to your liking.”
Not much was said after Leon had spoken. You almost couldn’t. Never in your life would you have believed that ‘the’ Leon Kennedy, who had saved the world countless of times, would want you to be his partner. Out of all the agents at the DSO, he picks you. A new female agent.
You had agreed to his offer in semi shock, almost not daring to look into his eyes because of his intense staring. A few more formalities were had before Chris decided to end the meeting. You stood up quickly, eager to get out of the room as fast as possible. As you took urgent steps towards the door, you felt Leon’s burning stare on your back. You’d made quick work of the handle, twisting it, before fleeing.
Back to where you are now, Sherry’s mouth has fallen open, the food forgotten as she shakes her head. “That’s not right. That’s… weird.”
You scoff at her words. “Wow, thanks a lot Sherry. Cheers.”
She shakes her head again, quicker this time. “I don’t mean it like that. It’s just… odd. Leon hasn’t had a partner in ages. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen him with a partner really. He has always told me he didn’t want a partner, simply because he didn’t need one. That he’s better off on his own.”
You frown at the confession. “Then why choose me? Why offer me a position next to him if he has no need of me?”
“You tell me...” Sherry huffs, clearly out of ideas. A few seconds of silence pass before she throws you a cheeky grin and a wink. “Maybe his old age is catching up with him.”
You snort. “Sherry, you do know that he’s only nine years older than you right?”
“Sweetie I’m forty, Leon’s pushing fifty. That’s a big difference.”
You smile at her, feeling your cheeks grow slightly warm. “Yes, but… he’s not that old, just… middle aged.”
Sherry hums, picking up her fork and digging into her food. “Yeah, whatever. So, speaking of being old. You’re turning thirty in a few months. How does that feel?”
You groan. “Ok. Let’s drop the subject now shall we.”
You shake your head as she laughs. Looking down at your plate, you pick up your own fork, scooping up enough of spaghetti so your mouth will be full. Subtly avoiding her glance as you don’t feel like talking.
Her telling you Leon is being perceived as an old man makes you slightly insecure about your feelings towards him. You have a thing for him, that is clear. But what does that say about you? Are you a creep for being into older men? Is it wrong? Will people look at you weirdly if they find out? No man of that age has ever triggered your interest as much as Leon did though. So maybe you don’t have to worry about it. Maybe those stupid feelings will pass once you get to know him better. For all you know, he could be a prick.
You and Sherry chat some more after you both finish dinner. After a while you decide to call it a night, still in dying need of that hot shower. As you part ways, you make your way to your room located in the building connected to the one you’re at. All personal staff at the DSO were offered a room to stay in next to the facility. Free of charges while also having food provided for you. As you had nowhere else to go, you immediately signed up for one once you started three months ago.
You make your way up to the third floor, grateful that at least this elevator is still working. Taking tired steps through the hallway, you slide your key into the lock as you reach your room, quickly locking it behind you. Upon entering the small bathroom that’s connected to the room you almost sigh in relief at seeing the white tiled shower. You groan as you take off your clothes, the muscles in your shoulders still stiff as you lift your shirt over your head. The water is hot against your skin as you wash away all the dirt and dust you’d collected during the day. Staying underneath the hot stream after you’ve washed your hair, you let your mind wander for a bit as you enjoy the calmness. After a few minutes you turn off the tap and reach for a towel to dry yourself. Slipping into one of your comfortable pajamas, a plain grey T-shirt and bottoms decorated with sunflowers on them, you’re finally content.
Returning to the bedroom you move to the side to sit on the edge of the bed, looking for a few seconds at the picture of your deceased parents on the nightstand. You bent down to open the small cupboard, retrieving a very special treasure hidden inside. A bag of crisps, salt and pepper flavored. The little girl inside you jumps in victory at seeing the promised treat. You take the bag and make your way towards the door, stepping out into the hallway and locking it behind you again. You move towards the elevator, pushing the button as you wait for it to come up. Once the doors open, you step inside and push the number eight, the highest floor in the building. Yesterday, when your thoughts had run haywire, you had found a quiet and secluded spot there hidden behind a few empty bedchambers. A small conservatory, rid of any plants. Now it just seemed to be used as an attic to store stuff in. You sat there by yourself. Trying to get rid of the intrusive thoughts clouding your mind. Scared about the mission that would come the next day.
Letting your eyes fall upon the city, you loved the small lights still illuminating it in the dark. Many wouldn’t spare a glance but oh how beautiful it was to you, giving you peace and well deserved leisure. You had enjoyed your time up there, and told Sherry about it this morning. She had only huffed and said the room hadn’t been used in ages. That no one ever really goes up there anymore. All the more reason for you to go up there even more.
As you hear the bing of the elevator, you open up your bag of crisps. Sticking your nose in it first to fully inhale the glorious scent. Walking through the short hallway you reach the door of the conservatory in mere seconds, swiftly opening the door, which is always unlocked.
You walk in and move towards the windows, not paying much thought to the faint light that’s already on in the far corner. Your eyes fall upon the city, several lights shining bright again, turning a soft smile on your face. You look down into the bag you’re holding and reach for one big piece. You almost want to drool when you see the seasoning on it. Liking your lips, you open your mouth wide and and push it in. You almost groan at the taste, your mouth full. The delicious, crunchy tas-
Light in the corner?
Your eyes widen in the split of a second as you realize you’re not alone. Quickly turning around you look back at the far corner on the right. There, sitting on an old worn-out sofa, is Leon Kennedy, your new partner.
Just like you he’s dressed in more comfortable clothing, a basic white T-shirt with some grey sweatpants. His hair is tousled. Wide blue eyes look at you through a pair of clear reading glasses. His mouth slightly agape like he had been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. As you look down you can see him holding a book in his hand and a pen in the other. His eyes are looking you up and down as well. Starting at your still damp hair. Moving further to the bag in your hand, to your waist, and last but not least to your sunflower bottoms.
If the floor now miraculously opened up a hole, you would jump straight into it. You quickly swallow the food left in your mouth. This is fucking embarrasing. Not only did you interrupt him doing whatever it was he was doing, he also got to see you in the most ridiculous outfit you could have ever worn in front of him. You have to get out of here. Fast.
“I… Uh… Well… This is…Uh… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I uh… Yes. Goodnight!”
Giving yourself a mental smack on the head you turn to the door with great haste, almost not running to at least keep some of your dignity. Thankfully you hadn’t bothered closing it when you came in, the exit now wide open.
Before you even get the chance to reach for the handle and close the door behind you’re stopped by his hurried voice.
“Wait!”
You almost trip over your own feet, holding yourself onto the door so you won’t fall. Your head turns towards him as your eyes meet his. An unsure look in them as he swallows thickly. Almost like he was a bit surprised by his own reaction. “You don’t have to leave. I just… didn’t expect any company.”
You let out a shaky breath, heart pumping as you hold onto your bag of crisps for dear life. “Sherry told me no one ever comes here.”
“I was thinking the exact same thing.” He replies immediately.
You try to look anywhere but at him as his gaze remains on you. For a moment none of you speak, the quietness almost suffocating as you try your very best not to faint. Eventually he looks down at the space next to him before returning his attention back to you.
“You can uh… sit here if you want.” He suggests nervously.
The wrinkling of the plastic bag you’re holding fills the room as you take a step back, letting go of the handle. You take a step to move towards him but get stopped again.
“Close the door.” He insists. His tone is now a bit more certain and calm but with still an underlying uneasiness to it. You nod, not quite sure as to why you agree to locking yourself up here with him. As you close the door, you move towards the green sofa. Leon scoots a bit to the side, making more room for you. You carefully sit down, your back making contact with the soft cushioning as you feel the warmth of where he just sat start to seep through your clothes.
It’s awkwardly quiet as you feel his stare on you while you’re trying to look anywhere but at him. You hear his breathing combined with a soft rustling noise as he scratches his stubble. His voice breaks the silence. “So how are you holding up? You know, after today.”
You turn your head and force yourself to meet his gaze, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “I’m ok. I guess.”
“You guess?”
You nod. “Yeah just… Still a little shaken up maybe.”
He hums, tilting his head slightly. ”I’d be surprised if you weren’t.” His lips turn into a small smile, a mischievous look into his eyes. “If you're just a ‘little’ shaken up after what happened today, I should just throw you to the infected more often. You know, there’s an Umbrella lab situated somewhere in the heart of Raccoon City that still needs to get cleared out. Tons of infected are in there. Vicious, horrendous creatures just like the ones you saw today.” He shrugs his shoulders. “If you’re interested, I could bring you there tomorrow. I think you’d have the place sweeped in a few hours.”
His eyes glow in the little light provided by the large floor lamp that’s standing next to the sofa. A look in them you recognize all too well. He’s testing you. Waiting to see if you will take the bait and continue in his made up nonsense. Continue lying. If there’s one thing you have learned during your training with Leon, it’s that he doesn’t like being lied to. And as much as you try to hide it right now and play dumb, he’s seeing right through you.
You break eye contact. Looking down at your hands, still tightly grasping the bag of crisps. You manage to open your lips but no words come out. Fuck. You had been good at mastering the ‘emotional’ side of your training. Days filled with learning how to lie, how to be mentally strong and how to mislead someone. More than good even. You had excelled at it. And now those stupid blue eyes manage to unarm you in seconds. It’s just because he’s not an enemy, you tell yourself.
Seeing the turmoil going on in your head, Leon realizes the events from today had affected you more than he thought. He leans a bit closer, his shoulder almost brushing yours as you feel his hot breath hitting your face now. The smell of toothpaste is still fresh. His voice is softer than before, almost whispering. “Hey, I’m just messing with you.”
You refrain from looking at him, unsettled by the effect he has on you while also still embarrassed that you’re sitting next to him in your pajamas. He sighs next to you, putting the book he’d been holding onto his lap. As he fiddles the pen in his hands, he takes his eyes away from you, looking straight towards the windows. A few seconds pass before you hear his voice again, more serious this time but still gentle. “The first night after a mission it’s always hard to find rest once you’ve seen the bioterrorism Umbrella has brought upon the world. I just want you to know that, as someone who has more experience on the matter, it’s never a good idea to keep your feelings bottled up like that. You need to find someone who you trust enough to confide in, to talk to.”
“Is that what you did after your first mission?”
Now looking at him, you see his Adam’s apple bob as he clenches jaw. After a second you realize how wrong you were for asking him that. You immediately feel guilty, knowing what he’s been through 28 years ago, the horror and destruction of Raccoon City probably still clear in his memory. Your lips tremble as you scurry your mind for something apologetic to say.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. Forget I said anything.”
He shakes his head, a few strands of hair falling in front of his face as he does so. “No, it’s fine. You uh… Probably already know the answer to that. The story is quite famous among the DSO.” Turning his body now so he’s facing you, you see a small hint of pain hidden in his eyes. He continues nonetheless. “I used to keep it all in. Didn’t talk to anyone for years. I thought I could handle it but… I was wrong.”
For the first time tonight you’re able to keep looking into his eyes. Despite the serious topic, still being drawn to the beauty they hold. The color is not just any blue, but more like the piercing cold on a freezing winter day. Holding a storm of different emotions in them, pain, suffering, loss… And something else. Something you’re not sure you can name.
“Tell me what’s going through your head. Tell me what you’re feeling.” He says.
“I…” You stop yourself. Unsure of the words that you’re going to say but still continuing. “I was… I was terrified back in those tunnels. When Jonathan left me… I thought I was going to die down there. Alone. The idea suffocates me.”
You can see his eyes soften at your words. Letting out a sigh, he probably recognizes the emotions you’re feeling.
He wants nothing more than to reach out and hold your hand right now. Seeing that look on your face, one of sadness, pain and still lingering shock, makes him frustrated to no end. He doesn’t want to see you like that. He knows what you’re going through and the kind of thoughts you’re having, ‘cause he’s been in similar situations many times himself. A strange feeling inside makes him want to guard you from that. To shield you from the horrors outside. He can’t stop the missions that are to follow but he can protect you as much as possible.
He hates the way his heart speeds up when you’re near. Or the way his hands get clammy when you finally dare to look at him out of the corner of your eye. When you oh so shyly try to maintain eye contact with him.
Your hair is down now, still damp from the shower you must have taken, thick locks cascading down your shoulders in soft waves. The smell of lavender combined with something sweet enters his nostrils, making him almost want to hum at the great scent you’re holding. Your little sunflower pajamas give little away from the shape of your legs. He sees you’re embarrassed by them. The way you're putting the plastic bag of crisps on your lap, trying to cover some of the pattern. He thinks it's cute. A beautiful contrast to how you act during the day. A strong soldier in the daytime and seemingly softer at night.
“It’s normal to feel like that.” He says while nodding. “I would like to tell you it gets better over time. That you won’t feel like this again after a few more missions… But sadly it doesn’t. You might get a little unsensitized over time, but the feeling still lingers.” He can see the small hope left in your eyes starting to fade away. You once again break eye contact and look down at your hands in deep thought. It gnaws at his heartstrings that he has to tell you the harsh truth, but he can’t lie to you. Not even if he wants to. You have that effect on him annoyingly enough. And besides, you deserve to know the truth.
You stay quiet after that, closing your eyes after a second. He racks his brain for anything comforting to say, only to come up with nothing. Nothing of any means anyway. So he does something without even fully realizing it.
You feel something warm wrap around your lower arm, slightly startling you. When you open your eyes you can see his calloused hand wrapped around it. His touch feeling almost like an electric pulse that seems to hold you in place and stops you from breathing. He feels so warm against your skin. His thumb rubbing soothing circles there. You realize his hands are much bigger than yours. Broader, nails clean cut, a few veins running over them… So fucking manly. His voice seems to bring you out of your stupor again.
“Hey, listen to me. I’m not gonna lie to you, you don’t deserve that.” You keep your gaze down, a bit to his disliking. You’re so shy at the wrong times. He sighs. “Look at me.” He says, not raising his voice but putting a bit more firmness behind it, more dominance. Receiving it as a demand, you lift your gaze up to meet his, mouth going dry as you meet his penetrating stare again.
“The job that we do. It isn’t easy. It never is. Nor will it ever be. There will be days… Much worse than this one, when we don’t know if we’re gonna make it or not. Missions that will push us to our limits and make us lose our minds. But you need to realize that what we're doing is not for us, but for the world. For all the people who are too weak to defend themselves. To make this all a better place. And you need to know that at the end of the day, you’ll get to come back here. To your colleagues, to Sherry… You get to wash everything away, put a cute little pajama on and get in bed. You-”
“What if I’m not ok?” You suddenly speak, interrupting him, forgetting that he just called your pajamas cute. “What if I don’t make it back? What if… What if I die?”
“I’m not gonna let that happen” He replies within a heartbeat, his face serious and sincere.
You let out a shaky breath. “Mr. Kennedy, I-”
“Please.” He says, interrupting you now. “Call me Leon. From now on I’m not just your superior anymore. If we’re to be partners I want you to call me by my first name."
You nod. “Ok. Leon then.” You say with an unsure smile. He returns it, his lips now turning into a soft smile as well. You clear your throat while remembering what you were trying to say. “ I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but I’m scared of what is to come. What if the next mission I’m sent on freaks me out even more? What if I get so scared I fuck up next time like Jonathan did? You say you can prevent me from dying but you don’t know that. You can't fend off a bullet coming my way or keep twenty infected from jumping at me at the same time. What if this isn’t what I was meant to do and-”
“Hey hey none of that.” He says, turning his body so his front is facing you now completely, his book and pen sliding somewhere between you two. His other hand now goes up to your shoulder, placing it there, its warmth keeping you sane and grounded. “You won’t fuck up. You’re way more powerful than you think you are and it angers me that you don’t see it. That you’re so insecure about yourself. Today you’ve shown me your strength, your resilience and your courage. You have no idea how more powerful you are compared to other agents around here. So much more powerful, in fact, I am certain that this is definitely the place you belong at. And as for your safety? I take that very seriously. I will do everything in my power to protect you from any threats that we might face.”
His words give you a warm feeling inside, making you a little sentimental as well. No one has ever said something like that to you before. Ever since you lost your parents at a young age, you had to fend for yourself. No one ever cared enough for you like Leon seems to do now. On the other hand, you feel ashamed that you’re confessing everything to him like that. You’re supposed to be tough and not almost break down in front of an older agent who has seen it all happen.
Not wanting to let out any tears, you swallow away your self-pity. Taking in a deep breath, you smile again as you try to lift up the mood.
“Well, consider me your new bodyguard from now on Leon. ‘Cause I’ll do my very best to protect you as well.”
He chuckles at your words as he lets you go, both of his hands returning to his lap. The atmosphere is becoming more relaxing. “I would expect nothing less of you.”
As you look down, your gaze falls upon the book lying between the two of you. Except it’s not just any book. Looking at it upside down you see a whole page filled with various squares lined up next to each other. A different line of squares crossing the other, and the other, and the other. A whole pattern like that throughout the whole page. Some squares are already holding a letter… He’s playing a crossword puzzle.
“A crossword puzzle?” You ask him curiously.
You see his eyes widen. Mouth slightly agape like he’d been caught in the act of doing something bad. A soft blush starts to make its way up towards his cheeks, making you chuckle. “Uh yeah I…” He says, hand going to the back of his neck, scratching it, something you recognize to be a nervous trait of his. “It’s nothing. Stupid even really. ‘T was just lying around here.”
It wasn’t just lying around. He had bought it himself two days ago at a local store, but he wasn’t gonna tell you that.
You lean in, taking a better look at the page as you pick it up, leaving the bag of crisps on your lap. “I haven't often had the chance to play something like this. Is it difficult?”
For a second he doesn’t know what to say to that. He had expected you to laugh at him and find him to be an old weird man. Instead you show him interest?
“It’s not difficult. Well at least some words aren’t. You have to find the words the sentences are describing here.” He says, pointing to the other page. Twenty sentences are listed from top to bottom. “When you find the word, you put every individual letter in one of the squares. You see the yellow squares over here?” You see him pointing towards a line of squares marked in yellow. You nod, signaling for him to continue.
“When you’ve got every word, all the squares on this line will be filled. telling you the main word you’re looking for. Once you find that, you win the game.”
“Well that seems to be fun to do on your own. You don’t have many yet though…” You say looking at him with a sly smile.
He chuckles. “Well, I have only just started. May I remind you that it was you who walked in, disturbed my peace and prevented me from completing this.”
“You say that. For all I know you’ve been working on this for hours. These don’t seem very difficult.”
“Is that a challenge?” He daringly asks. You only laugh in response, looking at one of the descriptions. A question mark had been written next to it in pen, signaling Leon probably had no idea what the answer was. You read it. ‘Where do you find the patella joint?’ Well that’s easy.
“Kneecap.”
“What?” Leon asks, a confused expression on his face when you turn to look at him.
“The description here, number seven. ‘Where do you find the patella joint’. In your knee. It’s the kneecap.” You say as you reach for the pen, click it, and fill in the missing word.
For a moment he doesn’t say anything and looks at you a little bewildered. You return his gaze with a shy smile which seems to bring a reaction out of him. “You’re a smart one, aren’t ya?” He grins while letting out a breathy laugh.
“Oh no, I just… I mean, I try.” You say, as you can feel your own blush starting to form. You hate how much of an effect he has on you.
Looking down at the descriptions again you quickly look for another one to solve, a simple way to avoid answering his gaze. It doesn’t take long for you to find another unsolved one. ‘What is the largest planet in our solar system?’ Well that is easy again.
“Jupiter. Here, number eleven. The answer is Jupiter.” You say before filling in the little boxes. “And that one, number fifteen ‘What is the capital of Japan?’ that’s clearly Tokio. How did you not know that?” You smile as you give him a little nudge with your elbow.
“Hey, give me that. Can’t have you do all the hard work for me.” He chuckles while carefully taking the book out of your hands. He looks over the page once more, deciding which description he will take on next. He reads over number sixteen ‘What is the name of the process by which plants convert sunlight into food?’. He racks his brain looking for the correct answer. He knows what it is, he’s sure of it. He just can’t find the correct name.
He’s in deep thought when all of a sudden the answer comes to him like a struck of lighting. He’s quick to reach for the second pen hidden in the pocket of his sweatpants. But not quick enough. As he wraps his hand around the pen, he sees your own hand entering his field of vision. Your delicate fingers hold your own pen as you move towards the boxes with the number sixteen next to it. You sneakily write the word ‘photosynthesis’ letter by letter. When you finish, you give him a quick glance, throwing him a wink.
“Gotta be quicker than that Kennedy.”
The look in his eyes turns more playful and teasing at hearing your words.
“I see…” He says, unable to hide the smirk coming onto his face. You’re playing with him. Challenging him. He likes that. Even though it’s just innocent.
Well he can match that vibe of yours. Looking down at the page again, one description catches his attention. Something he’s sure you’ll never have the answer to. As he turns the page more to you now, he points his finger to the number nineteen. “Let’s see if you can find this one.”
He sees your curious eyes following his finger. Once you see the sentence his finger lands on you mutter the words in a soft calm voice. Hoping that in some way it will make the answer pop up in your head, that it will make you think better. “ ‘What is the last name of the person who discovered penicillin?’ “
Your eyebrows are furrowed as he sees you think of an answer, looking at the words over and over again. He knows the answer, and he could tell you of course. But he just wants to give you a chance to find it yourself first. The way you’re slightly biting your lower lip while holding your breath, like the answer might come any faster, it’s very endearing to him.
You look up at him, an unsure expression on your face as you speak. “Einstein?”
His warm chuckle rings through the room before he speaks. “No I’m sorry that’s not correct. Try again.”
Once again looking down at the page he sees you racking your brain for any possible scientist you’ve ever known. Sadly you come up with nothing and are forced to look back up at him defeated. You let out a long sigh. “I honestly have no idea.”
He gives you a small smile in return. “That’s ok. I’ll give you a hint.” He turns on his pen and moves it towards the boxes next to the number nineteen. He writes the first letter of the name, an ‘F’ and waits, looking out of the corner of his eye in your direction as he waits for a reaction from you. You stay still, eyes focused on the pen he’s holding and the letter in the box. He decides to give you a bit more, writing the letter ‘L’. Still, nothing from you. As he writes the letter ‘E’ you suddenly shout the answer. Slightly startling him with your excitement.
“Fleming!”
Your hand covers your mouth immediately as you too are startled by your own loudness. A small giggle leaves your lips as you show him a toothy grin, your voice now more quiet and calm. “It’s Flemming right?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, it is. Well done.” He says while nodding and finishing the word on the page.
You move your back more against the sofa, arms wrapped around your waist as you’re still laughing. There’s that feeling again. The sound of your laugh warming his insides. A feeling he so desperately wants to get used to, but doesn't allow himself to. You’re so beautiful in your natural state, gorgeous hair, a clear face and eyes that start to become heavy as you’re starting to get tired. If only you’d met under different circumstances, if he’d been younger… Instead the two of you live in a whole other reality. Something that pains him deeply as he has wanted a normal life for as long as he can remember.
You involuntarily lean more towards him. He sees it as a sign you’re starting to feel more comfortable around him. Good, he thinks to himself. The two of you will be spending a lot more time together than you’re used to. It’s important to start off slowly and create a strong bond after that.
That’s all this is, right? Creating a familiar bond with one another, strictly professional. That’s all the two of you need right now, right?
Then why doesn’t that feel enough for him?
Feeling warm inside, your laughing quiets down as you suddenly realize you still have the bag of crisps on your lap. Reaching for it, you reopen it again and gesture the opening towards Leon. “You want some? It’s salt and pepper crisps. They’re very tasty.”
He looks inside the bag, taking in its contents before looking back up at you again. “I haven’t had many opportunities to buy a bag of these. I remember them to be quite tastefull.” He confesses almost shyly. Your heart breaks at the reality of him having to miss out on the normal things in life. Of having to live a life where you always have to be on guard. He didn’t deserve that.
You look down at the bag, then back to him. “Well then, enjoy. Take as much as you want.”
“You sure?”
"Positive. Please, I insist.” You say, almost pushing the bag under his nose. He chuckles at your persistence before reaching inside the bag and taking out one piece. When he puts it in his mouth you can hear the soft crunching as he eats it. Once he swallows it down, he nods at you. “This shit is good.” Before taking another one.
You laugh at seeing his closed eyes as he softly groans at tasting the second piece. “I told you.” Taking a piece for yourself again, you look back down at the crossword puzzle you were doing. “So… You left any good ones for me?”
Chuckling at your words, he swallows down the food before looking into your eyes. “Oh there’s plenty more if you’re interested.”
“Hit me.”
And so the night continues with the two of you solving puzzle after puzzle. You do three pages in total as two hours pass, the clock almost striking eleven. You feel the fatigue starting to get the better of you, your eyes getting heavy as you force back down a yawn. You don’t want this night to end. You haven’t had a good time like this with someone in a long while. Except for that one time you and Sherry went on that dating app and judged every man that passed your screen. But that story is for another time.
“Are you tired?” Leon’s voice catches your attention. Opening your eyes a bit more as you face him, you see him already softly smiling at you. You return it immediately before answering. “Kind of yeah. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course. It’s time we both get some rest.” He says, closing the book full of crossword puzzles and putting the two pens back into his pocket. As much as you want tonight to continue, you can barely think anymore. The bag of crisps that you shared, lies empty at your feet now. As you bend down to pick it up, you see him stand up next to you. As you do the same you squeeze the bag into a small lump making it easier for you to throw it into the trash later.
Leon puts out the light in the corner, putting the two of you into darkness. You’re still able to see though as enough light is provided by the city outside. As you go first you hear his heavier footsteps behind you. Reaching for the handle, you open the door and step back out into the hallway. You make your way to the elevator at the far end, hearing Leon close the door of the conservatory behind you. As you reach the elevator you push the ‘up’ button and wait for it to come up. Having to come from the ground floor, you have to wait for a few seconds. As you hear the sharp ‘bing’ ring through the air, signaling the elevator has arrived, you feel Leon’s presence getting closer. Your heartbeat flutters once more as he stops behind you. Even though you had a good time solving the crossword puzzles and were able to get to know each other a little bit better, his presence still makes you nervous.
As the doors open, you can feel his hand carefully touching your lower back, softly nudging you forward, making your breath hitch. Walking into the elevator you hear him speak from behind you. “What floor are you staying on?” His other hand already moves towards the buttons against the wall.
“The third floor, thank you.” You say before he presses it. After that he lets his thumb move towards the letter two. “I’m one floor below.” He replies. You nod as the doors slowly close.
Standing quietly next to each other you suddenly feel a bit awkward. What are you supposed to say to him when you step out of the elevator? ‘Goodnight Leon, sweet dreams?’ That’s ridiculous. He beats you to it, his voice a bit raspy due to the tiredness as he clears his throat.
“I had a really nice time.” He says. “Normally I just sit there doing crossword puzzles by myself every other night. But tonight you made it more interesting for me, more fun. Thank you.”
You force yourself to keep looking into his eyes. Your heartbeat going faster and faster as you see the sincerity behind them. The idea he had enjoyed spending time with you warms your insides and makes the little girl inside of you giggle. You’re not able to hide the shy smile that starts to form as the elevator slows down.
“It’s no problem Leon. Honestly I came to the conservatory just to be by myself and enjoy my crisps.” You say laughing as he’s holding back a grin himself. “But I must confess that spending some free time with you has been very relaxing to me.”
One of his hands goes to the back of his neck again, scratching the skin there. “Yeah and uh… Thank you for not judging my little hobby. Most people will find it doesn’t suit my image.”
Him feeling embarrassed is the last thing you want, so you’re quick to reply as you shake your head. “I would never think of you weirdly just for having a normal hobby Leon. I admit crossword puzzles aren’t very popular but you showed me how fun they can be. Anyone who doesn’t see that is a moron."
He chuckles at your answer. “So you don’t find me old?”
You return his smile as you hear the elevator doors open. “Of course not. You’re in the prime of your life.” You grin, taking a few steps to move out. You turn around, placing a hand on one of the doors, preventing it from closing. “Thank you for tonight Leon.”
He takes a step towards you, putting his own hand on the door as well. “Hey uh… I was wondering… That maybe… We should do this again sometime. Only if you’re interested of course.”
Your heart flutters again as you realise what he’s asking. He wants to spend more time with you? You want nothing more than to say yes. But how do you do that without sounding over excited?
You slowly nod before speaking. “Yes. Yes of course, we could do that. We’ll just uh… Meet again here tomorrow night?”
“We definitely should. Though I need you back at the office tomorrow morning. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you. Things that don’t sit right with me according to what happened today at Raccoon City. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, more with the fact that we don’t seem to know the city as well as we would like to.” He says with furrowed eyebrows.
“I’ll be there, don't worry.” You reply immediately.
“I know you will. Anyway, get some rest for now. You’ve earned it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow Leon… Goodnight.” You say as you take away your hand from the door.
“Goodnight.” He says as he does the same.
You take a step back and turn around making your way down the hallway, not wanting to awkwardly watch him as the doors slide closed. When you dare to take a quick look back, you can see him still looking at you with his penetrating gaze. As the doors close, you let out a sigh you didn’t know you’d been holding. Reaching your room, you open the door before locking it behind you, making way for your bed. As your head hits the soft pillow, it doesn’t take long for a deep sleep to take over you.
The days had grown noticeably colder as the months went by. The trees had lost all of their leaves, lakes and tiny little puddles on the road were frozen as the last remnants of a snowstorm still covered the streets. As it’s the middle of January now, nature has gone to sleep. Despite the horrid weather, business at the DSO facility is still running at full speed.
You sit at your desk, finishing up a report you were typing about your latest mission last week with Leon, containing lots of info about a small village you had been sent to back in Canada. Once again destroyed by the bioterrorism created by Umbrella. Chris always demanded a good summary of what had happened. As Leon wasn’t the computer type of guy, he kindly asked you to do the job. As there’s not much to do at the moment, you don’t mind at all.
Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you finish a paragraph about Leon and you clearing the village and rescuing the few survivors there were left. Your back hurts as you straighten it, due to your horrible posture you’re always sitting in. Looking at the date at the bottom of your computer screen, Saturday the 16th 12.25PM, you decide it’s time to get some lunch, your stomach already growling at the thought of the delicious paella they have in the cafeteria.
Today is a special day for you. Not because you’re getting promoted or there’s a big mission you have to leave on. But it’s because today, thirty years ago, is the day when you were born. A happy day and also a sad one as you leave your youth behind forever. As it’s your first birthday at the DSO, you didn’t expect many people to remember. What you hadn’t expected though, is that no one would. Not even Leon.
You saw him this morning, wearing his usual black combat trousers and a blue T-shirt, as you both entered the building. He’d looked at you and bid you a good morning, starting off about an urgent meeting Chris had called him in for. Being already late, he’d sent you a soft smile, apologizing for leaving you so quickly and asking you to meet again at the conservatory like you’ve almost done every night since that day in October. Both of you couldn't get enough of your free time spent together doing crossword puzzles or just talking about both of your days.
He hadn’t said anything about your birthday, which stung to be honest. But then… Did he even know it was your birthday? He knew Sherry’s at least, you heard him say that once. So did he forget it or was it just never brought to his attention? Leon knew everything though…
Ever since the two of you had that first night at the conservatory back in October, you had been yearning for him any chance you got. You’ve been on multiple missions together, some more dangerous than others, but you’d always made it back safe. He made sure of that. When he said he would take care of you and protect you he’d meant it. There wasn’t something you could do without him being aware of it. Every step you took, every threat coming your way, your every breath… He always saw it. And he was always there. Lingering like an itch you desperately had to scratch but never could, because it was unheard of and strictly forbidden by the DSO. A relationship between two agents would jeopardize the mission. For when the decision would come between choosing your partner's life and saving the world… you shamefully had to admit that you wouldn’t know what to choose.
As you lock your computer and move to stand up, you suddenly hear a knock on the door of your small office. Your heart involuntarily starts to beat faster as you realize it could be Leon on the other side. Maybe he hasn’t forgotten your birthday after all. Your palms start to get sweaty as you quickly fix the collar of your white your shirt and fix a few wrinkles out of your skirt, clearing your throat so you won’t sound stupid as you speak. “Come in.”
The handle turns and the door opens. The small smile you were holding instantly drops as it is not Leon but Jason standing in the doorway. His black curly hair neatly styled as he’s wearing formal clothing, something you rarely see him in, a white shirt similar to yours and black suit trousers. Next to the dashing smile, he also carries a small black box in his hands, wrapped up with a red bow.
Of course you could have expected Jason to surprise you. Ever since the two of you had officially become DSO agents, he had been making subtle advances towards you. It had started innocent and unnoticeable at first. Just a shy little wave whenever you would pass each other in the hallway, or the occasional help he offered when you were having a hard time looking up special information. A few weeks later, it had transformed into more noticeable actions like opening up the door for you, leaning closer whenever you would talk, stealing glances at you whenever he thought you weren’t looking, giving you compliments about your outfit even though you’re wearing your combat outfit most of the time. ‘Coincidentally’ being in the same place as you, wanting to sit with you during lunch… The list could go on and on.
You feel bad because you can see the amount of time and effort he puts into trying to gain your attention. How much he does to make you notice him… It pains you because you just don’t feel the same way. Not at all.
He starts off shyly, giving you a small wink as he speaks. “Hey, how are you doing?” He says, clearly trying to start some smalltalk.
You nod before putting on your best fake smile, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I’m good. What about you?”
“Good. Good.” He says, before looking at the small box in his hands, turning it over as he speaks again. A slight tremor in his voice, giving away his nervousness despite his confident appearance. “So uhm… I noticed it’s your birthday today.”
You swallow before nodding again. “It is.”
“Well then, happy birthday.” He says as he turns the small box over to you. You take it, feeling the soft velvet texture in your hands. It has little to no weight to it, signaling the object inside must be either very small or very light. “I hope you like it.”
You peel off the red bow before taking off the lid. Your eyes immediately fall on a shiny round object carefully placed on a red velvet cushion. As you look closer you can see it’s a bracelet, the golden band existing out of two separate golden parts twisted around each other as it goes around your wrist. A dainty craftwork you’re almost too scared to pick up. Your heart almost breaks as you see the small heart-shaped pendant connecting the two bands together in the middle. You swallow thickly feeling very nervous all of a sudden and unsure as to how you’re to react to this without hurting his feelings too much. No one has ever given you something like this before. It’s beautiful, very much so but... This bracelet is definitely not cheap. And you know he’s giving it to you for more reasons than to just congratulate you. It doesn’t feel right to keep it. You don’t want it.
“Jason… Wow… This is beautiful. It’s very kind of you but I can’t just accept this. It’s too much-“
“No no, it’s fine.” He moves to stand closer to you, making you feel uncomfortable. “You do your very best around here every single day. I figured you deserve a nice little present for once. It’s on me, really.” He says with that lovesick smile and hopeful eyes making you almost want to throw up. You’ve been on so many dangerous missions, have faced countless lethal enemies, but this you’re actually terrified of. If he’s a dick you wouldn’t be having any problems with turning him down, but the thing is that he’s actually a very decent person. Treating you as an equal and always being kind to the people around him. Which is why you can’t bring yourself to break his heart.
“This must have cost a fortune.” You mumble before looking into his eyes.
He shakes his head. “Nah don’t worry about it. I want to give you this. It’s worth it.” He assures you.
“Yes… Well, I uh…”
“Do you have any plans tonight?” He interrupts you, the words almost bursting out of his mouth like he had been wanting to ask you that for a while. “I was wondering if… You know, ‘ ‘cause it’s your birthday, I could take you out some time?” Your eyes widen at the question. Your body stiff as a board as you break out in a sweat. Fuck, what do you say to that?
He looks at you with those green sparkling eyes and hopeful smile, making you wonder how in the hell you’re going to worm your way out of this. Suddenly you realise why he’s so well dressed up, like he’s going to a fancy dinner. Because he believes he is, with you. He wants to take you out. You stand there speechless, mouth agape. This is not at all what you had planned for your birthday. You had expected a chill day and cozy evening, with Leon perhaps… Not that you had to fight for your life in an awkward romantic situation you hadn't asked for.
As he fiddles with his fingers he takes in a nervous breath before asking again. “So… What do you think? You wanna go for dinner maybe? I know this nice place down Lake Avenue-”
“Too bad pretty boy, she already has a date with me.”
Praise the Lord for Sherry fucking Birkin.
Jason turns around, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. When you look over his shoulder you see Sherry standing in the doorway as Jason had left it wide open.
“You see…” She says as she enters your office. “...She and I have got a perfect little girls night planned. No boys allowed. So, I’m sorry Jason but maybe some other time. “
Jason looks a bit taken aback by Sherry’s bluntness. He turns around to look at you again, desperately hoping that what Sherry said was not true. You give him an apologetic smile doing the best you can to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You feel bad, oh so terribly bad. “Still thank you for the gift though.” You say as if that could make it any better.
Jason stands between you and Sherry like a lost little puppy, embarrassed and disappointed. You can see him swallow thickly as his cheeks grow redder by the second. “Yes well uhm… Maybe some other time than?” He asks while casting his gaze back to you, some hope still left in his eyes.
“Yeah well, if our jobs ever allow it.” You say with an awkward laugh, not fully complying with his request and also making it clear to him again that there’s a no-dating policy around here. Sherry moves into the room, passing Jason to now stand next to you, also facing him. He takes that as his cue to leave. Nodding at your response, he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “Well happy birthday then.”
“Thank you Jason, you have a good day.” You tell him. He gives you a small little wave before politely nodding to Sherry as he walks out of the room, leaving the two of you alone. You let out a breath you’d been holding for far too long, the tension leaving your body as you grab onto Sherry’s shoulder to steady yourself. Your eyes meet as you speak. “Fuck, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Seems like I got you out of a sticky situation huh?” She says looking back at the door he just left through, a knowing look on her face. “Boy’s got it bad.”
“I’m not interested in him.” You say, shaking your head as your eyes lock again. “Sherry I beg you, you have to help me with this. Before I know it he’ll bring a ring next time and go on one knee.”
She laughs at your words before shaking her head. She takes your hand that’s on her shoulder and holds it between her own, softly rubbing it with a fake look of sincerity on her face. “If that were to happen I’ll be the first to object when you’re standing at the altar.”
You snatch your hand back and let out a huff. “Wow, thanks, what a relief.” You sarcastically say as you turn around, your eyes falling on the two photos on your desk. One holding an image of the four of you, the team: Chris, Jason, Leon and you. All standing next to each other, arms crossed. You’re the only one who's actually having a toothy grin. Chris on the far left holds his usual grumpy gaze as Jason stands next to him, a soft shy smile covering his face. Leon stands between Jason and you, showing a small confident smirk. The photo next to it holds an image of Sherry and you. Both of you holding a bowl of ice cream as you’re wearing the biggest grins while looking at the camera.
“Oh c’mon, trust me. It’ll wear off. He’ll have forgotten you before you even know it.”
You look back at her as you chuckle. “He’s been doing this for months now Sherry. I doubt he’s ever gonna quit.”
She sighs. “C’mon let’s go to the cafeteria, I’m hungry. And you need to get your mind off all this. It’s your birthday for goodness sake.” She grabs you by the shoulders and leads you out into the hallway. “Off you pop.” She turns off the light and closes the door behind her. You move against the wall as one the office people pass you with a huge pile of files.
“Besides…” Sherry says while turning to you. “I really am taking you out tonight. That wasn’t just an excuse I came up with to save you back there. I made a reservation to go to that fancy restaurant you’ve been eying for a couple of weeks. Dinner’s on me.”
“What the hell Sherry, that place is expensive.”
“Hey, doesn’t matter. That’s what friends are for right? Look at it as my present to you.” She says as the two of you make your way to the elevator at the end of the hallway.
“Yeah but even then… Are you sure you want to spend your whole evening with me? I think I’ll bore you with my stories from previous missions.”
She chuckles. “If anyone is gonna get bored by mission stories, it’s gonna be you. I’ve lived longer to gather a few good little gems.”
You both laugh at her response as you get in the elevator, pushing the number zero before the doors close. It starts moving downwards, taking you both to the ground floor. You hear Sherry take in a deep breath next to you, a silent ‘oh’ coming from her lips as she remembers something she had been meaning to ask you.
“I almost forgot to ask. Who else came to congratulate you today huh? Did many people come to your office?”
You hold your breath for a second, not knowing how to react to her question. Should you tell her the truth? That no one came to see you? That no one wished you a happy birthday when you arrived this morning? Not even Leon? Doing that feels too embarrassing, so you decide to beat around the bush, giving her a small nod. “A couple yeah.”
“A couple?” She repeats. You hum, muttering a quick ‘yup’ before speed walking out of the elevator once you arrive. Hopefully you're fast enough so she doesn’t notice the small blush forming on your cheeks. As you hear her footsteps behind you, you turn right at the reception, making your way towards the cafeteria. Secretly you hope you might run into a certain someone… It’s been an eventful day so far, you think to yourself. Let’s see what the remaining couple of hours have in store for you.
Hours have passed as it’s now 5.21PM. Leon sits at the desk in his office, looking through a couple of files you had recovered during one of your previous missions in Raccoon City. You had been the one doing all the IT work and stealing the computer chip while he stood watch next to you. He figured, since you’ve been able to retrieve a chip so well on your first mission, he might as well leave that part to you.
Sherry rummages through the pile of important documents Leon asked her to get. The sound of moving papers, though very silent, irritated him immensely. He hadn’t seen you today apart from this morning, which was very unusual for you both. Normally he would see you in the morning as you both arrive at work at the same time. He’d bump into you once or twice during the day, and you’d always have lunch together. Today however, Chris had stopped him from doing that. They’d been in meetings throughout the whole day. The situation in Raccoon City had gotten more and more out of hand since that day in October. More hordes were found. Dozens, if not hundreds, of infected roaming city, underground and in the few buildings that were still standing. They weren’t sure if you’d stepped on a hornet's nest that day. But there hasn’t been a quiet moment ever since, with a new problem arising everyday. Chris and Jason apparently had quite the adventure the day after, running into one infected after the other. They had seen enough as they locked down the whole city when they arrived back at the DSO.
Chris had demanded his presence today to talk about new strategies to clear the city and to find the source of these hectic events. They were both sure the city was clear a few months ago. That there was no source of life any more. They were wrong.
Someone must be behind this… Someone who ties to Umbrella or The Connections no doubt. Someone who seems to ‘farm’ infected just to release them into the wild. This unsettles Leon immensely, especially because this has been going on for a few months now without any answers. Jason and you were kept out of the whole commotion to keep the matter top secret, only including you in desperate times. To keep any troubling thoughts out of your mind. To keep you safe.
You… Fuck.
Ever since that first night you two spent at the conservatory he’d been a goner. Wanting, no, almost needing to see you as many times as he could. An indescribable urge to have you near him at all times even though he knew it was forbidden because of the risk it might endanger the mission. He tried to keep it as professional as possible, treating you like a lady, keeping his distance and respecting your boundaries. Your time spent together during the missions had created a very strong bond. Well for him at least. He had guided you through everything. Took it slow whenever the situation allowed it. Had shown you some extra small details about an agent’s work which couldn’t be taught back at the facility. He had taken his promise of taking care of you to heart, but with that came so much more…
Fuck did he have a hard time keeping his emotions under control when he was near you. Not necessarily emotions that were perverted, though they were there more than you can imagine. But what really got to him were the emotions of worry and fear. Fear for your life. Fear that you might get hurt and worrying he wouldn’t be able to help you if he wasn’t there. For failing you like he had before, of something happening to you just because he wasn’t looking. But most importantly… A fear of losing you.
He had often tried to push his need for you far back into his mind, but had failed miserably. Every time he sees or hears you, he feels drawn like a moth to a flame. To his dismay you’re even haunting his dreams when he’s asleep. Building different kinds of images. Some more explicit than others... Images of you in his bed, hear down, nothing but a T-shirt and some panties on as he hugs you from behind, spooning and holding you as close as he can against his chest. Kissing your neck as he slowly caresses your belly, his hand finding its way underneath your shirt, slowly moving up as he reaches the swell of one of your breasts. All the while rubbing himself against you, his hardon against your behind. He hears you whimper, moaning his name as he slides his hand down lower…
A cold and disturbing feeling overwhelms him as he shoots up in the middle of the night. Eyes wide as he finds himself covered in sweat, bright awake. He’s panting heavily as he realizes it’s just another dream. Calming himself as he rubs his eyes, he reaches for the glass of cold water on the nightstand before taking a few big gulps. Fuck, what is he to do with you huh?
He’s been wanting to see you all day. Instead he’s stuck looking through important files about Raccoon City he can’t seem to remain focused on. He is already looking forward to the evening, when you meet him up at the conservatory again. It’s like an unspoken agreement the two of you have, to spend each other's nights together. Nights full of playing games, eating snacks and talking. God, he needs it, especially today.
“So…” He hears Sherry start, still nose deep into the pile of files as she now sits in front of his desk. “...You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
He’s quick to discard her words, not thinking them to be of any importance as they must be about the case he’s working on. Having turned any possibility over and over. He huffs before speaking. “I’ve got everything under control Sherry, thank you.”
The rummaging of papers stops as Sherry lifts her head, eyes now coming over his computer screen. She looks at him with slightly furrowed eyebrows, her gaze unreadable. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?
Leon stops reading the file he’s currently working on, eyes now locking onto Sherry’s, seeing the small offense in them. Like he had made one of the biggest mistakes in his life. His heart starts to beat a little faster, a simple ‘what?’ coming out of his mouth.
Sherry’s eyes widen like she can’t believe the stupidity of a man who works with someone every day to only forget their birthday. “Oh my god Leon you cannot be serious.”
“What did I do?” He asks, starting to get a little irritated and nervous as to what the hell he did wrong. Sherry shoves her chair back, standing up as she starts pacing back and forth, hands twisted in her short blond hair. The only thing she manages to get out is your name, throwing him a look that tells him if he doesn’t get the hint she’ll explode.
Sadly he doesn’t. Instead he jumps up immediately at hearing the sound of your name. Suddenly he’s more focused than he was on that file a few seconds ago. He only heard your name and his senses were on high alert.
“What about her? Is she ok?” He asks her, an urgency in his voice as he needs to know what’s wrong with you immediately. Sherry stops pacing as she turns to look him dead in the eye. “Oh for fucks sake Leon. It’s her birthday today! She’s turning thirty!”
That seems to knock all the air out of his lungs. His eyes turn wide. Your birthday? Today? Out of all the days Chris needs him to do shit, it’s on your birthday? How did he not know it’s your birthday? How could he have been so dumb to miss it. And he saw you this morning as well when you arrived and didn’t say anything. Fuck he’s such a loser.
He has to see you. He has to make things right before you’ll start looking at him like you do at all the other men around here. At least you always look at him like he actually mattered, like you liked him. More than just partners even though he isn’t sure if he’s just imagining things.
After a second or two he manages to speak again. “Fuck Sherry. What do I do? Did she… Has she said anything about me?”
“No. But when I asked her if anyone wished her a happy birthday she seemed so vague about it. Now I know why. Poor girl probably hasn’t had anyone wish her a happy birthday if even you forgot. Thank God me and that Jason fellow were there to save the day.”
At the sound of his name, Leon’s ears perk up. “Jason wished her a happy birthday?”
Sherry hums. “Yup, and he gave her a fancy bracelet too. He even asked her out to dinner but she kindly declined. Boy’s got it in for her.”
Hearing how Jason has tried to make a move on you, makes his blood boil. The boy hardly dares to talk to you most of the time as you’re always working with Leon. And now, on the one day Chris needs him, he goes behind his back like a fucking coward. He’s trying to keep up appearances in front of Sherry so as to make it seem it doesn’t affect him all that much. But the frustration inside of him is growing. He should have known. Should have seen the secret glances he throws your way when he thinks nobody is looking. Joke’s on him really, because Leon sees everything when it comes to you, notices anyone who’s looking at you.
The boy’s been eyeing you up for weeks if not months now. Leon figured he’d be too shy to actually try something with someone as straightforward as you. He has to admit that Jason had proved himself time and time again to be a good agent. But he isn’t good for you, not exactly what you want. You need someone more confident. Someone who can take care of you and lead you through everything that’s thrown at you. Someone older, someone more like him… At least, that’s what Leon tells himself.
“That sneaky bastard…” Are the only words coming out of his mouth.
Sherry’s quick to protest. “Hey, sneaky or not, at least he didn’t forget.”
To his great annoyance, he realizes she’s right. Fuck he has to set things right, and fast. Looking at the clock hanging on the wall he sees it’s already 5.24PM. He doesn’t have much time.
“She stops working at six right?” He says looking back at Sherry. She on her turn looks at the clock as well before nodding. “Yeah she does, I suggest you make haste if you still want to see her today.”
Leon nods before quickly bending over to turn off his computer. He grabs his keys as he reaches for his jacket hanging on the coat rack. He speed walks towards the door, turning to Sherry one last time before leaving. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that he throws the door open and races down the hallway towards the elevator.
Sherry sighs before shaking her head. “Pfff men…”
Even though you’re in the building right now he still needs his coat and the keys of his car to go get you something. Something that can count as an excuse for his terrible behavior towards you today. The fact that Jason was there when he wasn’t, eats at him. Fuck he’s never done this before, not for anyone. He just wants to impress you.
Jumping into his black Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT he puts it in gear before getting off the parking lot. He makes his way towards a small flower shop a few blocks down, which he had noticed a few days prior. It may not be much but it’s all he can come up with right now. As he parks in front of it, he quickly gets out as he realizes it’s still open. He sighs in relief as he sees the closing time is 6.00PM. With it being 5.37 now, he quickly makes his way inside.
An elderly man is sitting behind the counter, turning a page as he’s reading a cooking magazine. He looks up at the sound of the bell chiming, signaling someone has entered. He closes the magazine and stands up from his chair, putting on a friendly smile.
“Good evening sir, how can I help you?”
Leon puts his hands on the counter, clearing his throat as this is uncharted territory for him. “I uhm… Need a bouquet. Something nice... The cost doesn’t matter.”
The elderly man nods. “Very well sir, what did you have in mind?”
Leon can feel himself starting to slowly panic at that question. What does the man mean, ‘what do you have in mind’? Flowers…? Isn’t this a flower shop?
His hand finds the back of his neck again, awkwardly scratching the skin as it’s a nervous trait of his. “I don’t know. Something that looks good? Like, roses maybe? Fuck no, maybe that’s too much. I don’t know-”
The man raises his hands as a sign for Leon to stop talking. “Calm down son, I can’t follow if you’re rambling like that. Let’s start over ok? What’s the occasion?”
Leon sighs as he looks down at the counter. “A birthday.”
“And who is it for?”
Should he tell him the truth? Well, what harm will it do? The man doesn’t even know who the two of you are anyway. He looks the man in the eyes as he confesses. “A woman very dear to me.”
The man’s eyes widen before it’s replaced by a look of excitement. “Ah yes for a lady’s birthday, very well. I would suggest picking something very colorful, a mash-up of different kinds of flowers maybe? Do you have any in mind you want in the bouquet?”
Another question Leon doesn’t have the answer to. “I uhm… I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.” He feels embarrassed to admit he’s never bought flowers for someone before at the age of forty-nine. Instead of mocking him, the elderly man looks at him with a sympathetic look.
“No problem sir. Let me give you a tip then. If you don’t know what flowers to pick, you just need to look for the flowers that remind you of her. It’s as easy as that.”
“I don’t have much time. Can you help me?” Leon doesn’t usually ask for any help. But in this particular situation, when it concerns you, he can use all the help and advice he can get.
The elderly man gives Leon a warm smile. “Of course sir. I’ll go over some of my most popular flowers and you just have to tell me if you like them or not. Let’s start here.” He says before moving to the far left of his shop, pointing up at a large vase up on one of the shelves. In it are dozens of beautiful pink peonies. “Do you like these?”
Dread fills his shoes as he realizes he has to make some very important decisions in very little time. Wel fuck.
Sherry waits for you as you turn off your computer for the day. She’s already wearing her coat, purse slung over her shoulder, car key in hand. “I’m actually really looking forward to dinner, you know. That place has been hyped up online as an eleven out of ten. I’m curious to see what all the fuss is about.”
You chuckle. “That place better be good if it’s that expensive.”
You hear Sherry sigh as you move past her to get your own coat from the rack. “Oh c’mon I’ve already told you I don’t mind paying for it. I make more than enough.” She says as she reaches for the water bottle she had brought a few minutes ago. Taking a big gulp as you tie up your coat. “Yeah, but still-”
Your words are cut short when suddenly you hear heavy footsteps running in the hallway, getting closer to you. Before you even have time to think about what the hell is going on, two strong sturdy nocks are brought on your door. You look at Sherry with a questionable gaze. She brings up her shoulders with a look that tells you ‘I don’t know girl’ before putting the water bottle back to her lips. You take a step towards the door and reach for the handle. What you see next is most definitely the last thing you’d expected to see today.
You gasp as you see Leon standing at your door panting heavily from the run he just did. In his hands is the biggest and most colorful bouquet you’ve ever seen, containing some garden roses, peonies, ranunculuses, daisies, but most importantly, a few sunflowers. As they made him think of your comfy pajama bottoms. His eyes search yours, mouth slightly agape as he looks over the coat you’re wearing. “Caught you just in time I see.”
Behind you, you hear water bursting out of Sherry’s mouth at the sight of Leon, making the two of you look her way. “Sherry are you alright?” You ask her. She uses her hand to cover her mouth as she quickly grabs a handkerchief out of her purse. She nods before turning her back to you. “Yeah yeah! Don’t mind me.”
When you look back at Leon you can see his cheeks having a faint pink glow. He probably didn’t expect Sherry to be here. He clears his throat before his eyes fall back onto you. “I’m sorry I’m late. It’s been a busy day. I uhm… Happy birthday.” He says as he gives you the flowers. You take them a bit apprehensively, not fully realizing yet that he had actually bought you flowers for your birthday. Not knowing how to react, you stand there speechless. Even when it’s something you had fantasized about many times before, it’s still unbelievable when it’s actually happening. Leon starts to panic inwardly at your lack of response. He has to do everything he can for his hand to remain at his side, so as not to scratch the back of his neck again.
“I hope you like them.” He says as he tries to remain somewhat confident. You look at him now, a blush of your own making its way up towards your cheeks as you open your mouth to speak. “Yes of course Leon. They’re so beautiful, thank you so much. You really shouldn’t have.”
“It’s your birthday. It’s the least I can do.” He quickly responds. And it’s true, if he had known sooner it’s your birthday he would have probably arranged something else, something that’s better than just a bouquet of flowers. He looks towards your coat again signaling you were about to leave. His eyes go higher, locking on your face. You’re smiling, a faint blush covering your cheeks as your eyes sparkle in the dim light provided by the hallway. Your hair is down, he notices. You never wear it down, only at night after you’ve just washed it. A brown hair clip is secured at the back of your head, keeping most of it out of your face as it creates a half up half down look. You’ve even taken the effort to put on some mascara, elongating your eyelashes and making them more profound. He stills. You never wear make-up.
“You look nice…” He manages to say. Did you get dressed up for someone? The thought of it makes his stomach churn.
“Thank you.” You respond before looking at the bouquet in your arms again. “Well I better get these to my room first. Put them in a nice vase before we leave. No one has ever given me flowers before so this really means a lot to me.”
“It’s no problem.” He says. How has no one ever given you flowers before? If it was up to him, you would be bathing in them everyday. Leaving that aside, he opens his mouth to phrase the question that’s actually bothering him. “You’re going out?” He carefully asks, the back of his neck getting damp from sweating.
You hum as you smile at him innocently. “Sherry’s taking me out to dinner, as a girls night.”
An immense sense of relief washes over him after you’ve said that, the tension leaving his body as he feels like he can breathe again. A soft chuckle escapes him as he feels his body relax more. “I see… Well then, have a good time you two.”
He doesn’t know if he’d just embarrassed himself or done well by giving you flowers. And in front of Sherry as well. He groans inwardly.
“We will, thank you” You reply. “I promise to keep these flowers alive for as long as possible.”
You both laugh at your joke before he looks at you with sincerity. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of them.” As he gives you another soft smile, you can see his eyes going somewhere higher above your head, falling on the person behind you. Sherry, who has been quiet this whole time, throws him a knowing look, which he takes as his cue to leave.
He clears throat again before averting his gaze back to you. “I uh… Should get going I think. Have a great evening you two.”
“Oh we will Leon, don’t worry.” Sherry finally speaks from behind you, a smirk on her face that you’re not able to see.
Leon awkwardly nods, taking a few steps into the hallway as he looks at your lit up face one more time. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“At dawn like always.” You tell him while nodding. It stings when you see him turn around to make his leave. He gives you a small wave before making his way down the hallway again, leaving you and Sherry alone. You hear her walk up next to you as she lets out a chuckle.
“Wow, that’s quite the bouquet isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You say dreamily as you close your eyes before breathing in the smell of the flowers, taking in their amazing scent. You try to play it cool so as to not show Sherry how much this is making your heart flutter. You will cherish this moment for a very long time. Now you’re thinking about it, you’ll have to find a book big enough so you can put some of the flours between them to dry when they’re starting to wilt. That way you can keep them forever as a secret little memory just for you.
When you open your eyes again, you notice Sherry looking at you with a soft smile. Almost like she understands the feelings you’re experiencing right now. Have you been caught? Does Sherry finally see through your facade after months of hiding your true feelings?
“Sherry, I uh…” You try to say at a loss of words. Thankfully she interrupts you before you can say anything stupid.
“C’mon birthday girl. Let’s go find a nice vase for those flowers so we can go eat. I’m starving.” She says as she places her hand on your back, nudging you out of the office and into the hallway.
The next day, Sherry finds Leon back at his desk reading through a couple of files on his computer. His chin placed in the palm of his hand as he lets his head rest, brows furrowed, hair tousled as he once again reads through a paragraph that can’t give him any answers as to what is happening at Raccoon City. His ears perk up at the sound of a nock on the door before he sees Sherry walk in. He’s a little disappointed to see her come in by herself, having hoped you’d accompany her. Though you had told him a few hours ago you would be at the shooting range all day, showing five new rookies how to use a gun.
He’d had a peaceful night, lying in bed, doing a crossword puzzle before falling asleep. It wasn’t the same without you though. He hadn’t enjoyed it as much as he used to when he played by himself. An hour or so had passed when he had decided to call it a night, grabbing the duvet to tuck himself in.
Minutes passed, but sleep wouldn’t find him. His thoughts once again going towards you. You had looked so happy when he gave you the flowers. Your smile lighting up your face while also warming his heart. He had wanted nothing more than to see you happy. He thought about the fact that you and Sherry were going out for dinner. As he looked at the clock showing 01.34AM he wondered if you were back in your room already. He hoped so. It made him feel uneasy knowing you were still out late without his protection. Well at least you weren’t alone.
You had looked so beautiful, well you always do, but this time you were a bit done up. The belt of your coat wrapped around your waist as it hugged you in all the right places. Just a smidge of your skirt was visible underneath the coat, your legs covered in black tights as you wore a small heel on your feet. You were perfect. Oh what he wouldn’t give to be the one to take you out when you looked like that. He could only imagine what you looked like underneath the coat. And underneath your clothes as well… He hated himself for imagining what you looked like naked. He thought himself to be a piece of shit for betraying your trust like that. But he was only a man after all. It was only instinct.
He thought of your smooth skin, beautiful with a few freckles here and there. Your thick hair down again as he’s finally able to run his fingers through it. Your narrow waist as it fans out to your wider hips. Even with clothing on he could see you had a beautiful figure. He had imagined kissing your collar bones while pressing your warm body against his own. Caressing your back as one hand moved towards the swell of your breasts. How you’d whimper for him as he touches you intimately. The look on your face as he touches your breast, down to your belly, going lower towards the one part of your body he desires most.
Fuck he had needed a cold shower after that. The water almost freezing him as he tried to wash away all the sin.
It’s Sherry’s voice that breaks him out of his daydreaming.
“Earth to Leon Kennedy. Hello.” She says as she waves her hand in front of his face.
“Huh what?” He says, looking up to meet her gaze. He can see Sherry rolling her eyes. “I said, what the hell was that about last night?”
Leon’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
Sherry moves closer now and goes to sit on the desk so she’s facing him completely. “Oh c’mon Leon, don’t play dumb."
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sherry is groaning now, fingers rubbing her eyes before smacking them against her thighs. “The flowers you gave her last night?”
He looks at her with an offended look. “Is there a problem with that?”
She moves a bit closer towards him, her voice dropping in volume as she’s now whispering even though the door is closed. “Be honest with me Leon. I’ve known you for twenty-eight years and I’ve never ever seen you get flowers for someone. Not even for me.”
He feels like a child who’s caught doing something they’re not supposed to. After months of hiding, stolen glances and secret rendez-vous’s at the conservatory he thought he’d been good at hiding his feelings to other people. He shrugs, discarding her words as it’s the only way he knows how to react at the moment. “So what, she does so much for me and she’s my partner during missions. The least I could do is show her some appreciation on her birthday.”
Sherry rolls her eyes while chuckling. “That is if you don’t forget about it.” Her words make Leon look down at his lap as he fidgets his fingers. She sighs again before continuing. “Leon… You and I both know you didn’t just give her those flowers to show you some appreciation. There’s something more than that, much more.”
He shakes his head as he stands up, mockingly laughing at her. “You’re dreaming Sherry. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” He says before turning his back towards her, grabbing a paper file and putting it in the drawer next to his desk. Sherry huffs, jumping off the desk and moving towards him, grabbing his shoulder to make him look at her.
“For goodness sake Leon. I can see it when a man’s in love.”
He stops at those words. His eyes are wide as he slowly turns towards her. “What did you just say?”
She takes a deep breath before continuing. His attention now finally on her. “You’re in love with her. It’s as clear as day. I saw the look in your eyes yesterday and believe me when I say you’ve got it bad. You’ve hidden it so well you even had me fooled for a long time.”
He snorts at her observation. “You’re ridiculous."
She gives him a stern look after that. One that tells him that if he dares to deny what’s so clearly in front of her one more time, she’s gonna have an aneurysm. So much for trying to keep his dirty little secret to himself he thinks.
“Doesn’t matter what I gave her. That sneaky prick gave her a golden bracelet. He’s young and I’m not. How am I to compete with that?” He confesses as it becomes difficult to keep eye contact. He can feel his cheeks getting warm, signaling the redness that’s starting to form.
Sherry feels for her good friend. He rarely honestly spoke of his feelings with her. To anyone actually. So when he does, she always tries her very best to make him feel better. “Leon, believe me when I say that bracelet means nothing to her. She only accepted it as a form of politeness and because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. You gave her something more valuable than all the gold in the world. After you left, the way she had looked at those flowers and smelled them… It was like you gave her the most precious thing in the world. She didn’t tell me and she tried to hide it but… That one unguarded look from her told me she feels exactly the same way as you feel about her, no matter what your age is.”
There’s a pause after that. The silence not being something that’s uncomfortable as the two of them have had difficult conversations before. A few seconds pass before a cheeky grin makes its way onto Sherry’s face. “You should ask her out.”
He looks at her like she has grown an extra head. “Sherry you know dating between field agents is not allowed around here.”
She shrugs. “Yeah but c’mon. Is that really gonna stop you? I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” She says before sending him a wink. As he hears her promise he suddenly realizes that if Sherry can see he’s harboring feelings towards you, maybe other people can as well.
“Does anyone else know?” He asks her.
“No, of course not. Not because of me at least.”
He points his index finger towards her, not in a way to threaten her but to make something very clear. “Not a word of this to anyone Sherry. Especially not to her. I mean it.”
Both of them are interrupted at the sound of a knock on the door. Happy to change the subject, Leon walks towards it, ready to help whatever rookie happens to be standing on the other side. He swings it open, ready to grumble a tired ‘what?’. Instead he’s met by your kind eyes. You’re standing in front of him, all dressed into your combat outfit, harness on and guns secured. He hears Sherry behind him burst out in laughter.
Oblivious as to why she’s laughing, you look between the two of them a little confused, a frown edged on your face as you smile shyly. Feeling a little insecure, you wonder if maybe you’re the reason they’re laughing. Was your reaction to getting his flowers ridiculous yesterday? Did Sherry see your true feelings after all by the look on your face when he left? Has she told Leon and were they laughing at you? Is that why she’s here with him right now?
As to not show them it’s affecting you, you decide to keep it cool as you question them. “What’s so funny? Did I miss something?” You say as you try to laugh it off. Leon on the other hand, hadn’t moved an inch since you’ve arrived, no humor on his face either. Instead he’s looking at you with the softest expression. His pupils are dilated, probably because he’s been looking at his computer screen for a few hours, you think. At the sound of Sherry’s laughter he’d quickly turned around, giving her a stern look before he returned his attention back to you.
As her laughter quiets down, she shakes her head at your question before clearing her throat. “No it’s nothing dear. Just an inside joke of mine. You needn’t worry.” She says while she gives you a sincere smile. Knowing how quickly you worry over even the smallest things. She’s thanking your anxiety for that.
You give her a quick nod while giving her an unsure smile. Looking back at Leon, you bring your thoughts back to the task ahead, as to why you’ve come here. You look up, his eyes still fixed on you as you speak. “I’ve come to get you.”
Your words seem to awaken something in him. His eyes widen slightly, brows furrowed as he sees you’re serious. Looking down at your outfit and gear, you don’t look as if you’re going to have a nice peaceful office day. Your hair is also up into a French braid again, the way you always wear it during missions. He realizes in the split of a second that you’re about to leave the facility for the day.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, taking a step towards you. The soft and sweet man you know from the private gaming sessions, turns into the hard stern soldier everyone knows him to be. It’s no wonder that you find him attractive in both ways. As he stands more straight, you can see him buffing up his muscles without realizing it, looking taller, broader and more masculine which is almost impossible. Damn you have to get your mind out of the gutter or you’re going to start drooling in front of him.
You clear your throat before telling him. “Chris asked me to come get you. He needs us at an urgent meeting right now. Apparently our scanners have picked up on some human activity back at Raccoon City, probably civilians passing through even though the city is on lockdown. Chris wants us to accompany him as he and Jason are gonna check it out.”
The horrors of Raccoon City will follow him forever, he thinks to himself. Quickly grabbing his own harness from the chair next to the door, he ushers you into the hallway. His hand at the small of your back as he leads you towards Chris’s office.
“Let’s go.”
Thank you for reading! <3 Once again, I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors. Please feel free to comment so I can correct them.
Also thank you so much for the kind response on part one. Many of you have requested a part two, so here it is! I felt like we needed a more fluffy chapter to make their bond grow more. For those of you who are interested, I will write a part three which will be way more action-driven. Just take in mind that writing these, takes a lot of time as I work full time and have a household to take care of.
Summary: Being the only female rookie at the DSO, you're used to being belittled by your fellow agents. Thought to be invisible to your superior Mr. Kennedy, you would have never thought he'd come to safe you as your first mission goes terribly wrong.
Warnings/notes: Horror, blood and gore, violence, gun mention, angst, appearance of Chris Redfield, protective Leon, age difference, older!Leon, very slowburn, author's first language isn't English
Clouds fill the sky. Putting a dark shadow on the world, while the sun desperately tries to get through the thick cover. It’s faint light cascading on the run-down buildings, streets and everything that once was. The air is cold against your skin. The fresh autumnal morning air doing nothing to prevent the light blush that starts to form on your cheeks once you get out of the car. The cold nips at the top of your fingers, making you curl them into the palm of your hands. Even though it was only the start of October, it wouldn’t take long before winter would sweep the land into its stone-cold grasp. For that reason alone you slightly dread the days in the field that would soon, hopefully, follow. Never really liking the cold, you aimed for a warmer climate. That would be possible of course if your life had been different.
You stand in line with three other agents next to you. Men. Taller and broader than you, but not necessarily better. You’re all clad in a tight marine blue shirt, sleeves rolled up and a small zipper at the neckline. Due to the weather, yours is all the way up, concealing your chest. A pair of black combat trousers hug your thighs while boots in the same color are on your feet, making you stand firm and secure.
The harness around your chest carries the essentials. Handgun at your right side, shotgun and sniper rifle secure on your back. Two hand grenades hanging on your left just in case. The weight of a knife rests against your lower back. The blade is sharp, a machete, ready to chop a zombie's head off if necessary.
The men next to you wear similar assemblies. To your right there’s Jonathan. A twenty-five year old, six ft tall blond with an ego flying through the roof. Shotgun and sniper also on his back but instead of a knife, he carries a large stone hammer. The tip sharpened, making it easier to break one's skull. He has been in this program for just as long as you have, starting three months ago.
The two men on your left, who you can’t even bother to remember the names of, have the same confidence as Jonathan. A smirk on their faces, like this first field job is going to be a piece of cake. They look slightly younger, twenty-two maybe twenty-three? You’re not sure. A few men in the other group that would come after you were twenty-six and twenty-seven. At the ‘ripe’ age of twenty-nine you’re the oldest one out of the rookies.
Standing before you are two more seasoned men. One incredibly broad, hair a dark brown almost grey at the sides, going by the name of Chris Redfield. At almost 6’1”his stance is wide, arms crossed, making his presence well known. He’s looking at us like any other teacher would. His brown eyes looking over his so called “students” with a straight face, while thinking to himself: “What the hell do these rookies think they’re doing here?”.
Next to him, slightly more behind, is his comrade. His hair, a dark blond streaked with a few grey strands signaling his age. Blue eyes focusing on the hand gun in his palm while putting in new ammo, not giving us as much attention. By 5’11” Leon S. Kennedy was not as broad as Mr. Redfield, but compared to him, he was definitely muscular as well. Biceps protruding and forearms showing off the few veins that peak from under his shirt.
The two of them had a well-known reputation. Both fought against any monstrosity the Umbrella corporation had thrown at them. Trying to protect the world from all evil.
They had trained you. Three months inside the DSO facility. Learning the basics from knowing how to reload a gun, to shooting one with perfect aim. Physical and emotional training, needed to defeat all enemies you would come across. Three months and eight trainees. All inexperienced rookies who wished to be full DSO agents, ready to kick some ass. Seven men and one woman. You.
Of course, being the only woman, which is very unseen in this line of work, you were often laughed at. Thought to be useless, weak and incompetent to get the job done. Well, we’ll see about that.
You’re quiet. Slowly analyzing the situation you’re in. Today is your first ever mission. As a trial of course. Three months of training had to lead somewhere. They had divided the group into two. The first group, with you in it, was brought to the outskirts of Raccoon city, driven in a van by Kennedy, Redfield in the passenger seat. The chanter in the car from your three other colleagues had been loud while you kept mostly to yourself. As you arrived at the scene, which seemed to be an open square with buildings surrounding you, you quickly got out of the car before anyone else. Already opening the trunk to get all your gear.
And that’s where we are now.
“Alright listen up.” You hear Chris say, making your ears perk up. “Your mission today will be simple, which is to retrieve some important information back from the old Umbrella labs that are situated below ground. You will be divided into two teams and each will be given a map. Your task is to bring the piece of information back to me. If you fail, you will be taken out of the program and you can pack your bags. Are we clear?”
You hear Jonathan next to you scoff, a silent “as if” slipping from his lips. Ever since the beginning of your training he has made it clear that he was the one who would be the next super-agent at the DSO. You already know now that a simple training, to retrieve information out of a lab, isn’t spectacular enough for him.
Chris’s eyes look us all up and down again before settling on you and Jonathan for a few seconds, then back to the two guys on your left. “Liam and Jason…” So those are their names. “… the two of you will be under my supervision.” Chris announces while walking over to them, handing them a phone with a map on it. “Leon, you take him and the girl” he continues, gesturing over to you. The girl…
“You need to take this mission seriously guys. This may look easy but you never know what could be lurking in this city. Especially underground. This is a necessary part of your training. Don’t take this lightly. You know what happens when you fail.” And with that he gestures to Liam and Jason to follow him, leaving you and Jonathan alone with Leon.
Leon's cold stare lingers on the both of you, sizing you up, almost like he is determining if the two of you are even worth his time. His gun is brought back into its holster, hanging at his right hip, before taking a phone out of his pocket similar to the one Chris gave to his own two rookies. “Take this.” He murmurs while outstretching his arm, waiting for one of you to take it.
Before you even get the chance to put a step forward, Jonathan beats you to it. Grabbing the phone out of Leon's grasp, he immediately starts to inspect the screen. Hastily looking over the map without including you. After a few seconds and a small huff from you, he looks up, eyes directed at Leon. “Is this a competition between the two teams? To see who finds the piece of information first?” The corners of his mouth slowly turn upwards. “Because I’ll beat them to it.”
The smirk that covers his face is so arrogant that you almost want to punch him in the face. You’re sure you could win a 1v1 fight against him.
“It is not a competition in any way. You look for the piece of information that we want, you get it and get back out of there unscratched, together with your partner, is that clear?” Leon isn’t amused by Jonathan's confidence either. When he averts his gaze back to you, you can see the slight frown on his face soften just a smidge.
“Now…” he says, focused on you while pointing to your ear “… The little earpieces you have in do not only allow us to communicate with each other if necessary, but I will also be able to see your vitals while I keep an eye out for you during the mission.”
“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” Jonathan speaks, a slight tremor in his voice if you hear correctly. Maybe even a little nervous? Anyway, it’s not enough to push him off the throne of pride in his head.
Leon looks back at him. “Who am I? Your babysitter? I’m not gonna hold your hand every time you have a mission. I think you’re old enough. You do know this is what you trained for right?”
You have to do your best to not let out the laugh that’s trying to burst out of your mouth. Your lips turning into a small smile instead that you desperately try to cover with your hand.
You’ve always liked Leon, ever since the moment you met him back at DSO. Back when you were truly ‘a rookie’, having very little experience on the subject of being a special agent. Back then he had only greeted you with a firm handshake and a curt nod, murmuring a quick ‘nice to meet you’ as he quickly went on to greet the next rookie in line. But the way he carried himself and the way he was respectful towards others... Trying to help people when and wherever he could? It made you have a certain form of respect for the man.
It was also not difficult to notice that he’s very easy on the eye. The strong build, the sharp jawline, the stubble covering it… After three months of seeing him almost everyday, you'd grown a little crush for him. All innocent of course, because you knew very well the two of you could never be together. What would a successful and good looking DSO agent see in a twenty years younger and inexperienced ‘girl’? So you kept your silly feelings at bay, knowing it wasn’t worth the energy.
All of that put aside now, you are a bit apprehensive about what Leon had just said to Jonathan… You have to admit, you’re a bit nervous being out there in the field with no experienced agent by your side if things were to go to shit. But you’re strong mentally, a good fighter and you’re brave. You can do this.
Jonathan, who of course isn’t impressed by Leon’s words, shoots right back. “And how do we…” he says, mockingly correcting what Leon had warned him about while pointing from himself to you “... know what we’re looking for? How are we supposed to know what kind of special information you guys need us to get?”
“You got a map. Use it.”
Jonathan steps forward. “That’s ridiculous. For all I know we could be out here until nightfall looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Or until next week. That’s completely up to you.” Leon smirks, clearly having fun riling up the twenty-four year younger ‘boy’.
“You're insane, old man.” Jonathan spits back.
You can see Leon’s eyebrow raise at those words. Seeming to unlock something within him and break through his usual more calm facade. Something that you’ve seen maybe once or twice during your training. Something that was a little bit more dominating… His jaw is clenched, teeth grinding before, in his turn, taking a step forward. Looking your colleague dead in the eye, smirk removed from his face with now a stern glare replacing it.
“Watch it kid. I suggest you temper that tone of yours.” Another step closer. Not raising his voice, but keeping it cold and stern. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t give a fuck if you drop out right now. What I do need to know though, is when you wish to go through with this, you will not fuck around. You will both protect each other while completing the mission. If your lives are at stake, you will do everything you can to get the two of you out of there. If you say yes to that, I, your superior, demand respect from you. Is that clear? You must learn your fucking. place. rookie.”
It went quiet next to you. No more words coming from Jonathan’s mouth.
When you turn to get a better look at him, you swear you see the dilemma in his eyes. Not knowing whether to punch Leon in the face or to restrain himself and go for the more civil option.
Eventually he casts his gaze downwards, realizing he couldn’t keep going like that if he wanted to reach his goal at the DSO.
“Fine.”
Leon recognises the submission and decides to drop the subject. Point taken.
He takes a step back, arms crossed. "Alright, I suggest the two of you start off immediately. The day is short and you’ve got quite a lot of ground to cover. Use the time that you have.” Then before turning his back, his gaze lingers on you one more time. The look in his eyes sincere. “Take care.”
And with that, you and Jonathan are left to fend for yourselves in the harsh reality that is Raccoon city. It is so that even one hour later, you’re still trying to work out the map. That is, if Jonathan would give you a chance to look it over.
You’ve had enough. You were constantly running in circles, covering the same places over and over again, which did nothing to ease your frustration with the man walking a few feet in front of you. It almost felt like the walls started to close in on you. So you decided to speak up. Thinking you’ve been patient enough.
“You have no idea where we’re going, do you?”
He stops abruptly, making you almost walk straight into him. He turns his neck so fast, you’re almost certain he has broken it. “Excuse me?”
You can see he’s trying to stay calm even though a fire is starting to ignite in his green eyes.
“You heard me. I don’t think you have even the slightest idea about where we are.”
A scoff falls from his lips, in deep contrast to the droplet of sweat coming down the side of his face. A sign of insecurity? Guess you’re right after all. “Oh please, I have the map. I know exactly what I’m doing.” His arrogance shining through, even though you can see his facade slowly starting to break. So you continue.
“Jonathan, this is the second time we are going through this alley. There’s two possibilities. Either you don’t know where we’re going, or you love the scenery here so much you just had to see everything twice, some streets even thrice. And don’t tell me it’s the latter. I think it’s about time we switch things up and you give me a go at the map.”
“Oh please…” he replies, now fully facing you, trying to solve the matter in his favor. “You’re a girl. How could you be of any help right now? Do you even know how to read a map?”
What is it with toxic men and their twisted ego’s? Their dying need to make women feel inferior? Never wanting to admit or even think about the idea that a woman could be right for once? Could be better?
That’s the second time today you want to punch him in the face.
You step forward, pushing yourself up so you’re standing on the tips of your feet. Your hot breath hitting his face, mere inches from yours. “Watch a girl save your stupid ass.”
You snatch the phone out of his hand before he even has a chance to register what has happened. Pushing past him, you try to ignore the protests coming out of his mouth. Your fingers flying over the screen of the phone, finally getting a good look at the map.
You’re not too far off from the way you need to go. The so-called entrance to the Umbrella labs underground being only a fifteen minute walk from here. How the hell did he miss that?
“Give me the phone back.” Jonathan grumbles, his arm reaching around you. You’re faster though, already taking a few steps forward, making your way out of the alley and onto the main street, moving in the right direction.
“Just save your breath pretty boy. We’ll be there in no time.” You smile, picking up pace. You hear him right behind you, sighing like a toddler who hasn’t been given his way.
After ten minutes or so, you reach a more secluded area of the city. The buildings looking even more run-down than before. The air suddenly so dense and foggy, you’re sure the entrance should be right around the corner. And you’re right. When you continue, you see multiple Umbrella posters plastered onto nearby fences, the red and white logo clearly recognisable. You grin, looking down at the map again, seeing that the entrance should be right ahead.
“You know, I’m not one to apologize easily but… Seems like you were right after all.”
You almost choke on your own spit at hearing the words Jonathan says from behind you. “Excuse me?” You stop, turning around to face him.
“Yeah, I just…” He starts, stopping next to you “... guess I was kind of dick to you before? You got us right where we needed to go.”
You blink, not fully knowing how to react for a couple seconds. Does the all so mighty Jonathan actually want to apologize to you? Ever since you started training together 3 months ago he wouldn’t even spare you a second glance. And now he’s trying to be nice?
“Uh... Yeah, whatever. Let’s keep going.” you reply, starting to feel a little awkward.
You turn your back to him again, your steps firm as you continue your search. You hear hurried footsteps behind you, Jonathan now making his way right beside you.
“So I’ve been thinking…” Oh boy, he’s been thinking? What an achievement. “... You and I? We would be a great team together don’t you think?”
You turn your head, making eye contact with him before quickly averting your gaze once you see the tiny smirk plastered on his face. You don’t like where his insinuation is going.
“Uh, maybe? I don’t know. What’s your point?”
His smirk grows wider at that. His steps curving slightly to the left, making his way closer to you. “Oh I’ve seen you, you know. Back at the DSO facility. You’re always by yourself, not making a fuss, doing exactly what dear Redfield and Kennedy ask of us. You’re always at the top of the class, doing your training like a good girl. You’re a natural. I figured, when this mission is over, you’d maybe want to consider becoming partners.”
You find his words creepy at the very least. And do you believe him? Has he actually been watching you these past 3 months? Or is this just his way of saving his ass so you won’t complain about him when you get back?
“How could you be of any help to me? You couldn’t even read the map.” You scoff.
You can feel his hand brushing against your underarm slightly. He’s so close now you can feel his hot breath hitting the side of your face. “I didn’t mean it in an agent kind of way, love.”
You stop again abruptly, looking at him like he’d just grown an extra head. “Excuse me?”
He’s laughing now, a disgusting rasp in his throat. “Oh come on, don’t play dumb. We’ve been at the DSO for three months now and you're the only female agent in training. You don’t mean to tell me no one else has ever made an offer like this to you?”
“What the hell are you implying?”
“I could show you a good time, you know? Have you take the edge off for once. I must say that I know my way around the female body very well, so you’d be in for a treat. I could please you just right. You won’t regret it. I can promise you that.”
Not only is he trying to get on your good side to profit from it at the DSO, but he’s also trying to get in your pants. You just shake your head. Sadly this hadn’t been the first time a man had spoken to you like that.
“You’re a pig.” You turn around, ignoring the excuses and promises pouring out of his mouth. You have better things to do than reprimanding a child.
What the two of you don’t know, is that a few streets back, Leon is following you. Not just following and checking your vitals, but also hearing every word that’s being said between you and Jonathan. A little detail the DSO keeps hidden, to see how rookies will react in these kinds of missions, not holding anything back while their superiors listen. And right now? Leon is very happy he’s able to do so.
He finds Jonathan to be an inexperienced low life who thinks he’s got it all figured out. The way he talks to you makes his blood boil. Not necessarily because it’s you, but just of the way he speaks to a woman. Like you’re just a vessel for his pleasure.
He chuckles when you dismiss him so easily, not paying him much mind. He likes your spirit. You always thought he didn’t pay you much thought during training, but you were wrong. He knew who you were. Who didn’t to be honest? The only female field agent at the DSO. Doing your best at every training. Hitting your marks every time there was a shooting test. Often even better than the other male rookies.
So yes, you had definitely triggered his interest.
As you make your way through all the abandoned and burned down cars, you can see a large hole in the ground just a few feet up ahead. Bingo.
You reach it. A black hole, approximately six by six feet big, making its way down through the concrete. No sounds come from it, but the smell is undeniable. Rotting flesh.
Ok. You prepare yourself for a few zombies down there. It should be doable with your training and all the weapons you have on you, you tell yourself. Luckily you’re not alone.
You take a flare that’s attached to your belt before igniting it and letting it fall into the darkness. It falls down a few seconds, hitting a few metal objects in its way, before settling at the bottom. You can see a steep wall of concrete going down, followed by a half destroyed ladder that reaches the bottom. You don’t see or hear any infected. For all you know, there could be a rotting corpse down there. You’re not going to wait to find out.
“Let’s go.” you say before squatting, moving one leg into the hole.
“Oh how how wait! You wanna go in there?” Jonathan grabs your shoulder. When you look back at him you can see the uncertainty in his expression. Gone is all the fun and excitement from before, replacing it with a certain form of fear.
“And what else do you suggest?” you question him.
He starts looking around all of sudden. “Well… Maybe there’s another entrance. One that’s more safe than this one.”
“Nothing about our job is safe Jonathan. Look around you. Do you see another way in? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t. The map led us to this place right here.”
He doesn’t reply after that, just keeps looking at you with the same uncertainty as before.
“You coming or not?”
His only reply is a curt nod, making you doubt if he actually means it or not. He squats next to you, letting go of your shoulder. You take that as your cue to keep going. You descend gently and slowly, one foot in front of the other down the steep concrete wall. Into the lion's den as they say.
You try to make as little noise as possible, making your way down the ladder. Once you have reached the bottom, you take your flashlight so you can check your surroundings better.
The room you’re in is small, also six by six feet. A long dark tunnel is connected to it. You can’t see anything more than a few feet ahead of you, the flare and flashlight only illuminating a small amount of the place. You see water further ahead, making the tunnel appear to be some kind of sewer, which explains the smell as well.
Jonathan reaches the bottom next to you, frantically looking around, hand covering his nose. “What the fuck is this…”
You pick your gun from its holster, aiming it in front of you while also pointing your flashlight. You gesture for him to follow you. “Come on.”
You step into the tunnel. The water around your feet making your steps more heavy, while also producing a little too much sound for your liking. Behind you, you hear Jonathan pick up the flare. You turn around.
“Leave it so we can still see the entrance. Use your flashlight.”
He looks down again, a little frustrated with himself. “I didn’t bring one.”
You blink. “You didn’t bring one? Seriously?" A tiny shake of his head signaling no was your response. Jesus… Try going to war with someone like him.
“How could you possibly-. You know what? Forget it. Let’s go.” You wish this day would be over very soon.
The two of you continue through the tunnel, you at the front, him checking for any threats coming from behind, his gun now also drawn. The tunnel seems to bring you further down, a slight steep to your feet. It goes on for about two hundred feet until it separates into two new tunnels. One going left and one going right. You stop, trying to decide where to go from here. Jonathan bumps into you, not realising you had stopped. A whispered ‘sorry’ before an ‘oh fuck’ fell from his lips once he sees the split-up.
“What do we do now? What does the map say?” He asks, looking at you.
You take the phone again, your flashlight resting between your cheek and shoulder as you hold it in place. You see the thick yellow line bending to the right, signaling your way forward. As you put the device away again, you hear a low rumbling noise coming from the left. It’s far away though, a gurgling moaning sound that gets swallowed by the dark. You don’t have to ponder very long to realise what it is. You point your flashlight to the left, squinting your eyes, but you can't see anything.
“Thank God we don’t have to go in that direction.” You whisper while hearing Jonathan quietly agree behind you. You take that as your queue to continue your way right.
After about fifteen minutes of following tunnels, coming onto new split-ups, going left and right, you have reached the end of the tunnel. A short type of stairs going up with a metal door at the end of it. That must be where the lab is.
You grin in victory, ready to be done with this mission. You turn towards Jonathan, who’s inspecting the door with a certain nervousness. “You go up there and try unhinging the door. Look for any threats inside. I’ll cover you.” You tell him. He looks at you now, lips parted, clearly not wanting to but not deciding if he should fight you on it or not.
Eventually he nods, taking a few steps forward before going up the stairs, it steps creaking underneath his weight. You turn around, your gun pulled, ammo checked and flashlight up. You’re ready if anything dares to come closer.
Jonathan reaches the door behind you. His shuffling and pacing before the small window making you curious to see what’s inside.
“You see anything?” You whisper, before he turns around to look at you.
“No, it seems clear. It’s locked from inside though.” Another pause. “Let me get this door open.” He murmurs as he uses his elbow to break the glass. When that’s done, he puts his arm through it and reaches for the lock on the other side.
The twist of a lock is heard before the metal door screeches open. No sounds come from ahead of you, so you take a few steps back, gun still at the ready if necessary. You go up the stairs, turning around so you wouldn’t trip. Once you’re standing next to Jonathan at the top, you’re able to look into the room as well.
The room contains several desks decorated with various kinds of test tubes. The contents unknown to you as a result of it not being your field of work. Paper documents are scattered on the floor with a few lab coats and plastic gloves here and there. At least you’re sure now that you’re in the right place. At the end of the room, you can see an ever bigger desk with a large computer on it, its screen almost measuring six by three feet.
You’re the first to take some careful steps into the room, checking left and right for anything that might be out of the ordinary. Something that might look like the important piece of information the DSO needs. The air is cooler, more sterile than in the tunnels, but the awful stench remains.
Leon follows everything on the small iPad in his hand, staying a few blocks away from the entrance. This is a job meant for the two of you, as training. He can not interfere.
He can see you have reached the lab, your heartbeat quicker than normal as he checks your vitals. He listens to your steady breathing when you enter the room with your partner right behind you. Jonathan’s heartbeat however goes sky high, his breathing way more rapid than yours. Leon chuckles at the difference between you. The boy still has a lot more to learn. Compared to him you’re a natural. When a man and a woman go into the field together, you’d normally expect it to be the other way around.
Back down, you can’t find anything lying around. So you decide to start with the computer. The piece of information has to be connected to it somehow. Looking down at the keyboard, you type incoherent words trying to get the computer to work since you don’t see an on-switch anywhere.
You don’t have to try very long, the computer turning on at the first key you press. It’s not locked? How weird…
You take the mouse in your hand and go straight for the saved documents, searching for anything that might be valuable. And thank God you’re lucky. Various files were saved, starting from different kinds of chemicals to files about the test subjects they tried it out on. One particular folder takes your interest ‘The Connections Corporation’. You click it open.
Everything is in there. Their IP-adres, the people who carried out their work, reports from several top secret meetings… Guess you hit the jackpot.
You know what you have to do. Bending down, you look underneath the desk searching for the actual computer instead of looking at the monitor. When you find the black object, you take out your machete as you try to get the lid off. When you do, you look for the computer chip, carefully detaching it from the rest so you can take it with you.
You get back from under the desk. Your flashlight producing enough light so you can see it was still in good condition. As you go to put it in your pocket, Jonathan, who has been quiet all this time, steps up, snatching the computer chip out of your hand before putting it in his own pocket.
“I’ll keep this safe, thank you very much.” he cockily sneers.
Fed up with his childish behavior, you turn around, ready to give him a piece of mind. Who does think he is, letting you do all the work and then showing off after?
What you see next however makes your blood run cold and your breath hitch, quickly swallowing the words you were going to say before shouting something else. “Get down!”
He listens immediately, hearing the urgency in your voice. His body goes down by a fraction of a second before you raise your gun and shoot the zombie behind him right between its eyes, its body falling limp on the ground.
Leon’s ears perk up as he hears the gunshot through the little earpieces, his eyes now focused on the screen of his iPad more than ever, his body on high alert. You’re not supposed to run into any infected. He and Chris had scouted the perimeter before dropping you guys here. It’s supposed to be safe. He can see the two dots on the screen signaling where you and Jonathan are standing, but there’s no sign of a third person on the screen.
You’re shaking, your breathing now rapid as you stare at the lifeless body on the ground before you. The first zombie you have ever seen and also your first kill. You take a few steps closer to inspect it more carefully.
It’s the body of what once was a man, aged somewhere in his forties. It looks gaunt, caused by the lack of nutrition down here, its cheekbones pressing through its skin. Soulless, white eyes stare back at you, the skin between them torn by the shape of your bullet. Its jaw is what freaks you out the most, for it’s barely even there anymore. Half of it is still hanging from the upper part while the rest has been broken and torn off, smearing blood all over the neck, as the tongue hangs limply. That thing had been close enough to Jonathan to push him against the ground and kill him. How had he not heard something? How had you not heard something? If you hadn’t turned around…
The creature wears a labcoat, torn to pieces together with its shirt and trousers underneath. As you look better at the clothing, you start to realise one thing. Whatever kind of infected this thing was… It was already in this room before you first entered.
“I… I thought you said this room was clear?” You manage to get the first words out of your mouth when turning to Jonathan. He hasn’t gotten up, still bending forward as you see him trying to wrap his head around what’d just happened.
His lack of response angers you, so you take a step in his direction, now standing right before him as you make eye contact. “You hear me?” Now slightly raising your voice, still trying to be as quiet as possible. “Hey! Talk to me. You said this room was clear!”
His lips tremble when he speaks. “I… I did… It-it must’ve sneaked up on us back in the tunnels.”
“Bullshit.” You spit back. “I checked our backs right until we walked into this room and not once did I see or hear an infected. Look at his labcoat you fucking moron. He was in this room all this time!”
“I’m sorry. I tried- I really…”
“You could have gotten us both killed.” You silence him as you aim your flashlight around the room, going through it a bit more thoroughly, checking behind and underneath all the desks to make sure that one infected was the only one.
When you finish your round, you step back towards Jonathan. “Look… Accidents happen. Just… Don’t let this happen again alright?” You try to sooth him while stretching out your hand, helping him stand up again. Once he’s standing you check your ammo, ready to make your way back out. The sooner the better.
You only make it a few steps back towards the door, before you feel Jonathan grab your hand, stopping you. “That thing…” A tremor in his voice as he whispers “... It was so fucking close. If-if you hadn’t shot it down, I might have…” He can’t bring it in himself to finish that sentence. “Thank you. I’m so sorry I let you down”
You gave him a soft smile. "Whatever. Let’s just go. I think we’ve both had enough of this place.”
As he agrees, you both make your way out of the lab and down the stairs again, starting back through the almost endless looking network of tunnels.
Leon had moved considerably closer by now, being in the same street as the entrance you went through. There’s still no sign of any infected on his screen, so you both have to make it back without any problems.
You go in front of Jonathan as per usual, the water quietly sloshing around you, aiming your gun and flashlight straight ahead. To your relief, you don’t run into any more filthy bioweapons from Umbrella. Which is a godsend really.
Your optimism is short-lived though. WIth only a few more corners to pass, you suddenly stop as you see a figure standing about fifty feet ahead.
Another infected stands right in the middle of the narrow tunnel, its back to you. Your previous gunshot must have alerted it. You curse under your breath, quickly putting your fist up as a silent motion for Jonathan to stop as well. You look at him, quickly bringing your index finger towards your lips as a sign for him to be quiet. He was already distracted though, eyes fixed on the thing that’s ahead of us.
You see him slowly reach for the gun that is hanging from his right hip. As you’re trying to be as quiet as possible, a gun isn’t the best option here. This has to be done as quietly as possible, to not attract any attention.
You quickly grab his arm to make him look at you, head turning as you make eye contact. You shake your head ‘no’, pushing his gun away, before taking your machete where it’s held at your lower back. You point towards his stone hammer, gesturing for him to do the same.
Leon is getting more and more worried now. Why have the two of you stopped again? There’s nothing showing on his screen, nothing that should be in your way. The way back to the exit should be clear.
You sign to Jonathan to stay put and for him to help you when things go wrong. A basic form of military sign language was part of your training back at the DSO.
As Jonathan nods, you take a deep breath before looking back at the creature before you. Thankfully it hasn’t noticed you yet. As you gather all your courage, you grip your machete tighter as you make your way towards it.
It doesn’t make any sounds. It isn’t even moving, standing in the middle of the tunnel like a statue. The light of your flashlight and Jonathan's flare, not alarming it. Just like the one you’d killed back at the lab. Your heart almost pounding out of your chest as you near it, praying to every god above this would go well.
With only a few feet away, you can feel its rotting flesh starting to infiltrate your senses, almost wanting to gag at the repulsive smell. You take the last bits of distance in a hurry, raising your arm before sweeping it down with as much force you could manage. The blade makes contact with its neck, your cut clean, as in one full motion you’re able to cut its head off. The head falling to the side before the body tumbles into the water, the sound of the splash being something you could have avoided. Fuck.
As on cue, you hear a few gurgling moans coming from somewhere in front of you. You take some steps forward, seeing three infected coming from a nearby tunnel on the right that’s connected to yours.
They’re different from the ones you’d seen before, more active and way louder. They seem way more aware of their surroundings too, your flashlight doing nothing to hide yourself as their heads all turn towards you, gaze feral, screeching, raising their arms while making their way to you. Shit.
This hasn’t gone unnoticed by Jonathan either of course. His breathing uncontrollable as he shakes in his boots. “Fuck…” Clearly for him there’s no point in being quiet anymore “…fuck …we’re gonna die. We’re gonna fucking die!”
“No we’re not. Jonathan, man the fuck up. There’s three of them and there’s two of us, we can take them.” Why is it always you that has to encourage him?
The three infected have reached you within seconds, jaws snapping, out-stretched hands trying to get a hold of you. You dodge them and swing your foot into the chest of the first infected on your right, your strength enough to push him down, arms swaying. You don’t waste any time. Standing over it you lift your machete before swinging it down with all your might, planting the knife right into its skull, body going limp.
The reeking hot breath of the second infected tingles your neck. Before it has a chance you’re spinning on your heels, water splashing, as you swing your knife again, the blade finding home into its neck. Not enough to kill it but plenty to imbalance him. As blood seeps from the wound, you pull back your machete, foot kicking its chest so it goes down. You plan to do the same thing you did to the one before. Standing over it you raise your weapon again.
All of a sudden you feel an immense impact on your back, causing you to drop your flashlight and machete, your body being pushed harshly against the stone wall. You’re quick enough to turn around to prevent the flying hands from scratching you, instead grabbing the wrists and trying to pin them down. The third zombie that cages you in is enormous, towering over you by 6.6 feet, dwarfing you completely. Its broad chest and strong arms preventing you from getting away, its power momentarily too strong for your smaller frame. You grunt as you try to push it off, looking past it to see where Jonathan is.
He hasn’t moved yet, still standing a few feet back with his mouth agape, clearly in shock.
“Jonathan, don't just stand there! Help me out!” You shout, making him snap out of it.
He looks at you, then back at the infected on the ground, which is still moving, towards the infected that has you pinned against the wall. He’s shaking like a leaf.
That seems to knock him out of his stupor. Sadly, not in the way you had hoped. Instead of picking up his gun and shooting the brute that holds you hostage, he passes you, almost jumping over the half dead infected lying on the ground. He looks at you almost in shame. “I-I’m sorry.” Are his last words before bolting, leaving you to die and taking the flare with him.
Leon is sprinting towards the entrance, throwing all protocol aside. Technically, he isn’t supposed to help, but fuck that.
Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.
No, no, oh god no… The dread that fills you is almost enough to pull you down and lose the battle you’re having against the infected. But that can not happen. As long as you’re breathing you won’t go down without a fight. It’s just branded into you like that.
Think. Come on, think!
There isn’t anything around that can help you. You can’t reach for one of your guns either or you risk getting bitten. You have to use your body, your own strength, to get out of here somehow.
When an idea strikes your mind, you do a quick mental prayer, literally jumping into action, all in the matter of two seconds. Pushing your whole body up, using the wall behind you as leverage, you kick the infected right in its chest with both of your feet. The action causes it to take a few steps back, releasing you, giving you a second to recompose yourself. In the little time that you have, you reach for the shotgun hanging from your back, swinging it to your front so you can hold it better with two hands. A simple pistol shot isn’t gonna do the job you reckon.
You raise it, just in time, before the infected reaches for you again, its mouth open as it brings out a gurgling scream. You lift the shotgun right under its chin as you pull the trigger, not knowing what kind of damage it will cause.
The shot is loud. Its recoil pushes you back as you feel the pressure down to your core. The zombie’s face is blown off, blood and flesh splattering on the wall behind it, leaving only partial pieces of the head still standing. You almost gag as the body tips over, water splashing, mixing with blood as it makes contact with the ground. Pieces of brain and bone now scattered around it.
As you pant, you realize that the last infected, the one Jonathan had jumped over, was still alive. As you turn you see its body still wriggling in the water, face down. You pick up your machete again and make quick work of it. Pushing your foot down on its back you raise your weapon and bring it down with full force towards the wound you’d previously made. Flesh tearing and bone cracking as you end its life, fully decapitating it.
Meanwhile Leon has now reached the entrance to the tunnels, a weak Jonathan climbing out like the devil himself is after him. His gaze lifting as he hears the sound of running footsteps. “Mr. Kennedy…?”
Leon forcefully pushes him out of the way without a second glance, jumping straight into the darkness below, heart pounding and gun drawn, moving as fast as he could.
He almost flinches when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot reaches his ears, the loud noise reverberating through the tunnels. Dread filling his heart as he quickens his pace even more. He takes a detour to the right, knowing the tunnels better than anyone as he had gone through them countless times before on previous missions. He realizes you’re not too far away from the entrance. He just hopes he makes it in time before you get hurt.
You stand up straight again, legs slightly wobbly from the exertion you had to go through while also a bit shaken up. You had never seen an infected before and now you had killed 4 of them in the span of 30 minutes. All in your first ever mission as well. Would have been easier if your partner hadn’t left you behind though…
You would show him what you were made of once you got out of here. He would have to run if he wanted to avoid you killing him. That alone was a wonderful motivation for you to move forward.
Being under the assumption it’s finally over, you place your machete back on the straps at your back, before going to retrieve the flashlight lying on the ground a few feet ahead of you.
The splashing of water, moaning combined with screeching fills the air once more, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your eyes widen, not believing the things you’re hearing. You thought that had been it. That you’d get to walk out of here now unscratched. Oh boy were you wrong.
Five new infected turn around the same corner the previous three had come from, all equally disgusting and horrifying in their own way.
You abort mission, leaving your flashlight for what it is. It will only draw more attention. You duck into the nearest alcove on your left, knees touching the wet ground as you kneel down, sogging the material of your trousers. At least you think it’s an alcove... You don’t have time to check, as the infected are now standing in the middle of the tunnel. Your flashlight making sure you can still see their silhouettes in the dark.
You’re lucky enough to survive the attack of three infected all by yourself, but taking on five at the same time is impossible. You can take three of them, but not five… Not five.
There’s no way around them either. They’re blocking your path towards the exit completely. Keeping you hostage. Panic seeps through you again like a cold blanket. You have to think of an escape plan, and fast. The infected won’t be standing there forever. Hunting you down being their number one objective, to go after the noise they heard. They will follow the tunnel farther down in your direction and if one of them dares to look you way, you’re done for.
As you carefully peek around the corner you can see them already stumbling your way. You look behind you, pitch blackness greeting you like a meager solution. The alcove seems to be a narrow hallway of sorts, leading you to god knows where. You don’t have your flashlight on you either. You won’t be able to see a thing. Who knows what you might run into? And fighting something when you can’t see, is like walking up to the gallows. You have to get your flashlight back but that will risk you being seen.
You take another look around the corner. Luckily, they haven’t moved any closer. You figure that trying to fight the infected is your best shot at the moment. To get your flashlight quickly and use the dark hallway behind you as a plan B.
You reload your pistol and shotgun, getting yourself ready for what might be your last few minutes of being alive. Shotgun slung over your shoulder, pistol gripped tight in your right hand, you close your eyes, taking a few deep breaths.
You will try to get your flashlight first. After that your main goal is to hit as many headshots as possible. And if that goes wrong? You’re bolting.
A gloved hand suddenly covers your mouth, preventing the faint scream from escaping your lungs. At the same time a strong arm wraps around you, pulling you against a hard chest, preventing you from moving any further. Your gun falls to the ground, making too much noise for your liking.
Using your body you push back against the hard surface behind you, wriggling your arms as you try to get free. Your head is pushed back, hitting someone’s shoulder. As you try to look up, a familiar face comes into view, blue eyes meeting yours.
Leon releases your face, bringing his index finger towards his mouth, signaling for you to remain quiet. You quickly nod, a little perplexed as you realize he’s here. His grip around you making sure that you’re not just imagining things.
Moving around, he removes the arm that is slung around you and puts you behind him. As he slowly turns the corner he’s able to get a better look, seeing all the bloodshed you had caused, the infected slowly making its way towards you. He moves back, gesturing for you to come closer to him with his hand on your back so you’re squatting next to each other.
He communicates through sign language. Telling you to stay calm and to follow his lead, that everything is going to be alright. You believe him. With two agents against five infected the job will be more doable. When all of this is over, you have to think of a way to repay him. Repay him well.
Moving his hands he tells you his idea. The plan is to be stealthy and make as little of a mess as possible. Being the older and more experienced agent, he will move first with you right behind him. His axe and your machete at the ready. Before you turn the corner, he will throw a rock over the infected and into the other direction, trying to get their attention away from you. Then the two of you will move closer, each trying to take out one infected separately, two if you’re lucky. The rest will probably have to be done with a gun.
You sign back to the narrow tunnel behind you, to the way he came from. Wondering if that isn’t a better option than the danger that lies before you. Leon shakes his head as he brings up all ten fingers before pointing behind him. Your eyes widen, shock clearly visible on your face. Your hands start to tremble. There are ten more back there? Did he sneak past all of them? The thought makes you shiver.
Leon sees the worry in your expression. Quickly putting his hand on top of yours. He makes sure your eyes are back on him. Clear blue staring back at you, he whispers the words ‘we’re going to be ok’. The warmth of his voice feels like a warm blanket around you, emitting a protective and secure feeling. His hand touching yours, sending goosebumps up your whole body.
All of a sudden you realize how close the two of you are actually sitting. Your knees barely touching, his hot breath slightly caressing your face. For the fraction of a second, you allow yourself to admire him. The few strands of hair slightly covering his eyes. The few wrinkles there, around his nose and on his forehead, signaling his experience in life. The light stubble with a few grey strands going through it, down towards his neck. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Down to the broad and muscular pectorals. His arms are a piece of art on its own, the muscles under his shirt bulging as he’s preparing for the fight that’s about to come. He is… beautiful. You feel safe with him even though the situation isn’t very bright looking.
To not let him notice you staring, you quickly take your hand away from under his grasp, signing back that you agree with his plan. You put your gun back into its holster and reach once again for your machete, keeping it ready. Leon does the same, his axe now gripped tightly in his hand, the blade still shining in the faint light that is given. You look at him and curtly nod, signaling that you are ready.
He picks up a nearby rock that lies neglected in the water, putting it ready at his feet. Raising three fingers between you, he looks into your eyes, signaling he’s about to count down. Another nod from you is the last assurance he needs.
One. Two. Three.
The rock goes flying. Straight over the heads of the infected, colliding to the tunnel wall with a sharp loud thud. As on cue the five heads turn in the direction of the sound, giving you and Leon exactly the opening you need.
Leon moves first, stalking the first infected on the left. You’re right behind him, your eyes on the one next to it. The two of you move as quietly through the water as possible. The wrinkles betraying your position, thankfully not too obvious for the infected to notice. You try to be efficient, knowing you’re only given a handful of seconds before their attention will fall back to you.
Leon doesn’t turn to look back, feeling your presence now next to him.
Like the two of you had practiced it a million times before, you both jump at the exact same time. Both of your weapons hitting its mark as you attack from behind.
The two creatures don’t stand a chance. Both being beheaded at the same time. The sound of body parts falling brings the others out of their stupor, all of them turning to inspect what happened.
They don’t get much time to act. The one closest to you is forcefully pushed back against the wall as you kick it in its chest. Leon racing past you to take care of the other two.
The one you had pushed against the wall, recovers quickly. Its arms sway as it tries to hurt you with strong perseverance. You swing your machete, the tip aiming down as you impale it right in the chest. A sound something between a gasp and screech falls from its lips as you pull the blade back out. Aiming it, you swing again. This time chopping both of its arms off. You finish with something that’s starting to become your signature move. Blade slicing through its throat, vertebrae and neck. The head rolls into the water as the body slumps down against the wall.
Panting, you turn around, your gaze searching for Leon. He had downed the fourth infected. Now standing over it, foot placed on its chest, he gives the final blow. His axe planting itself into the skull, blood splattering everywhere as pieces of brain fall onto the ground.
Behind him you see the fifth infected taking advantage of Leon being distracted. Its mouth hanging open, blood already seeping out of it, as it starts for him, reaching for his neck. Leon being completely oblivious.
You don’t have time to scream or shout his name. You raise your machete instead before aiming. With a groan you throw it. The blade swinging through the air before sheeting itself into the neck of your target. The strength of your blow causes the infected to fall to the side. Wriggling in the water with a strangled groan leaving its bloodied mouth.
You reach it in no time. Taking your blade out of its neck before lifting your foot. Bringing it down with full force you break the skull, crushing the bone. Its brain is a mash up underneath your boot as you hear the bone crunch. You quickly pick up the flashlight as you look around. Feeling the adrenaline coursing through your body, awaiting a new threat.
As your eyes fall upon Leon, you see him already looking at you, panting as well and eyes wide. A faint look of disbelief on his face, like he almost couldn’t understand how you’d killed the infected before he did.
“You… uh… Well done.” He nodded, casting his eyes to the ground. He takes his own flashlight out of his pocket before lighting it. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he takes a few steps forward, now standing directly next to you. He checks the way ahead before clearing his throat. “We need to get out of here.”
As on cue you hear an immense blast coming down the way you came from. The tunnels shake as dust and a few rocks come down from the ceiling. The two of you both bending over, Leon’s arm slightly hovering over you as a form of protection.
“What the…” you hear him whisper.
“Mr. Kennedy, what was that?”
The next thing you know, multiple screeches and moans fill the area again. The sound coming exactly from where the huge blast had come from. Not just the screeching of four or five infected. No… There are more. Way more. It almost seems as if the blast from before had opened up a gate of some sorts. The gates of hell, freeing its most horrendous kind of demons.
As you hear the thunder of footsteps and snarling getting closer, you realize this is not something the two of you can fight off on your own. Not even with all the guns you have on you. Leon seems to be sharing the same thought, quickly grabbing your arm and turning you around. “Run to the exit, now!”
You don’t have to be told twice. Aiming your flashlight to prevent yourself from falling down, you sprint through the tunnels. Leon right behind you. Occasionally looking behind him as he draws his gun. You do the same as you do not know what kind of surprises might still lie ahead.
The snarls get louder behind you, signaling the infected’s proximity. They are faster than you, you realize. Way faster, even though they don’t see a thing in the dark. Must be some weird type of mutation Umbrella cooked up in one of their labs.
As you round the final corner, you finally get to see the light of day. Literally. The hole in the concrete that you came through, being about two hundred feet up ahead. You run towards it as fast as you can. But sprinting slightly uphill with water to slow you down isn’t very ideal. Both Leon and you are having a hard time getting up.
You’re halfway when you look behind you. Seeing at least 6 infected rounding the corner you just passed yourself, with more to follow. You’re not as brave now as you were before, fear seeping into your bones again. Fear of not making it in time and having to die out here. “They’re getting closer!”
Leon ceases his sprinting and turns around. “Go! I’m right behind you!”
The first shot of his pistol rings through your ears as it hits its target. The one infected running at the front falling down, the rest crawling over its body like madmen. More shots follow as you hear Leon take out one after the other.
You look back down once you reach the top and see Leon still shooting as fast as he can. As the infected get concerningly closer. You take out your sniper rifle, aiming down and looking through the scope. “Mr. Kennedy c’mon, I’ll cover you!”
You wait as you analyze your targets. Waiting for the perfect shot as you don’t have as much ammo on you as you actually need for the rifle. You grin as three infected align perfectly. The red dot of your scope marking the first one's head. The other two running behind it. You take the shot. Your bullet bursting through their brains in one fluid motion, downing them in a mere second. Because of the silencer, your first shot is almost inaudible. But it does not go unnoticed by Leon as you hear him curse under his breath before turning.
As he’s sprinting up towards you, you do everything in your power to make sure he gets up safe. Only needing a handful of seconds to down the first litter. Sniping is something you’ve excelled at ever since you started at the DSO. Being often told your sniper skills are better than anyone else's, you take immense pride in the skill.
Well your training is definitely paying off now.
Leon reaches the top incredibly fast. Grabbing your hand he pushes you towards the ladder. “Hurry...”
You swing your rifle onto your back before grabbing the metals bars and climbing up. You hear Leon fire a few more shots before following suit. Reaching the top, you lean against the steep concrete wall, regaining your balance before bending down. Your hand reaches for Leon’s as you try to help him up. His warm firm grasp embraces yours. With one strong tug you pull him up.
Something counters your strength, Leon groaning as he’s being pulled down again. A loud curse escapes him. One of the infected has managed to gain up on him and grasp onto his lower leg. As it grabs him with both of its claws and tries to climb up, you know he’ll get bitten if you don’t act quickly. Freeing your pistol from its holster, you aim right between its dead eyes. Not hesitating as you pull the trigger. The blow causes the creature to fall back down, taking two others with him who were also trying to get up the ladder.
With Leon now free, you continue pulling him back up. As he gets up next to you on the concrete wall, you grasp for your shotgun again, aiming towards the next filthy infected that’s right behind him. You pull the trigger. The immense blast making it tumble back down in several pieces.
You hear Leon shout next to you. “There’s too many. Run!”
Climbing up the steep wall, you hear the sharp clinging of metal next to you. You look back at Leon. The metal pin of the grenade he’s holding, being the source of the noise. You see him pull out the pin before throwing it carelessly behind him. He pushes you forward. “Go! Shit’s about to blow!”
With a last look behind him, he throws the grenade back at the infected, before taking a final sprint. You see it land right at the bottom of the hole, at least twenty zombies now filling the area that you came from while some were climbing the ladder again. Leon wraps his arm around your middle and pushes you out of the tunnel as fast as he can.
Finally reaching the top, the two of you climb out, leaving the evil darkness behind. Now running on the street you only manage a few more steps before your body is catapulted. As the bomb goes off behind you, you hear the deafening sound of rubble coming down. Shaking the asphalt below your feet. You fall on your front. Your arms wrap around your head to prevent yourself from getting hurt. Leon falls on top of you. His body now involuntarily protecting yours from any flying debris.
After a few seconds the rumbling and screeching from the infected quiets down. You feel the pressure of Leon’s body slightly crushing you. The smell of sweat and dirt mixed with the smell of freshly washed linen fill your senses like a warm blanket that’s being wrapped around you. Oddly enough, you don’t mind his crushing weight.
A few more moments pass before you feel him shift above you. Slowly lifting himself up as a groan falls from his lips. One hand positioned at your waist as the other holds himself up. You dare look up yourself.
Smoke fills the air, providing an even more thick and impenetrable fog than there already was. Pieces of rubble and dirt all scattered around the place. As you look back at the hole in the ground that you came through, you only see a big pile of debris left. What once was an entrance to one of the Umbrella labs had now caved in, taking the infected with it. The grenade had sealed them in like a tomb.
You feel Leon’s firm grip as he lifts you from the ground. Once back on your feet, you’re turned towards him. One hand still on your shoulder as he starts inspecting you from head to toe. Brows furrowed as he’s looking for any sign of injuries. “Are you alright?” He asks hurriedly, his gaze now coming up to meet yours. Searching your eyes to make sure you’re not hurt.
You nod, slightly nervous because of his touch. “I-I’m fine…” You say before looking at your feet. The intense eye contact a bit too demanding for you to hold. Looking back at the destroyed entrance you huff in approval. “Good thinking, throwing the grenade back there. I thought we were goners.” You joke, trying to lift up the mood. His hand leaves your shoulder as he quietly hums. Looking back at the pile of debris, a frown is edged on his face. Still cautious that anything might come through the rubble and attack you. You admire that about him, just as much as you find it very attractive.
“Mr. Kennedy…” He looks back at you. His gaze making you slightly weak in the knees. “… I- Thank you. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve never made it out of there alive.” Your words seem to soften something inside of him. The frown on his face now slowly vanishing.
“No need to thank me really.” He says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Chris and I, we checked the perimeter for any danger before you guys even came here. If… If I had known there were so many infected, I would have never sent you down there. I’m so sorry.” You see the regret in his eyes, the immense disappointment in himself for failing you like that. As your superior it is his responsibility to look after you and keep you safe during training. To adjust your tactics and give you tips in any way he can. He couldn’t even do that.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen?”
Your eyes widen as he shakes his head no. You suddenly realize what kind of catastrophe you had just avoided. Your whole mission was to just get the computer chip back from the lab and return without scratches. No zombies blocking your path whatsoever. No wonder Jonathan ran off like a pussy.
You see Leon having difficulty with the situation he had put you in. Not daring to meet your eyes, he averts his gaze to somewhere slightly above you. His shoulders a little bit tense, as his hand goes behind his neck to awkwardly start scratching at the skin. You feel bad for him... This man, who saved you when no one else did, did not deserve to feel this distraught. According to the many stories from his past missions when he was younger, he’d already felt enough of that.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty. No one can predict something as horrifying as what has just happened.” Your words are honest and warm as you try to gain his attention.
Leon curtly nods, looking for the way ahead. “Let’s go.” He mumbles before taking a few steps through the mist, discarding your words.
Having none of it, you quickly follow his steps. Reaching out to grab his lower arm, you make him turn, forcing him to lock eyes with you before saying your next words of truth. “Mr. Kennedy… Please believe me when I say it’s fine. Really. You did everything you could. If it weren’t for you I’d be dead.”
“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be in this situation right now.” He grumbles, eyes cold.
“But I am.” You take a step closer before continuing. “And that’s not because of you, but because I chose to be here. I chose to become a DSO agent and to do this mission with you. I chose to step into that tunnel and continue the mission. If I wasn’t prepared to face any danger, I would have just dropped out of the program.”
Leon sighs before clenching his jaw, not very much convinced. “Still… I should have known.”
“But you didn’t. And that’s ok. Mistakes happen. Look, Jonathan didn’t check the lab for threats very well when we were down there and I still forgave him…”
You’re interrupted as Leon’s gaze fixates on something moving behind you. “Speaking of which…”
You turn around, a gasp escaping you. There, sitting on a withered metal bench, was none other than Jonathan. His hunched over form taking shape through the mist. He notices you at the exact same time. Eyes wide and mouth agape as he sees you’ve made it out alive with Leon standing right next to you.
You inhale sharply, eyes narrowing as you feel your head getting warm. You grind your teeth as he stands up. His lips forming a small smile, hand on his chest almost like he’s relieved. Like he forgot what he’d done to you. How he’d abandoned you. A strange feeling of rage flows through you, blood pumping through your veins as you march towards him. You roll up your sleeves before clenching your fist, holding it steady at your side. With only a few feet away, he opens his arms in mock gesture, inviting you in, believing you to be a dumb rookie agent. “Oh thank God, I was so worr-“
You don’t give him time to finish his sentence. Your fist colliding full force against his upper jaw, nose breaking as you give him the hardest punch you could muster. A cry, that sounds anything but manly, bursts from his lips. His body tumbling over as he falls to the side.
“Tell someone who actually gives a shit.” You snarl, desperately trying to stay calm before you do anything worse.
Blood seeps from his nose, his hand reaching for it as he inspects the damage. A look of dismay is thrown at you when he sees the blood coating his fingers. His eyes search for your superior. Leon, standing only a few feet behind you, who’s been watching you the whole time. He doesn’t interfere. You’ve earned it.
“Hey! You’re just letting her get away with this? You got nothing to say about that?” Jonathan says in disbelief. Voice raising as he throws the words at Leon.
You have to do your very best to hold yourself back. Your hand itching to punch him again. You hear the sturdy footsteps of Leon’s boots behind you as he comes closer. Turning your head to see him stop right next to you, you notice the tiny smirk he’s holding. His eyes turn as cold as ice before fixating on Jonathan. “You’re out.”
Jonathan scrambles to get up as his brows furrow and his mouth falls open in shock. “What?”
Leon doesn’t miss a beat to repeat himself. “You’re out. When we get back to the DSO, you take your bags and leave.”
“What? Wait! No-no-no…” He panics, hand reaching inside his pocket, taking out the computer chip he had taken from you. “... I got the computer chip. The important piece of information you guys were searching for. I completed the mission!”
Leon chuckles while shaking his head, staying very calm. He takes the chip out of Jonathan’s grasp, collecting it in his own pocket. “You didn’t do shit kid.” He takes another step closer. Looking Jonathan dead in the eye. “You abandoned your partner in a situation where she needed you most. Running off like a little bitch you left her there to die. The number one rule in a partnership is you both complete a mission and leave no one behind. She-” he says while looking at you for a split second “-has more courage and intelligence in her than you could ever fathom. If it weren’t for her you’d be fucking dead. And that’s how you repay her?”
You see Jonathan’s Adam's apple bob. Probably swallowing the last remnants of pride he has left. A look of betrayal is shot at you. “You told him?”
As much as you want to reply, Leon beats you to it. “She didn’t have to tell me anything. I heard everything that was said between the two of you.”
As both you and Jonathan stare at him with a questioning look, he raises his hand and points towards the little earpiece. You chuckle as Jonathan curses. “Son of a bitch…”
You have to refrain yourself from laughing too hard. Instead your lips part as you smirk, staring back at Jonathan with a satisfied look on your face.
Leon grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him forward. “Now get back to the dropping site and after that I don’t want to see you ever again.”
A low grumble falls from Jonathan’s lips as he starts walking, shoulders slumped, his head bent down in shame. You and Leon follow suit. Just a few feet behind him. With the adrenaline slowly wearing off and your skin still sweaty, you start getting goosebumps. Even now with the sun at its highest peak, it’s still not enough to keep you warm.
“You ok?” A little bit startled by his question, you look back at Leon, his eyes already on you.
“Yeah…” You nod quickly, not wanting him to worry. “Just a little bit cold, that's all.”
He frowns at your words, gaze dropping towards your bare arms, seeing the hairs on your skin standing up. He moves a bit more towards you as you’re walking, dropping his voice a little so only you can hear him. “Just a little longer and we’ll be back at the car in no time. You can warm yourself up there.”
He doesn’t know why he tells you that. Why he says those words of comfort or why he suddenly feels the strange need to look after you. Is it because you’re a woman? Or is there something more? Something hidden. Something buried deeper within himself that he’s desperately trying to ignore.
When he’d found you back in the tunnels, he was impressed at how well you were able to hold yourself up. At how well your resilience was in the midst of danger. The massacre you had caused all by yourself was something on the level of more experienced and seasoned agents. The way you had moved and used your machete, like you had been doing it for years. The way the faint light of your flashlight had reflected the sweat on your pale skin. How your biceps, which were considerably smaller compared to his, had moved when you parried every attack. And don’t get him started on that precision kill you did with your sniper rifle. Killing three infected with just one shot? You had outdone yourself, immensely. It had triggered his attention.
And when you got up to punch Jonathan in the face? He hadn’t moved. On the contrary, he had found it very amusing. Seeing your smaller frame march up to him like a little pitbull before breaking his nose. He even found it a bit attractive as well, though he didn’t want to admit that to himself. You were twenty years younger for goodness sake. You probably thought he was an old creep you had to train with.
Despite his worrying, he can see your eyes soften at his words. A warm smile now covering your face that manages to shake something in him. You also lower your voice. “Thank you again Mr. Kennedy. For everything, really.”
He wants nothing more than to tell you that you can just call him by his first name. To be more familiar with him. But he’s your superior… He has to stay professional. So he answers in the best way he can. “It’s nothing. I’m glad I was there.” Offering you a warm smile in return, you continue your way back to the dropping point.
He feels guilty. So immensely guilty. There’s no way to describe it. He should have known better. Should have seen the bioterrorism pop up on the scanners when he and Chris had first scouted the area. Years of being in the field, facing danger and managing to survive every single day, years of training… and he’d still failed. Had failed you. He tells himself he’s no better than Jonathan. No better than the men at the DSO who think less of you just because you’re a woman. He doesn’t deserve your kind words and compassion. If anything he should be thankful you’re still looking at him with such respect.
With you walking slightly in front of him now, he lets his eyes wander to your smaller frame. Resting on your hair, slightly dirty from all the dust and debris, neatly woven into a French braid. A couple of strands have come loose, framing your face. The color of your hair is a pretty contrast to the dark navy blue of your shirt. As he looks up, he admires your youthful face. Adorning a few little freckles, mostly around your nose, with eyes that shine bright even in the darkest of places. The pale skin of your arms and neck, decorated with a few beauty marks here and there.
The black harness holding your weaponry is tight around your chest, showing off your slim figure and small waist. He notices the zipper of your shirt had come down a bit, revealing the sheen of sweat on your chest caused by all the exertion. A single drop running down, disappearing between the swell of your breasts. He lets his gaze drop lower. To the shape of your hips. To your machete that’s carefully placed above your gorgeous behind. The knife softly swaying from side to side with each step you take.
And when the grenade went off… When he lay on top of you… When he felt your warmth pushed against his crotch…
Jesus Christ.
“What do you think of me?”
“What?” Leon says, startled by your voice. He shakes his head, almost like waking up from a dream. Eyes coming back up to meet yours with a faint blush already starting to form.
“The mission…” You say. “How did I do?” Fuck. Focus Kennedy. Get your act together.
He clears his throat, swallowing the last bit of spit, his mouth going dry. “You uh… You were great. Amazing in fact.” Is that too much for him to say as your superior? Does it sound weird? A simple ok as Chris always says to the rookies won’t do you any justice. He can tell you the truth, right?
You look at him with these big doe-like eyes, almost knocking the air straight out of him. He has to admit it to himself. You are… beautiful.
“So… I passed then?” You question him. “Oh you did more than just pass.” He chuckles, keeping the double-sided meaning of that sentence as a joke to himself.
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. How do you not realize how good you are? “Let me put it this way. Out of all the agents back at the DSO… There aren’t many with as much resilience as you, who would have faced a horde of infected alone on their first ever mission. You held your own back there. Aiding me and complementing my strategies. Following my directions, moving the way I wanted you to, like you’ve been doing it for years. You’re the perfect partner I have missed for so long. So no, you didn’t just pass. If anything I would almost say you’re a full fletched agent who doesn’t need any more training.”
You stop dead in your tracks. “What are you saying Mr. Kennedy?”
“I’m saying that as far as I’m concerned, you have passed your training. Let me have a talk with Chris. Let’s see what I can do. Maybe… I could secure you a good position at the DSO. Give you security.”
You smile at him. “Thank you sir, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but… I don’t think an office job is really it for me.”
He returns your smile. “No… I don’t think it is. But I didn’t mean a position at the office. Sadly enough, it is clear you were made for the field.”
It should feel weird to have someone tell you you’re good at killing. That you’re ‘made’ to fulfil missions in very dangerous circumstances. Instead, his words feel like a compliment to you. A feeling that’s so refreshing after the various laughs and sneers from your fellow male DSO colleagues.
“Thank you Mr. Kennedy. For everything. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“You never have to.”
After a small hour of walking, the three of you make it back to the dropping point. Chris and his two rookies are already waiting.
At the sight of Jonathan’s miserable expression and bloody nose, Chris’s smirk starts to form. “Well well well… Seems like the mission was a disaster after all. Where the hell have you been Kennedy? We already finished an hour ago.”
You huff, a little irritated by his remark. If only he knew how Jonathan got that broken nose. What you have been through…
Leon walks up to him. “Shut up Chris.” His gaze flickers to Jonathan then back to you. He lets it linger there for a second. Blue eyes demanding your attention. Sending shivers down your spine. There’s a message in them. One of certainty, of protection… of dominance. He sends you a comforting smile before looking back at Chris. His voice is deep and steady as he speaks.
“We need to talk.”
Thank you for reading. <3 I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors. Please feel free to comment so I can correct them.
Summary: Being the only female rookie at the DSO, you're used to being belittled by your fellow agents. Thought to be invisible to your superior Mr. Kennedy, you would have never thought he'd come to safe you as your first mission goes terribly wrong.
Warnings/notes: Horror, blood and gore, violence, gun mention, angst, appearance of Chris Redfield, protective Leon, age difference, older!Leon, very slowburn, author's first language isn't English
Clouds fill the sky. Putting a dark shadow on the world, while the sun desperately tries to get through the thick cover. It’s faint light cascading on the run-down buildings, streets and everything that once was. The air is cold against your skin. The fresh autumnal morning air doing nothing to prevent the light blush that starts to form on your cheeks once you get out of the car. The cold nips at the top of your fingers, making you curl them into the palm of your hands. Even though it was only the start of October, it wouldn’t take long before winter would sweep the land into its stone-cold grasp. For that reason alone you slightly dread the days in the field that would soon, hopefully, follow. Never really liking the cold, you aimed for a warmer climate. That would be possible of course if your life had been different.
You stand in line with three other agents next to you. Men. Taller and broader than you, but not necessarily better. You’re all clad in a tight marine blue shirt, sleeves rolled up and a small zipper at the neckline. Due to the weather, yours is all the way up, concealing your chest. A pair of black combat trousers hug your thighs while boots in the same color are on your feet, making you stand firm and secure.
The harness around your chest carries the essentials. Handgun at your right side, shotgun and sniper rifle secure on your back. Two hand grenades hanging on your left just in case. The weight of a knife rests against your lower back. The blade is sharp, a machete, ready to chop a zombie's head off if necessary.
The men next to you wear similar assemblies. To your right there’s Jonathan. A twenty-five year old, six ft tall blond with an ego flying through the roof. Shotgun and sniper also on his back but instead of a knife, he carries a large stone hammer. The tip sharpened, making it easier to break one's skull. He has been in this program for just as long as you have, starting three months ago.
The two men on your left, who you can’t even bother to remember the names of, have the same confidence as Jonathan. A smirk on their faces, like this first field job is going to be a piece of cake. They look slightly younger, twenty-two maybe twenty-three? You’re not sure. A few men in the other group that would come after you were twenty-six and twenty-seven. At the ‘ripe’ age of twenty-nine you’re the oldest one out of the rookies.
Standing before you are two more seasoned men. One incredibly broad, hair a dark brown almost grey at the sides, going by the name of Chris Redfield. At almost 6’1”his stance is wide, arms crossed, making his presence well known. He’s looking at us like any other teacher would. His brown eyes looking over his so called “students” with a straight face, while thinking to himself: “What the hell do these rookies think they’re doing here?”.
Next to him, slightly more behind, is his comrade. His hair, a dark blond streaked with a few grey strands signaling his age. Blue eyes focusing on the hand gun in his palm while putting in new ammo, not giving us as much attention. By 5’11” Leon S. Kennedy was not as broad as Mr. Redfield, but compared to him, he was definitely muscular as well. Biceps protruding and forearms showing off the few veins that peak from under his shirt.
The two of them had a well-known reputation. Both fought against any monstrosity the Umbrella corporation had thrown at them. Trying to protect the world from all evil.
They had trained you. Three months inside the DSO facility. Learning the basics from knowing how to reload a gun, to shooting one with perfect aim. Physical and emotional training, needed to defeat all enemies you would come across. Three months and eight trainees. All inexperienced rookies who wished to be full DSO agents, ready to kick some ass. Seven men and one woman. You.
Of course, being the only woman, which is very unseen in this line of work, you were often laughed at. Thought to be useless, weak and incompetent to get the job done. Well, we’ll see about that.
You’re quiet. Slowly analyzing the situation you’re in. Today is your first ever mission. As a trial of course. Three months of training had to lead somewhere. They had divided the group into two. The first group, with you in it, was brought to the outskirts of Raccoon city, driven in a van by Kennedy, Redfield in the passenger seat. The chanter in the car from your three other colleagues had been loud while you kept mostly to yourself. As you arrived at the scene, which seemed to be an open square with buildings surrounding you, you quickly got out of the car before anyone else. Already opening the trunk to get all your gear.
And that’s where we are now.
“Alright listen up.” You hear Chris say, making your ears perk up. “Your mission today will be simple, which is to retrieve some important information back from the old Umbrella labs that are situated below ground. You will be divided into two teams and each will be given a map. Your task is to bring the piece of information back to me. If you fail, you will be taken out of the program and you can pack your bags. Are we clear?”
You hear Jonathan next to you scoff, a silent “as if” slipping from his lips. Ever since the beginning of your training he has made it clear that he was the one who would be the next super-agent at the DSO. You already know now that a simple training, to retrieve information out of a lab, isn’t spectacular enough for him.
Chris’s eyes look us all up and down again before settling on you and Jonathan for a few seconds, then back to the two guys on your left. “Liam and Jason…” So those are their names. “… the two of you will be under my supervision.” Chris announces while walking over to them, handing them a phone with a map on it. “Leon, you take him and the girl” he continues, gesturing over to you. The girl…
“You need to take this mission seriously guys. This may look easy but you never know what could be lurking in this city. Especially underground. This is a necessary part of your training. Don’t take this lightly. You know what happens when you fail.” And with that he gestures to Liam and Jason to follow him, leaving you and Jonathan alone with Leon.
Leon's cold stare lingers on the both of you, sizing you up, almost like he is determining if the two of you are even worth his time. His gun is brought back into its holster, hanging at his right hip, before taking a phone out of his pocket similar to the one Chris gave to his own two rookies. “Take this.” He murmurs while outstretching his arm, waiting for one of you to take it.
Before you even get the chance to put a step forward, Jonathan beats you to it. Grabbing the phone out of Leon's grasp, he immediately starts to inspect the screen. Hastily looking over the map without including you. After a few seconds and a small huff from you, he looks up, eyes directed at Leon. “Is this a competition between the two teams? To see who finds the piece of information first?” The corners of his mouth slowly turn upwards. “Because I’ll beat them to it.”
The smirk that covers his face is so arrogant that you almost want to punch him in the face. You’re sure you could win a 1v1 fight against him.
“It is not a competition in any way. You look for the piece of information that we want, you get it and get back out of there unscratched, together with your partner, is that clear?” Leon isn’t amused by Jonathan's confidence either. When he averts his gaze back to you, you can see the slight frown on his face soften just a smidge.
“Now…” he says, focused on you while pointing to your ear “… The little earpieces you have in do not only allow us to communicate with each other if necessary, but I will also be able to see your vitals while I keep an eye out for you during the mission.”
“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” Jonathan speaks, a slight tremor in his voice if you hear correctly. Maybe even a little nervous? Anyway, it’s not enough to push him off the throne of pride in his head.
Leon looks back at him. “Who am I? Your babysitter? I’m not gonna hold your hand every time you have a mission. I think you’re old enough. You do know this is what you trained for right?”
You have to do your best to not let out the laugh that’s trying to burst out of your mouth. Your lips turning into a small smile instead that you desperately try to cover with your hand.
You’ve always liked Leon, ever since the moment you met him back at DSO. Back when you were truly ‘a rookie’, having very little experience on the subject of being a special agent. Back then he had only greeted you with a firm handshake and a curt nod, murmuring a quick ‘nice to meet you’ as he quickly went on to greet the next rookie in line. But the way he carried himself and the way he was respectful towards others... Trying to help people when and wherever he could? It made you have a certain form of respect for the man.
It was also not difficult to notice that he’s very easy on the eye. The strong build, the sharp jawline, the stubble covering it… After three months of seeing him almost everyday, you'd grown a little crush for him. All innocent of course, because you knew very well the two of you could never be together. What would a successful and good looking DSO agent see in a twenty years younger and inexperienced ‘girl’? So you kept your silly feelings at bay, knowing it wasn’t worth the energy.
All of that put aside now, you are a bit apprehensive about what Leon had just said to Jonathan… You have to admit, you’re a bit nervous being out there in the field with no experienced agent by your side if things were to go to shit. But you’re strong mentally, a good fighter and you’re brave. You can do this.
Jonathan, who of course isn’t impressed by Leon’s words, shoots right back. “And how do we…” he says, mockingly correcting what Leon had warned him about while pointing from himself to you “... know what we’re looking for? How are we supposed to know what kind of special information you guys need us to get?”
“You got a map. Use it.”
Jonathan steps forward. “That’s ridiculous. For all I know we could be out here until nightfall looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Or until next week. That’s completely up to you.” Leon smirks, clearly having fun riling up the twenty-four year younger ‘boy’.
“You're insane, old man.” Jonathan spits back.
You can see Leon’s eyebrow raise at those words. Seeming to unlock something within him and break through his usual more calm facade. Something that you’ve seen maybe once or twice during your training. Something that was a little bit more dominating… His jaw is clenched, teeth grinding before, in his turn, taking a step forward. Looking your colleague dead in the eye, smirk removed from his face with now a stern glare replacing it.
“Watch it kid. I suggest you temper that tone of yours.” Another step closer. Not raising his voice, but keeping it cold and stern. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t give a fuck if you drop out right now. What I do need to know though, is when you wish to go through with this, you will not fuck around. You will both protect each other while completing the mission. If your lives are at stake, you will do everything you can to get the two of you out of there. If you say yes to that, I, your superior, demand respect from you. Is that clear? You must learn your fucking. place. rookie.”
It went quiet next to you. No more words coming from Jonathan’s mouth.
When you turn to get a better look at him, you swear you see the dilemma in his eyes. Not knowing whether to punch Leon in the face or to restrain himself and go for the more civil option.
Eventually he casts his gaze downwards, realizing he couldn’t keep going like that if he wanted to reach his goal at the DSO.
“Fine.”
Leon recognises the submission and decides to drop the subject. Point taken.
He takes a step back, arms crossed. "Alright, I suggest the two of you start off immediately. The day is short and you’ve got quite a lot of ground to cover. Use the time that you have.” Then before turning his back, his gaze lingers on you one more time. The look in his eyes sincere. “Take care.”
And with that, you and Jonathan are left to fend for yourselves in the harsh reality that is Raccoon city. It is so that even one hour later, you’re still trying to work out the map. That is, if Jonathan would give you a chance to look it over.
You’ve had enough. You were constantly running in circles, covering the same places over and over again, which did nothing to ease your frustration with the man walking a few feet in front of you. It almost felt like the walls started to close in on you. So you decided to speak up. Thinking you’ve been patient enough.
“You have no idea where we’re going, do you?”
He stops abruptly, making you almost walk straight into him. He turns his neck so fast, you’re almost certain he has broken it. “Excuse me?”
You can see he’s trying to stay calm even though a fire is starting to ignite in his green eyes.
“You heard me. I don’t think you have even the slightest idea about where we are.”
A scoff falls from his lips, in deep contrast to the droplet of sweat coming down the side of his face. A sign of insecurity? Guess you’re right after all. “Oh please, I have the map. I know exactly what I’m doing.” His arrogance shining through, even though you can see his facade slowly starting to break. So you continue.
“Jonathan, this is the second time we are going through this alley. There’s two possibilities. Either you don’t know where we’re going, or you love the scenery here so much you just had to see everything twice, some streets even thrice. And don’t tell me it’s the latter. I think it’s about time we switch things up and you give me a go at the map.”
“Oh please…” he replies, now fully facing you, trying to solve the matter in his favor. “You’re a girl. How could you be of any help right now? Do you even know how to read a map?”
What is it with toxic men and their twisted ego’s? Their dying need to make women feel inferior? Never wanting to admit or even think about the idea that a woman could be right for once? Could be better?
That’s the second time today you want to punch him in the face.
You step forward, pushing yourself up so you’re standing on the tips of your feet. Your hot breath hitting his face, mere inches from yours. “Watch a girl save your stupid ass.”
You snatch the phone out of his hand before he even has a chance to register what has happened. Pushing past him, you try to ignore the protests coming out of his mouth. Your fingers flying over the screen of the phone, finally getting a good look at the map.
You’re not too far off from the way you need to go. The so-called entrance to the Umbrella labs underground being only a fifteen minute walk from here. How the hell did he miss that?
“Give me the phone back.” Jonathan grumbles, his arm reaching around you. You’re faster though, already taking a few steps forward, making your way out of the alley and onto the main street, moving in the right direction.
“Just save your breath pretty boy. We’ll be there in no time.” You smile, picking up pace. You hear him right behind you, sighing like a toddler who hasn’t been given his way.
After ten minutes or so, you reach a more secluded area of the city. The buildings looking even more run-down than before. The air suddenly so dense and foggy, you’re sure the entrance should be right around the corner. And you’re right. When you continue, you see multiple Umbrella posters plastered onto nearby fences, the red and white logo clearly recognisable. You grin, looking down at the map again, seeing that the entrance should be right ahead.
“You know, I’m not one to apologize easily but… Seems like you were right after all.”
You almost choke on your own spit at hearing the words Jonathan says from behind you. “Excuse me?” You stop, turning around to face him.
“Yeah, I just…” He starts, stopping next to you “... guess I was kind of dick to you before? You got us right where we needed to go.”
You blink, not fully knowing how to react for a couple seconds. Does the all so mighty Jonathan actually want to apologize to you? Ever since you started training together 3 months ago he wouldn’t even spare you a second glance. And now he’s trying to be nice?
“Uh... Yeah, whatever. Let’s keep going.” you reply, starting to feel a little awkward.
You turn your back to him again, your steps firm as you continue your search. You hear hurried footsteps behind you, Jonathan now making his way right beside you.
“So I’ve been thinking…” Oh boy, he’s been thinking? What an achievement. “... You and I? We would be a great team together don’t you think?”
You turn your head, making eye contact with him before quickly averting your gaze once you see the tiny smirk plastered on his face. You don’t like where his insinuation is going.
“Uh, maybe? I don’t know. What’s your point?”
His smirk grows wider at that. His steps curving slightly to the left, making his way closer to you. “Oh I’ve seen you, you know. Back at the DSO facility. You’re always by yourself, not making a fuss, doing exactly what dear Redfield and Kennedy ask of us. You’re always at the top of the class, doing your training like a good girl. You’re a natural. I figured, when this mission is over, you’d maybe want to consider becoming partners.”
You find his words creepy at the very least. And do you believe him? Has he actually been watching you these past 3 months? Or is this just his way of saving his ass so you won’t complain about him when you get back?
“How could you be of any help to me? You couldn’t even read the map.” You scoff.
You can feel his hand brushing against your underarm slightly. He’s so close now you can feel his hot breath hitting the side of your face. “I didn’t mean it in an agent kind of way, love.”
You stop again abruptly, looking at him like he’d just grown an extra head. “Excuse me?”
He’s laughing now, a disgusting rasp in his throat. “Oh come on, don’t play dumb. We’ve been at the DSO for three months now and you're the only female agent in training. You don’t mean to tell me no one else has ever made an offer like this to you?”
“What the hell are you implying?”
“I could show you a good time, you know? Have you take the edge off for once. I must say that I know my way around the female body very well, so you’d be in for a treat. I could please you just right. You won’t regret it. I can promise you that.”
Not only is he trying to get on your good side to profit from it at the DSO, but he’s also trying to get in your pants. You just shake your head. Sadly this hadn’t been the first time a man had spoken to you like that.
“You’re a pig.” You turn around, ignoring the excuses and promises pouring out of his mouth. You have better things to do than reprimanding a child.
What the two of you don’t know, is that a few streets back, Leon is following you. Not just following and checking your vitals, but also hearing every word that’s being said between you and Jonathan. A little detail the DSO keeps hidden, to see how rookies will react in these kinds of missions, not holding anything back while their superiors listen. And right now? Leon is very happy he’s able to do so.
He finds Jonathan to be an inexperienced low life who thinks he’s got it all figured out. The way he talks to you makes his blood boil. Not necessarily because it’s you, but just of the way he speaks to a woman. Like you’re just a vessel for his pleasure.
He chuckles when you dismiss him so easily, not paying him much mind. He likes your spirit. You always thought he didn’t pay you much thought during training, but you were wrong. He knew who you were. Who didn’t to be honest? The only female field agent at the DSO. Doing your best at every training. Hitting your marks every time there was a shooting test. Often even better than the other male rookies.
So yes, you had definitely triggered his interest.
As you make your way through all the abandoned and burned down cars, you can see a large hole in the ground just a few feet up ahead. Bingo.
You reach it. A black hole, approximately six by six feet big, making its way down through the concrete. No sounds come from it, but the smell is undeniable. Rotting flesh.
Ok. You prepare yourself for a few zombies down there. It should be doable with your training and all the weapons you have on you, you tell yourself. Luckily you’re not alone.
You take a flare that’s attached to your belt before igniting it and letting it fall into the darkness. It falls down a few seconds, hitting a few metal objects in its way, before settling at the bottom. You can see a steep wall of concrete going down, followed by a half destroyed ladder that reaches the bottom. You don’t see or hear any infected. For all you know, there could be a rotting corpse down there. You’re not going to wait to find out.
“Let’s go.” you say before squatting, moving one leg into the hole.
“Oh how how wait! You wanna go in there?” Jonathan grabs your shoulder. When you look back at him you can see the uncertainty in his expression. Gone is all the fun and excitement from before, replacing it with a certain form of fear.
“And what else do you suggest?” you question him.
He starts looking around all of sudden. “Well… Maybe there’s another entrance. One that’s more safe than this one.”
“Nothing about our job is safe Jonathan. Look around you. Do you see another way in? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t. The map led us to this place right here.”
He doesn’t reply after that, just keeps looking at you with the same uncertainty as before.
“You coming or not?”
His only reply is a curt nod, making you doubt if he actually means it or not. He squats next to you, letting go of your shoulder. You take that as your cue to keep going. You descend gently and slowly, one foot in front of the other down the steep concrete wall. Into the lion's den as they say.
You try to make as little noise as possible, making your way down the ladder. Once you have reached the bottom, you take your flashlight so you can check your surroundings better.
The room you’re in is small, also six by six feet. A long dark tunnel is connected to it. You can’t see anything more than a few feet ahead of you, the flare and flashlight only illuminating a small amount of the place. You see water further ahead, making the tunnel appear to be some kind of sewer, which explains the smell as well.
Jonathan reaches the bottom next to you, frantically looking around, hand covering his nose. “What the fuck is this…”
You pick your gun from its holster, aiming it in front of you while also pointing your flashlight. You gesture for him to follow you. “Come on.”
You step into the tunnel. The water around your feet making your steps more heavy, while also producing a little too much sound for your liking. Behind you, you hear Jonathan pick up the flare. You turn around.
“Leave it so we can still see the entrance. Use your flashlight.”
He looks down again, a little frustrated with himself. “I didn’t bring one.”
You blink. “You didn’t bring one? Seriously?" A tiny shake of his head signaling no was your response. Jesus… Try going to war with someone like him.
“How could you possibly-. You know what? Forget it. Let’s go.” You wish this day would be over very soon.
The two of you continue through the tunnel, you at the front, him checking for any threats coming from behind, his gun now also drawn. The tunnel seems to bring you further down, a slight steep to your feet. It goes on for about two hundred feet until it separates into two new tunnels. One going left and one going right. You stop, trying to decide where to go from here. Jonathan bumps into you, not realising you had stopped. A whispered ‘sorry’ before an ‘oh fuck’ fell from his lips once he sees the split-up.
“What do we do now? What does the map say?” He asks, looking at you.
You take the phone again, your flashlight resting between your cheek and shoulder as you hold it in place. You see the thick yellow line bending to the right, signaling your way forward. As you put the device away again, you hear a low rumbling noise coming from the left. It’s far away though, a gurgling moaning sound that gets swallowed by the dark. You don’t have to ponder very long to realise what it is. You point your flashlight to the left, squinting your eyes, but you can't see anything.
“Thank God we don’t have to go in that direction.” You whisper while hearing Jonathan quietly agree behind you. You take that as your queue to continue your way right.
After about fifteen minutes of following tunnels, coming onto new split-ups, going left and right, you have reached the end of the tunnel. A short type of stairs going up with a metal door at the end of it. That must be where the lab is.
You grin in victory, ready to be done with this mission. You turn towards Jonathan, who’s inspecting the door with a certain nervousness. “You go up there and try unhinging the door. Look for any threats inside. I’ll cover you.” You tell him. He looks at you now, lips parted, clearly not wanting to but not deciding if he should fight you on it or not.
Eventually he nods, taking a few steps forward before going up the stairs, it steps creaking underneath his weight. You turn around, your gun pulled, ammo checked and flashlight up. You’re ready if anything dares to come closer.
Jonathan reaches the door behind you. His shuffling and pacing before the small window making you curious to see what’s inside.
“You see anything?” You whisper, before he turns around to look at you.
“No, it seems clear. It’s locked from inside though.” Another pause. “Let me get this door open.” He murmurs as he uses his elbow to break the glass. When that’s done, he puts his arm through it and reaches for the lock on the other side.
The twist of a lock is heard before the metal door screeches open. No sounds come from ahead of you, so you take a few steps back, gun still at the ready if necessary. You go up the stairs, turning around so you wouldn’t trip. Once you’re standing next to Jonathan at the top, you’re able to look into the room as well.
The room contains several desks decorated with various kinds of test tubes. The contents unknown to you as a result of it not being your field of work. Paper documents are scattered on the floor with a few lab coats and plastic gloves here and there. At least you’re sure now that you’re in the right place. At the end of the room, you can see an ever bigger desk with a large computer on it, its screen almost measuring six by three feet.
You’re the first to take some careful steps into the room, checking left and right for anything that might be out of the ordinary. Something that might look like the important piece of information the DSO needs. The air is cooler, more sterile than in the tunnels, but the awful stench remains.
Leon follows everything on the small iPad in his hand, staying a few blocks away from the entrance. This is a job meant for the two of you, as training. He can not interfere.
He can see you have reached the lab, your heartbeat quicker than normal as he checks your vitals. He listens to your steady breathing when you enter the room with your partner right behind you. Jonathan’s heartbeat however goes sky high, his breathing way more rapid than yours. Leon chuckles at the difference between you. The boy still has a lot more to learn. Compared to him you’re a natural. When a man and a woman go into the field together, you’d normally expect it to be the other way around.
Back down, you can’t find anything lying around. So you decide to start with the computer. The piece of information has to be connected to it somehow. Looking down at the keyboard, you type incoherent words trying to get the computer to work since you don’t see an on-switch anywhere.
You don’t have to try very long, the computer turning on at the first key you press. It’s not locked? How weird…
You take the mouse in your hand and go straight for the saved documents, searching for anything that might be valuable. And thank God you’re lucky. Various files were saved, starting from different kinds of chemicals to files about the test subjects they tried it out on. One particular folder takes your interest ‘The Connections Corporation’. You click it open.
Everything is in there. Their IP-adres, the people who carried out their work, reports from several top secret meetings… Guess you hit the jackpot.
You know what you have to do. Bending down, you look underneath the desk searching for the actual computer instead of looking at the monitor. When you find the black object, you take out your machete as you try to get the lid off. When you do, you look for the computer chip, carefully detaching it from the rest so you can take it with you.
You get back from under the desk. Your flashlight producing enough light so you can see it was still in good condition. As you go to put it in your pocket, Jonathan, who has been quiet all this time, steps up, snatching the computer chip out of your hand before putting it in his own pocket.
“I’ll keep this safe, thank you very much.” he cockily sneers.
Fed up with his childish behavior, you turn around, ready to give him a piece of mind. Who does think he is, letting you do all the work and then showing off after?
What you see next however makes your blood run cold and your breath hitch, quickly swallowing the words you were going to say before shouting something else. “Get down!”
He listens immediately, hearing the urgency in your voice. His body goes down by a fraction of a second before you raise your gun and shoot the zombie behind him right between its eyes, its body falling limp on the ground.
Leon’s ears perk up as he hears the gunshot through the little earpieces, his eyes now focused on the screen of his iPad more than ever, his body on high alert. You’re not supposed to run into any infected. He and Chris had scouted the perimeter before dropping you guys here. It’s supposed to be safe. He can see the two dots on the screen signaling where you and Jonathan are standing, but there’s no sign of a third person on the screen.
You’re shaking, your breathing now rapid as you stare at the lifeless body on the ground before you. The first zombie you have ever seen and also your first kill. You take a few steps closer to inspect it more carefully.
It’s the body of what once was a man, aged somewhere in his forties. It looks gaunt, caused by the lack of nutrition down here, its cheekbones pressing through its skin. Soulless, white eyes stare back at you, the skin between them torn by the shape of your bullet. Its jaw is what freaks you out the most, for it’s barely even there anymore. Half of it is still hanging from the upper part while the rest has been broken and torn off, smearing blood all over the neck, as the tongue hangs limply. That thing had been close enough to Jonathan to push him against the ground and kill him. How had he not heard something? How had you not heard something? If you hadn’t turned around…
The creature wears a labcoat, torn to pieces together with its shirt and trousers underneath. As you look better at the clothing, you start to realise one thing. Whatever kind of infected this thing was… It was already in this room before you first entered.
“I… I thought you said this room was clear?” You manage to get the first words out of your mouth when turning to Jonathan. He hasn’t gotten up, still bending forward as you see him trying to wrap his head around what’d just happened.
His lack of response angers you, so you take a step in his direction, now standing right before him as you make eye contact. “You hear me?” Now slightly raising your voice, still trying to be as quiet as possible. “Hey! Talk to me. You said this room was clear!”
His lips tremble when he speaks. “I… I did… It-it must’ve sneaked up on us back in the tunnels.”
“Bullshit.” You spit back. “I checked our backs right until we walked into this room and not once did I see or hear an infected. Look at his labcoat you fucking moron. He was in this room all this time!”
“I’m sorry. I tried- I really…”
“You could have gotten us both killed.” You silence him as you aim your flashlight around the room, going through it a bit more thoroughly, checking behind and underneath all the desks to make sure that one infected was the only one.
When you finish your round, you step back towards Jonathan. “Look… Accidents happen. Just… Don’t let this happen again alright?” You try to sooth him while stretching out your hand, helping him stand up again. Once he’s standing you check your ammo, ready to make your way back out. The sooner the better.
You only make it a few steps back towards the door, before you feel Jonathan grab your hand, stopping you. “That thing…” A tremor in his voice as he whispers “... It was so fucking close. If-if you hadn’t shot it down, I might have…” He can’t bring it in himself to finish that sentence. “Thank you. I’m so sorry I let you down”
You gave him a soft smile. "Whatever. Let’s just go. I think we’ve both had enough of this place.”
As he agrees, you both make your way out of the lab and down the stairs again, starting back through the almost endless looking network of tunnels.
Leon had moved considerably closer by now, being in the same street as the entrance you went through. There’s still no sign of any infected on his screen, so you both have to make it back without any problems.
You go in front of Jonathan as per usual, the water quietly sloshing around you, aiming your gun and flashlight straight ahead. To your relief, you don’t run into any more filthy bioweapons from Umbrella. Which is a godsend really.
Your optimism is short-lived though. WIth only a few more corners to pass, you suddenly stop as you see a figure standing about fifty feet ahead.
Another infected stands right in the middle of the narrow tunnel, its back to you. Your previous gunshot must have alerted it. You curse under your breath, quickly putting your fist up as a silent motion for Jonathan to stop as well. You look at him, quickly bringing your index finger towards your lips as a sign for him to be quiet. He was already distracted though, eyes fixed on the thing that’s ahead of us.
You see him slowly reach for the gun that is hanging from his right hip. As you’re trying to be as quiet as possible, a gun isn’t the best option here. This has to be done as quietly as possible, to not attract any attention.
You quickly grab his arm to make him look at you, head turning as you make eye contact. You shake your head ‘no’, pushing his gun away, before taking your machete where it’s held at your lower back. You point towards his stone hammer, gesturing for him to do the same.
Leon is getting more and more worried now. Why have the two of you stopped again? There’s nothing showing on his screen, nothing that should be in your way. The way back to the exit should be clear.
You sign to Jonathan to stay put and for him to help you when things go wrong. A basic form of military sign language was part of your training back at the DSO.
As Jonathan nods, you take a deep breath before looking back at the creature before you. Thankfully it hasn’t noticed you yet. As you gather all your courage, you grip your machete tighter as you make your way towards it.
It doesn’t make any sounds. It isn’t even moving, standing in the middle of the tunnel like a statue. The light of your flashlight and Jonathan's flare, not alarming it. Just like the one you’d killed back at the lab. Your heart almost pounding out of your chest as you near it, praying to every god above this would go well.
With only a few feet away, you can feel its rotting flesh starting to infiltrate your senses, almost wanting to gag at the repulsive smell. You take the last bits of distance in a hurry, raising your arm before sweeping it down with as much force you could manage. The blade makes contact with its neck, your cut clean, as in one full motion you’re able to cut its head off. The head falling to the side before the body tumbles into the water, the sound of the splash being something you could have avoided. Fuck.
As on cue, you hear a few gurgling moans coming from somewhere in front of you. You take some steps forward, seeing three infected coming from a nearby tunnel on the right that’s connected to yours.
They’re different from the ones you’d seen before, more active and way louder. They seem way more aware of their surroundings too, your flashlight doing nothing to hide yourself as their heads all turn towards you, gaze feral, screeching, raising their arms while making their way to you. Shit.
This hasn’t gone unnoticed by Jonathan either of course. His breathing uncontrollable as he shakes in his boots. “Fuck…” Clearly for him there’s no point in being quiet anymore “…fuck …we’re gonna die. We’re gonna fucking die!”
“No we’re not. Jonathan, man the fuck up. There’s three of them and there’s two of us, we can take them.” Why is it always you that has to encourage him?
The three infected have reached you within seconds, jaws snapping, out-stretched hands trying to get a hold of you. You dodge them and swing your foot into the chest of the first infected on your right, your strength enough to push him down, arms swaying. You don’t waste any time. Standing over it you lift your machete before swinging it down with all your might, planting the knife right into its skull, body going limp.
The reeking hot breath of the second infected tingles your neck. Before it has a chance you’re spinning on your heels, water splashing, as you swing your knife again, the blade finding home into its neck. Not enough to kill it but plenty to imbalance him. As blood seeps from the wound, you pull back your machete, foot kicking its chest so it goes down. You plan to do the same thing you did to the one before. Standing over it you raise your weapon again.
All of a sudden you feel an immense impact on your back, causing you to drop your flashlight and machete, your body being pushed harshly against the stone wall. You’re quick enough to turn around to prevent the flying hands from scratching you, instead grabbing the wrists and trying to pin them down. The third zombie that cages you in is enormous, towering over you by 6.6 feet, dwarfing you completely. Its broad chest and strong arms preventing you from getting away, its power momentarily too strong for your smaller frame. You grunt as you try to push it off, looking past it to see where Jonathan is.
He hasn’t moved yet, still standing a few feet back with his mouth agape, clearly in shock.
“Jonathan, don't just stand there! Help me out!” You shout, making him snap out of it.
He looks at you, then back at the infected on the ground, which is still moving, towards the infected that has you pinned against the wall. He’s shaking like a leaf.
That seems to knock him out of his stupor. Sadly, not in the way you had hoped. Instead of picking up his gun and shooting the brute that holds you hostage, he passes you, almost jumping over the half dead infected lying on the ground. He looks at you almost in shame. “I-I’m sorry.” Are his last words before bolting, leaving you to die and taking the flare with him.
Leon is sprinting towards the entrance, throwing all protocol aside. Technically, he isn’t supposed to help, but fuck that.
Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.
No, no, oh god no… The dread that fills you is almost enough to pull you down and lose the battle you’re having against the infected. But that can not happen. As long as you’re breathing you won’t go down without a fight. It’s just branded into you like that.
Think. Come on, think!
There isn’t anything around that can help you. You can’t reach for one of your guns either or you risk getting bitten. You have to use your body, your own strength, to get out of here somehow.
When an idea strikes your mind, you do a quick mental prayer, literally jumping into action, all in the matter of two seconds. Pushing your whole body up, using the wall behind you as leverage, you kick the infected right in its chest with both of your feet. The action causes it to take a few steps back, releasing you, giving you a second to recompose yourself. In the little time that you have, you reach for the shotgun hanging from your back, swinging it to your front so you can hold it better with two hands. A simple pistol shot isn’t gonna do the job you reckon.
You raise it, just in time, before the infected reaches for you again, its mouth open as it brings out a gurgling scream. You lift the shotgun right under its chin as you pull the trigger, not knowing what kind of damage it will cause.
The shot is loud. Its recoil pushes you back as you feel the pressure down to your core. The zombie’s face is blown off, blood and flesh splattering on the wall behind it, leaving only partial pieces of the head still standing. You almost gag as the body tips over, water splashing, mixing with blood as it makes contact with the ground. Pieces of brain and bone now scattered around it.
As you pant, you realize that the last infected, the one Jonathan had jumped over, was still alive. As you turn you see its body still wriggling in the water, face down. You pick up your machete again and make quick work of it. Pushing your foot down on its back you raise your weapon and bring it down with full force towards the wound you’d previously made. Flesh tearing and bone cracking as you end its life, fully decapitating it.
Meanwhile Leon has now reached the entrance to the tunnels, a weak Jonathan climbing out like the devil himself is after him. His gaze lifting as he hears the sound of running footsteps. “Mr. Kennedy…?”
Leon forcefully pushes him out of the way without a second glance, jumping straight into the darkness below, heart pounding and gun drawn, moving as fast as he could.
He almost flinches when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot reaches his ears, the loud noise reverberating through the tunnels. Dread filling his heart as he quickens his pace even more. He takes a detour to the right, knowing the tunnels better than anyone as he had gone through them countless times before on previous missions. He realizes you’re not too far away from the entrance. He just hopes he makes it in time before you get hurt.
You stand up straight again, legs slightly wobbly from the exertion you had to go through while also a bit shaken up. You had never seen an infected before and now you had killed 4 of them in the span of 30 minutes. All in your first ever mission as well. Would have been easier if your partner hadn’t left you behind though…
You would show him what you were made of once you got out of here. He would have to run if he wanted to avoid you killing him. That alone was a wonderful motivation for you to move forward.
Being under the assumption it’s finally over, you place your machete back on the straps at your back, before going to retrieve the flashlight lying on the ground a few feet ahead of you.
The splashing of water, moaning combined with screeching fills the air once more, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your eyes widen, not believing the things you’re hearing. You thought that had been it. That you’d get to walk out of here now unscratched. Oh boy were you wrong.
Five new infected turn around the same corner the previous three had come from, all equally disgusting and horrifying in their own way.
You abort mission, leaving your flashlight for what it is. It will only draw more attention. You duck into the nearest alcove on your left, knees touching the wet ground as you kneel down, sogging the material of your trousers. At least you think it’s an alcove... You don’t have time to check, as the infected are now standing in the middle of the tunnel. Your flashlight making sure you can still see their silhouettes in the dark.
You’re lucky enough to survive the attack of three infected all by yourself, but taking on five at the same time is impossible. You can take three of them, but not five… Not five.
There’s no way around them either. They’re blocking your path towards the exit completely. Keeping you hostage. Panic seeps through you again like a cold blanket. You have to think of an escape plan, and fast. The infected won’t be standing there forever. Hunting you down being their number one objective, to go after the noise they heard. They will follow the tunnel farther down in your direction and if one of them dares to look you way, you’re done for.
As you carefully peek around the corner you can see them already stumbling your way. You look behind you, pitch blackness greeting you like a meager solution. The alcove seems to be a narrow hallway of sorts, leading you to god knows where. You don’t have your flashlight on you either. You won’t be able to see a thing. Who knows what you might run into? And fighting something when you can’t see, is like walking up to the gallows. You have to get your flashlight back but that will risk you being seen.
You take another look around the corner. Luckily, they haven’t moved any closer. You figure that trying to fight the infected is your best shot at the moment. To get your flashlight quickly and use the dark hallway behind you as a plan B.
You reload your pistol and shotgun, getting yourself ready for what might be your last few minutes of being alive. Shotgun slung over your shoulder, pistol gripped tight in your right hand, you close your eyes, taking a few deep breaths.
You will try to get your flashlight first. After that your main goal is to hit as many headshots as possible. And if that goes wrong? You’re bolting.
A gloved hand suddenly covers your mouth, preventing the faint scream from escaping your lungs. At the same time a strong arm wraps around you, pulling you against a hard chest, preventing you from moving any further. Your gun falls to the ground, making too much noise for your liking.
Using your body you push back against the hard surface behind you, wriggling your arms as you try to get free. Your head is pushed back, hitting someone’s shoulder. As you try to look up, a familiar face comes into view, blue eyes meeting yours.
Leon releases your face, bringing his index finger towards his mouth, signaling for you to remain quiet. You quickly nod, a little perplexed as you realize he’s here. His grip around you making sure that you’re not just imagining things.
Moving around, he removes the arm that is slung around you and puts you behind him. As he slowly turns the corner he’s able to get a better look, seeing all the bloodshed you had caused, the infected slowly making its way towards you. He moves back, gesturing for you to come closer to him with his hand on your back so you’re squatting next to each other.
He communicates through sign language. Telling you to stay calm and to follow his lead, that everything is going to be alright. You believe him. With two agents against five infected the job will be more doable. When all of this is over, you have to think of a way to repay him. Repay him well.
Moving his hands he tells you his idea. The plan is to be stealthy and make as little of a mess as possible. Being the older and more experienced agent, he will move first with you right behind him. His axe and your machete at the ready. Before you turn the corner, he will throw a rock over the infected and into the other direction, trying to get their attention away from you. Then the two of you will move closer, each trying to take out one infected separately, two if you’re lucky. The rest will probably have to be done with a gun.
You sign back to the narrow tunnel behind you, to the way he came from. Wondering if that isn’t a better option than the danger that lies before you. Leon shakes his head as he brings up all ten fingers before pointing behind him. Your eyes widen, shock clearly visible on your face. Your hands start to tremble. There are ten more back there? Did he sneak past all of them? The thought makes you shiver.
Leon sees the worry in your expression. Quickly putting his hand on top of yours. He makes sure your eyes are back on him. Clear blue staring back at you, he whispers the words ‘we’re going to be ok’. The warmth of his voice feels like a warm blanket around you, emitting a protective and secure feeling. His hand touching yours, sending goosebumps up your whole body.
All of a sudden you realize how close the two of you are actually sitting. Your knees barely touching, his hot breath slightly caressing your face. For the fraction of a second, you allow yourself to admire him. The few strands of hair slightly covering his eyes. The few wrinkles there, around his nose and on his forehead, signaling his experience in life. The light stubble with a few grey strands going through it, down towards his neck. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Down to the broad and muscular pectorals. His arms are a piece of art on its own, the muscles under his shirt bulging as he’s preparing for the fight that’s about to come. He is… beautiful. You feel safe with him even though the situation isn’t very bright looking.
To not let him notice you staring, you quickly take your hand away from under his grasp, signing back that you agree with his plan. You put your gun back into its holster and reach once again for your machete, keeping it ready. Leon does the same, his axe now gripped tightly in his hand, the blade still shining in the faint light that is given. You look at him and curtly nod, signaling that you are ready.
He picks up a nearby rock that lies neglected in the water, putting it ready at his feet. Raising three fingers between you, he looks into your eyes, signaling he’s about to count down. Another nod from you is the last assurance he needs.
One. Two. Three.
The rock goes flying. Straight over the heads of the infected, colliding to the tunnel wall with a sharp loud thud. As on cue the five heads turn in the direction of the sound, giving you and Leon exactly the opening you need.
Leon moves first, stalking the first infected on the left. You’re right behind him, your eyes on the one next to it. The two of you move as quietly through the water as possible. The wrinkles betraying your position, thankfully not too obvious for the infected to notice. You try to be efficient, knowing you’re only given a handful of seconds before their attention will fall back to you.
Leon doesn’t turn to look back, feeling your presence now next to him.
Like the two of you had practiced it a million times before, you both jump at the exact same time. Both of your weapons hitting its mark as you attack from behind.
The two creatures don’t stand a chance. Both being beheaded at the same time. The sound of body parts falling brings the others out of their stupor, all of them turning to inspect what happened.
They don’t get much time to act. The one closest to you is forcefully pushed back against the wall as you kick it in its chest. Leon racing past you to take care of the other two.
The one you had pushed against the wall, recovers quickly. Its arms sway as it tries to hurt you with strong perseverance. You swing your machete, the tip aiming down as you impale it right in the chest. A sound something between a gasp and screech falls from its lips as you pull the blade back out. Aiming it, you swing again. This time chopping both of its arms off. You finish with something that’s starting to become your signature move. Blade slicing through its throat, vertebrae and neck. The head rolls into the water as the body slumps down against the wall.
Panting, you turn around, your gaze searching for Leon. He had downed the fourth infected. Now standing over it, foot placed on its chest, he gives the final blow. His axe planting itself into the skull, blood splattering everywhere as pieces of brain fall onto the ground.
Behind him you see the fifth infected taking advantage of Leon being distracted. Its mouth hanging open, blood already seeping out of it, as it starts for him, reaching for his neck. Leon being completely oblivious.
You don’t have time to scream or shout his name. You raise your machete instead before aiming. With a groan you throw it. The blade swinging through the air before sheeting itself into the neck of your target. The strength of your blow causes the infected to fall to the side. Wriggling in the water with a strangled groan leaving its bloodied mouth.
You reach it in no time. Taking your blade out of its neck before lifting your foot. Bringing it down with full force you break the skull, crushing the bone. Its brain is a mash up underneath your boot as you hear the bone crunch. You quickly pick up the flashlight as you look around. Feeling the adrenaline coursing through your body, awaiting a new threat.
As your eyes fall upon Leon, you see him already looking at you, panting as well and eyes wide. A faint look of disbelief on his face, like he almost couldn’t understand how you’d killed the infected before he did.
“You… uh… Well done.” He nodded, casting his eyes to the ground. He takes his own flashlight out of his pocket before lighting it. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he takes a few steps forward, now standing directly next to you. He checks the way ahead before clearing his throat. “We need to get out of here.”
As on cue you hear an immense blast coming down the way you came from. The tunnels shake as dust and a few rocks come down from the ceiling. The two of you both bending over, Leon’s arm slightly hovering over you as a form of protection.
“What the…” you hear him whisper.
“Mr. Kennedy, what was that?”
The next thing you know, multiple screeches and moans fill the area again. The sound coming exactly from where the huge blast had come from. Not just the screeching of four or five infected. No… There are more. Way more. It almost seems as if the blast from before had opened up a gate of some sorts. The gates of hell, freeing its most horrendous kind of demons.
As you hear the thunder of footsteps and snarling getting closer, you realize this is not something the two of you can fight off on your own. Not even with all the guns you have on you. Leon seems to be sharing the same thought, quickly grabbing your arm and turning you around. “Run to the exit, now!”
You don’t have to be told twice. Aiming your flashlight to prevent yourself from falling down, you sprint through the tunnels. Leon right behind you. Occasionally looking behind him as he draws his gun. You do the same as you do not know what kind of surprises might still lie ahead.
The snarls get louder behind you, signaling the infected’s proximity. They are faster than you, you realize. Way faster, even though they don’t see a thing in the dark. Must be some weird type of mutation Umbrella cooked up in one of their labs.
As you round the final corner, you finally get to see the light of day. Literally. The hole in the concrete that you came through, being about two hundred feet up ahead. You run towards it as fast as you can. But sprinting slightly uphill with water to slow you down isn’t very ideal. Both Leon and you are having a hard time getting up.
You’re halfway when you look behind you. Seeing at least 6 infected rounding the corner you just passed yourself, with more to follow. You’re not as brave now as you were before, fear seeping into your bones again. Fear of not making it in time and having to die out here. “They’re getting closer!”
Leon ceases his sprinting and turns around. “Go! I’m right behind you!”
The first shot of his pistol rings through your ears as it hits its target. The one infected running at the front falling down, the rest crawling over its body like madmen. More shots follow as you hear Leon take out one after the other.
You look back down once you reach the top and see Leon still shooting as fast as he can. As the infected get concerningly closer. You take out your sniper rifle, aiming down and looking through the scope. “Mr. Kennedy c’mon, I’ll cover you!”
You wait as you analyze your targets. Waiting for the perfect shot as you don’t have as much ammo on you as you actually need for the rifle. You grin as three infected align perfectly. The red dot of your scope marking the first one's head. The other two running behind it. You take the shot. Your bullet bursting through their brains in one fluid motion, downing them in a mere second. Because of the silencer, your first shot is almost inaudible. But it does not go unnoticed by Leon as you hear him curse under his breath before turning.
As he’s sprinting up towards you, you do everything in your power to make sure he gets up safe. Only needing a handful of seconds to down the first litter. Sniping is something you’ve excelled at ever since you started at the DSO. Being often told your sniper skills are better than anyone else's, you take immense pride in the skill.
Well your training is definitely paying off now.
Leon reaches the top incredibly fast. Grabbing your hand he pushes you towards the ladder. “Hurry...”
You swing your rifle onto your back before grabbing the metals bars and climbing up. You hear Leon fire a few more shots before following suit. Reaching the top, you lean against the steep concrete wall, regaining your balance before bending down. Your hand reaches for Leon’s as you try to help him up. His warm firm grasp embraces yours. With one strong tug you pull him up.
Something counters your strength, Leon groaning as he’s being pulled down again. A loud curse escapes him. One of the infected has managed to gain up on him and grasp onto his lower leg. As it grabs him with both of its claws and tries to climb up, you know he’ll get bitten if you don’t act quickly. Freeing your pistol from its holster, you aim right between its dead eyes. Not hesitating as you pull the trigger. The blow causes the creature to fall back down, taking two others with him who were also trying to get up the ladder.
With Leon now free, you continue pulling him back up. As he gets up next to you on the concrete wall, you grasp for your shotgun again, aiming towards the next filthy infected that’s right behind him. You pull the trigger. The immense blast making it tumble back down in several pieces.
You hear Leon shout next to you. “There’s too many. Run!”
Climbing up the steep wall, you hear the sharp clinging of metal next to you. You look back at Leon. The metal pin of the grenade he’s holding, being the source of the noise. You see him pull out the pin before throwing it carelessly behind him. He pushes you forward. “Go! Shit’s about to blow!”
With a last look behind him, he throws the grenade back at the infected, before taking a final sprint. You see it land right at the bottom of the hole, at least twenty zombies now filling the area that you came from while some were climbing the ladder again. Leon wraps his arm around your middle and pushes you out of the tunnel as fast as he can.
Finally reaching the top, the two of you climb out, leaving the evil darkness behind. Now running on the street you only manage a few more steps before your body is catapulted. As the bomb goes off behind you, you hear the deafening sound of rubble coming down. Shaking the asphalt below your feet. You fall on your front. Your arms wrap around your head to prevent yourself from getting hurt. Leon falls on top of you. His body now involuntarily protecting yours from any flying debris.
After a few seconds the rumbling and screeching from the infected quiets down. You feel the pressure of Leon’s body slightly crushing you. The smell of sweat and dirt mixed with the smell of freshly washed linen fill your senses like a warm blanket that’s being wrapped around you. Oddly enough, you don’t mind his crushing weight.
A few more moments pass before you feel him shift above you. Slowly lifting himself up as a groan falls from his lips. One hand positioned at your waist as the other holds himself up. You dare look up yourself.
Smoke fills the air, providing an even more thick and impenetrable fog than there already was. Pieces of rubble and dirt all scattered around the place. As you look back at the hole in the ground that you came through, you only see a big pile of debris left. What once was an entrance to one of the Umbrella labs had now caved in, taking the infected with it. The grenade had sealed them in like a tomb.
You feel Leon’s firm grip as he lifts you from the ground. Once back on your feet, you’re turned towards him. One hand still on your shoulder as he starts inspecting you from head to toe. Brows furrowed as he’s looking for any sign of injuries. “Are you alright?” He asks hurriedly, his gaze now coming up to meet yours. Searching your eyes to make sure you’re not hurt.
You nod, slightly nervous because of his touch. “I-I’m fine…” You say before looking at your feet. The intense eye contact a bit too demanding for you to hold. Looking back at the destroyed entrance you huff in approval. “Good thinking, throwing the grenade back there. I thought we were goners.” You joke, trying to lift up the mood. His hand leaves your shoulder as he quietly hums. Looking back at the pile of debris, a frown is edged on his face. Still cautious that anything might come through the rubble and attack you. You admire that about him, just as much as you find it very attractive.
“Mr. Kennedy…” He looks back at you. His gaze making you slightly weak in the knees. “… I- Thank you. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve never made it out of there alive.” Your words seem to soften something inside of him. The frown on his face now slowly vanishing.
“No need to thank me really.” He says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Chris and I, we checked the perimeter for any danger before you guys even came here. If… If I had known there were so many infected, I would have never sent you down there. I’m so sorry.” You see the regret in his eyes, the immense disappointment in himself for failing you like that. As your superior it is his responsibility to look after you and keep you safe during training. To adjust your tactics and give you tips in any way he can. He couldn’t even do that.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen?”
Your eyes widen as he shakes his head no. You suddenly realize what kind of catastrophe you had just avoided. Your whole mission was to just get the computer chip back from the lab and return without scratches. No zombies blocking your path whatsoever. No wonder Jonathan ran off like a pussy.
You see Leon having difficulty with the situation he had put you in. Not daring to meet your eyes, he averts his gaze to somewhere slightly above you. His shoulders a little bit tense, as his hand goes behind his neck to awkwardly start scratching at the skin. You feel bad for him... This man, who saved you when no one else did, did not deserve to feel this distraught. According to the many stories from his past missions when he was younger, he’d already felt enough of that.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty. No one can predict something as horrifying as what has just happened.” Your words are honest and warm as you try to gain his attention.
Leon curtly nods, looking for the way ahead. “Let’s go.” He mumbles before taking a few steps through the mist, discarding your words.
Having none of it, you quickly follow his steps. Reaching out to grab his lower arm, you make him turn, forcing him to lock eyes with you before saying your next words of truth. “Mr. Kennedy… Please believe me when I say it’s fine. Really. You did everything you could. If it weren’t for you I’d be dead.”
“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be in this situation right now.” He grumbles, eyes cold.
“But I am.” You take a step closer before continuing. “And that’s not because of you, but because I chose to be here. I chose to become a DSO agent and to do this mission with you. I chose to step into that tunnel and continue the mission. If I wasn’t prepared to face any danger, I would have just dropped out of the program.”
Leon sighs before clenching his jaw, not very much convinced. “Still… I should have known.”
“But you didn’t. And that’s ok. Mistakes happen. Look, Jonathan didn’t check the lab for threats very well when we were down there and I still forgave him…”
You’re interrupted as Leon’s gaze fixates on something moving behind you. “Speaking of which…”
You turn around, a gasp escaping you. There, sitting on a withered metal bench, was none other than Jonathan. His hunched over form taking shape through the mist. He notices you at the exact same time. Eyes wide and mouth agape as he sees you’ve made it out alive with Leon standing right next to you.
You inhale sharply, eyes narrowing as you feel your head getting warm. You grind your teeth as he stands up. His lips forming a small smile, hand on his chest almost like he’s relieved. Like he forgot what he’d done to you. How he’d abandoned you. A strange feeling of rage flows through you, blood pumping through your veins as you march towards him. You roll up your sleeves before clenching your fist, holding it steady at your side. With only a few feet away, he opens his arms in mock gesture, inviting you in, believing you to be a dumb rookie agent. “Oh thank God, I was so worr-“
You don’t give him time to finish his sentence. Your fist colliding full force against his upper jaw, nose breaking as you give him the hardest punch you could muster. A cry, that sounds anything but manly, bursts from his lips. His body tumbling over as he falls to the side.
“Tell someone who actually gives a shit.” You snarl, desperately trying to stay calm before you do anything worse.
Blood seeps from his nose, his hand reaching for it as he inspects the damage. A look of dismay is thrown at you when he sees the blood coating his fingers. His eyes search for your superior. Leon, standing only a few feet behind you, who’s been watching you the whole time. He doesn’t interfere. You’ve earned it.
“Hey! You’re just letting her get away with this? You got nothing to say about that?” Jonathan says in disbelief. Voice raising as he throws the words at Leon.
You have to do your very best to hold yourself back. Your hand itching to punch him again. You hear the sturdy footsteps of Leon’s boots behind you as he comes closer. Turning your head to see him stop right next to you, you notice the tiny smirk he’s holding. His eyes turn as cold as ice before fixating on Jonathan. “You’re out.”
Jonathan scrambles to get up as his brows furrow and his mouth falls open in shock. “What?”
Leon doesn’t miss a beat to repeat himself. “You’re out. When we get back to the DSO, you take your bags and leave.”
“What? Wait! No-no-no…” He panics, hand reaching inside his pocket, taking out the computer chip he had taken from you. “... I got the computer chip. The important piece of information you guys were searching for. I completed the mission!”
Leon chuckles while shaking his head, staying very calm. He takes the chip out of Jonathan’s grasp, collecting it in his own pocket. “You didn’t do shit kid.” He takes another step closer. Looking Jonathan dead in the eye. “You abandoned your partner in a situation where she needed you most. Running off like a little bitch you left her there to die. The number one rule in a partnership is you both complete a mission and leave no one behind. She-” he says while looking at you for a split second “-has more courage and intelligence in her than you could ever fathom. If it weren’t for her you’d be fucking dead. And that’s how you repay her?”
You see Jonathan’s Adam's apple bob. Probably swallowing the last remnants of pride he has left. A look of betrayal is shot at you. “You told him?”
As much as you want to reply, Leon beats you to it. “She didn’t have to tell me anything. I heard everything that was said between the two of you.”
As both you and Jonathan stare at him with a questioning look, he raises his hand and points towards the little earpiece. You chuckle as Jonathan curses. “Son of a bitch…”
You have to refrain yourself from laughing too hard. Instead your lips part as you smirk, staring back at Jonathan with a satisfied look on your face.
Leon grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him forward. “Now get back to the dropping site and after that I don’t want to see you ever again.”
A low grumble falls from Jonathan’s lips as he starts walking, shoulders slumped, his head bent down in shame. You and Leon follow suit. Just a few feet behind him. With the adrenaline slowly wearing off and your skin still sweaty, you start getting goosebumps. Even now with the sun at its highest peak, it’s still not enough to keep you warm.
“You ok?” A little bit startled by his question, you look back at Leon, his eyes already on you.
“Yeah…” You nod quickly, not wanting him to worry. “Just a little bit cold, that's all.”
He frowns at your words, gaze dropping towards your bare arms, seeing the hairs on your skin standing up. He moves a bit more towards you as you’re walking, dropping his voice a little so only you can hear him. “Just a little longer and we’ll be back at the car in no time. You can warm yourself up there.”
He doesn’t know why he tells you that. Why he says those words of comfort or why he suddenly feels the strange need to look after you. Is it because you’re a woman? Or is there something more? Something hidden. Something buried deeper within himself that he’s desperately trying to ignore.
When he’d found you back in the tunnels, he was impressed at how well you were able to hold yourself up. At how well your resilience was in the midst of danger. The massacre you had caused all by yourself was something on the level of more experienced and seasoned agents. The way you had moved and used your machete, like you had been doing it for years. The way the faint light of your flashlight had reflected the sweat on your pale skin. How your biceps, which were considerably smaller compared to his, had moved when you parried every attack. And don’t get him started on that precision kill you did with your sniper rifle. Killing three infected with just one shot? You had outdone yourself, immensely. It had triggered his attention.
And when you got up to punch Jonathan in the face? He hadn’t moved. On the contrary, he had found it very amusing. Seeing your smaller frame march up to him like a little pitbull before breaking his nose. He even found it a bit attractive as well, though he didn’t want to admit that to himself. You were twenty years younger for goodness sake. You probably thought he was an old creep you had to train with.
Despite his worrying, he can see your eyes soften at his words. A warm smile now covering your face that manages to shake something in him. You also lower your voice. “Thank you again Mr. Kennedy. For everything, really.”
He wants nothing more than to tell you that you can just call him by his first name. To be more familiar with him. But he’s your superior… He has to stay professional. So he answers in the best way he can. “It’s nothing. I’m glad I was there.” Offering you a warm smile in return, you continue your way back to the dropping point.
He feels guilty. So immensely guilty. There’s no way to describe it. He should have known better. Should have seen the bioterrorism pop up on the scanners when he and Chris had first scouted the area. Years of being in the field, facing danger and managing to survive every single day, years of training… and he’d still failed. Had failed you. He tells himself he’s no better than Jonathan. No better than the men at the DSO who think less of you just because you’re a woman. He doesn’t deserve your kind words and compassion. If anything he should be thankful you’re still looking at him with such respect.
With you walking slightly in front of him now, he lets his eyes wander to your smaller frame. Resting on your hair, slightly dirty from all the dust and debris, neatly woven into a French braid. A couple of strands have come loose, framing your face. The color of your hair is a pretty contrast to the dark navy blue of your shirt. As he looks up, he admires your youthful face. Adorning a few little freckles, mostly around your nose, with eyes that shine bright even in the darkest of places. The pale skin of your arms and neck, decorated with a few beauty marks here and there.
The black harness holding your weaponry is tight around your chest, showing off your slim figure and small waist. He notices the zipper of your shirt had come down a bit, revealing the sheen of sweat on your chest caused by all the exertion. A single drop running down, disappearing between the swell of your breasts. He lets his gaze drop lower. To the shape of your hips. To your machete that’s carefully placed above your gorgeous behind. The knife softly swaying from side to side with each step you take.
And when the grenade went off… When he lay on top of you… When he felt your warmth pushed against his crotch…
Jesus Christ.
“What do you think of me?”
“What?” Leon says, startled by your voice. He shakes his head, almost like waking up from a dream. Eyes coming back up to meet yours with a faint blush already starting to form.
“The mission…” You say. “How did I do?” Fuck. Focus Kennedy. Get your act together.
He clears his throat, swallowing the last bit of spit, his mouth going dry. “You uh… You were great. Amazing in fact.” Is that too much for him to say as your superior? Does it sound weird? A simple ok as Chris always says to the rookies won’t do you any justice. He can tell you the truth, right?
You look at him with these big doe-like eyes, almost knocking the air straight out of him. He has to admit it to himself. You are… beautiful.
“So… I passed then?” You question him. “Oh you did more than just pass.” He chuckles, keeping the double-sided meaning of that sentence as a joke to himself.
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. How do you not realize how good you are? “Let me put it this way. Out of all the agents back at the DSO… There aren’t many with as much resilience as you, who would have faced a horde of infected alone on their first ever mission. You held your own back there. Aiding me and complementing my strategies. Following my directions, moving the way I wanted you to, like you’ve been doing it for years. You’re the perfect partner I have missed for so long. So no, you didn’t just pass. If anything I would almost say you’re a full fletched agent who doesn’t need any more training.”
You stop dead in your tracks. “What are you saying Mr. Kennedy?”
“I’m saying that as far as I’m concerned, you have passed your training. Let me have a talk with Chris. Let’s see what I can do. Maybe… I could secure you a good position at the DSO. Give you security.”
You smile at him. “Thank you sir, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but… I don’t think an office job is really it for me.”
He returns your smile. “No… I don’t think it is. But I didn’t mean a position at the office. Sadly enough, it is clear you were made for the field.”
It should feel weird to have someone tell you you’re good at killing. That you’re ‘made’ to fulfil missions in very dangerous circumstances. Instead, his words feel like a compliment to you. A feeling that’s so refreshing after the various laughs and sneers from your fellow male DSO colleagues.
“Thank you Mr. Kennedy. For everything. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“You never have to.”
After a small hour of walking, the three of you make it back to the dropping point. Chris and his two rookies are already waiting.
At the sight of Jonathan’s miserable expression and bloody nose, Chris’s smirk starts to form. “Well well well… Seems like the mission was a disaster after all. Where the hell have you been Kennedy? We already finished an hour ago.”
You huff, a little irritated by his remark. If only he knew how Jonathan got that broken nose. What you have been through…
Leon walks up to him. “Shut up Chris.” His gaze flickers to Jonathan then back to you. He lets it linger there for a second. Blue eyes demanding your attention. Sending shivers down your spine. There’s a message in them. One of certainty, of protection… of dominance. He sends you a comforting smile before looking back at Chris. His voice is deep and steady as he speaks.
“We need to talk.”
Thank you for reading. <3 I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors. Please feel free to comment so I can correct them.
I really feel like writing a part 2 for this. So let me know if anyone's interested.
SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.
OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer
GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish
PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )
WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use
WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words
AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3
FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED
PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU.
Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you.
And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you.
Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.
To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable.
Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room.
But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.
His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.
It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.
“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks.
“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.
“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers.
“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it.
“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.
Ouch. Does he not want you touching him?
You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void.
You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown.
Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this.
You wish he would just kiss you.
Just once.
Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.
Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.
“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”
The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty.
Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.
Because deep down, you know.
Jongseong is lying.
You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.
“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—”
“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision.
In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice.
And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks.
An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face.
“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence.
“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.”
Your breath hitches.
The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.
Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.
You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.
Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.
And neither was his.
For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.
You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.
“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.
“Jongseong—”
He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.
You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.
There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.
Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.
Park Jongseong had never kissed you.
And at this rate, you aren't sure if he ever will.
THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.
You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.
Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.
Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”
The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.
You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.
“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”
The words taste sour in your mouth.
You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.
He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.
“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.
There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.
Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”
Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.
You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.
You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.
The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.
As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.
Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.
You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.
You walk side by side in silence towards the car.
You can't hold it in any longer.
“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.
Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.
“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.
“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”
He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”
You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”
You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”
His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”
You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.
“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”
The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.
But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”
You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.
When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.
You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.
But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.
So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.
And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.
Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.
PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.
But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.
And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.
No. He does nothing.
Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.
He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.
9:30 am, he reaches his office building.
The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.
The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.
“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.
He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.
The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.
A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.
Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.
“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”
“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”
A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.
When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”
But Jongseong shakes his head.
“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”
He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.
Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.
Birthday.
The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.
He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.
A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.
But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.
“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.
A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.
Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.
Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.
His breath falters, you remember.
His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.
And the scent hits him instantly.
Curry.
Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.
Something coils in his chest.
Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.
JAY
Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.
It indeed spells, JAY.
He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.
Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.
And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.
By you.
“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.
Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.
“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”
“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.
Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”
“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”
“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”
Jongseong glares at him.
“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”
Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.
“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”
“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”
Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.
Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.
“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”
Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again.
Finally, blessed peace.
He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.
A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.
But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.
YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.
Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.
He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.
“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”
He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.
“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.
He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.
But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.
Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.
But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.
Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.
Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.
Is that you?
Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.
“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”
You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.
But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.
“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”
“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”
“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?
“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”
You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.
“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”
He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”
Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.
But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.
“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.
He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”
The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.
“I won’t go—”
“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”
Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.
“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.
“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.
He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”
The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.
And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.
His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.
“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”
You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.
“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.
“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”
Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.
You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.
You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”
Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.
“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”
He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.
When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.
“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”
“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.
“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”
“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.
You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.
“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.
“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”
“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”
There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.
It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?
“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.
He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”
Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.
Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.
“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.
You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.
RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.
Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.
It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.
You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.
The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.
He doesn’t see you at first.
Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.
You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.
You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.
You hope none of that was your imagination.
Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.
That’s when someone steps beside you.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.
You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.
“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”
“You look tired.”
“You have no idea.”
He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t notice the shift in the room.
But Jongseong does.
He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.
The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.
He downs his drink.
“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”
He doesn’t hear it.
Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.
The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.
Why are you smiling like that?
He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.
And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.
He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.
You feel it before you see him.
The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.
He’s coming toward you.
Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.
Your heart stutters.
You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.
“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”
Jongseong stops beside you.
Too close.
Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.
“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.
Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”
He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.
Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”
Your breath catches.
Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.
Not entirely touching you.
Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.
“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”
When he leaves, the space collapses.
You’re alone with Jongseong.
Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.
“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.
“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.
“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.
He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.
“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.
You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.
“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”
For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”
The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.
“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”
His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.
“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.
Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.
But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.
“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”
“Why?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.
“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”
He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
But he isn’t.
You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.
“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.
“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”
The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.
At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.
“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”
You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.
When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.
His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”
He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.
“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”
You freeze.
His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.
You don’t move.
Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.
And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.
It makes him tell the truth.
YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.
Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.
You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.
Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.
If anything, he does the opposite.
He lingers.
At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.
You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.
After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.
You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.
But rules blur when he learns your steps.
He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.
It’s never announced. Never even whispered.
It just happens.
And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.
Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.
That’s when it starts to bleed through.
In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.
At night, he sleeps closer.
Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.
You start waking before him just to watch.
The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.
You don’t ask, even when you know you should.
Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.
The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.
You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.
Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.
“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“So are you,” you reply.
He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.
Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.
He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
That alone feels like a confession.
The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.
“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”
You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.
Breakfast is quiet after that.
He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.
It’s barely noticeable.
But you notice.
You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.
“You already have one,” you say.
“I know.”
He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”
He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”
You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”
You look up at him, still braced.
“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.
Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.
He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.
“I can share,” he says.
You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.
But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.
It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.
Jongseong comes home late.
You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.
You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.
He doesn’t greet.
His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.
“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.
“I know,” he replies, cold.
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.
Something prickles.
“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.
His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.
“I was busy.”
The way he says it feels deliberate.
You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”
Silence.
You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”
His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”
“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”
“I am okay,” he snaps.
The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.
He sees it.
Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.
“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”
The words land badly.
“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you in three strides.
Too fast. Too close.
You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.
The sound it makes is soft.
The effect is not.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.
“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”
Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”
You don’t move.
You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”
His eyes darken.
Because he wants to kiss you.
Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.
You think this is it.
Then he pulls back.
Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.
He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.
“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”
He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.
And how far he ran.
PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.
He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.
Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.
Just for a fraction of a second.
He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
The bedroom door opens softly behind him.
“Jongseong?”
Your voice.
He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.
You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.
“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”
The question hangs between you.
Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.
His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.
Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.
“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.
“You look—”
“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”
The moment collapses.
Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”
The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words
----
The family house is already alive when you arrive.
Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.
“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”
Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.
“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”
He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”
That’s not an answer.
You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.
You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”
His jaw ticks. “All of it.”
“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.
He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”
“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”
Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.
Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.
Conversation starts harmless.
Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.
But then the atmosphere shifts.
“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”
Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.
Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”
She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”
Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”
You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”
“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”
The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.
You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.
“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”
Fortunate.
The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.
You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”
You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.
Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.
Jongseong’s fork stops moving.
It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.
He looks at you. Really looks this time.
The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.
His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”
“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”
His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”
The silence thickens.
His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.
His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”
Jongseong turns to him slowly.
For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.
“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”
He stops. Breathes shakily.
“—my wife.”
The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.
“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”
A pause.
“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.
“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”
You move before anyone can stop you.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.
No one stops you. No one knows how.
You walk out before the tears can fall.
The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.
You don’t hear him at first.
“Y/n—!”
Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.
You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.
You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.
Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.
“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”
Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
“No,” he says, “You’re not.”
He doesn’t ask for permission.
Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”
He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.
Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.
The house disappears behind you.
THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.
Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”
“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”
He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”
He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.
The silence stretches.
“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”
He doesn’t look up. “I did.”
“I could defend myself—”
“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”
Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.
You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”
Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.
“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”
His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him stop again.
“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”
You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”
His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.
“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I should’ve been there faster.”
You look at him then. “You caught me.”
“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.
His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.
Then Jongseong straightens.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.
“I’m okay,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.
You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”
His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.
“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”
You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”
His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.
“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”
The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.
His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.
“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”
“Contained from what?”
“From wanting more,” he admits, voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”
“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.
That’s all it takes.
He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.
When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.
Almost reverent.
The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.
He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.
He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.
“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.
“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.
Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.
You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.
He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”
His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.
He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.
“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”
He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”
“Jay,” you answer.
He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.
Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive
He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.
“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.
“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.
MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.
The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
You wake first.
For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.
Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.
You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.
Jongseong looks different in sleep.
Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.
Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”
He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”
He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.
“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.
You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That makes his eyes open again.
Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” you admit. “You?”
He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”
There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.
“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.
“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”
Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.
Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.
Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.
He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”
You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”
He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.
You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.
As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.
Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.
And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.
You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.
That’s when you notice the folder.
Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.
Your stomach twists.
You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.
But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.
You stand.
Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.
You pull the paper free.
Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.
The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.
You scan the first page. And then the words blur.
Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.
Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.
Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.
You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.
Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.
But it doesn’t.
Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?
A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.
Footsteps sound behind you.
“Coffee will be ready in—”
The sentence dies in his throat.
You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.
“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.
When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.
The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.
Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.
“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.
“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”
He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.
“A while,” he admits.
The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.
“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”
His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.
“Years.”
The word drops into the room like a blade.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.
“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.
Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.
“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”
He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.
“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.
“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”
Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.
“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”
His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”
“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”
“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”
He stops himself.
Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”
“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.
The words don’t land right away.
They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.
“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”
He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.
“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”
You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.
“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”
He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”
“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”
You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”
“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.
“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”
“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”
He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.
“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”
The words gut you.
“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”
His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.
“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”
He stops. Swallows hard.
“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.
And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.
Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.
Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.
Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.
Love, most of all.
You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.
Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.
“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”
“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”
That hits him harder than shouting ever could.
Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”
The word hangs in the air between you.
Dying.
It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.
“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”
Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”
The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.
“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.
His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”
His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”
You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”
“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”
That does it.
Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.
“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.
Then he leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.
“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.
“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”
His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.
“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.
“Sorry” you reply quietly.
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.
He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”
Your heart twists painfully.
“You are my future,” you say without thinking.
The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.
He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”
He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”
You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.
“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath stutters.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”
Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”
He winces like you’ve struck him.
“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”
Silence falls again, thick and heavy.
You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”
He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.
“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”
“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.
His face tightens, but he nods once.
Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.
“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“I will marry you, Y/n.”
The certainty in his voice steals your breath.
He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.
“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”
Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”
Something inside you shatters completely at that.
You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.
Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.
“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.
His breath catches.
“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”
You still, listening.
“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”
He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”
Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.
“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.
“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”
A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.
“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”
He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.
He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.
And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.
Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.
EPILOGUE
The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.
There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.
Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.
So here you are.
The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.
Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.
Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.
The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.
You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.
Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.
This is real.
When you open them, you see him.
Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.
And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.
His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.
You start walking.
Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.
With every step, memories rise up uninvited.
The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.
And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.
You stop in front of him.
Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.
“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.
When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.
But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.
His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.
When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.
“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”
His voice steadies, just a little.
“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”
Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.
When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.
And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.
The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.
Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.
His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.
“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”
You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.
The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.
You and Jongseong take a step forward together.
The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.
“Jongseong?” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”
You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.
“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”
“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”
So you walk slowly.
Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.
And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.
Your own thoughts are no less tangled.
Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.
You reach the middle of the aisle.
There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.
Jongseong exhales, long and slow.
“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”
You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”
His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.
“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”
You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.
It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.
“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.
The room seems to tilt.
For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.
“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.
Then his knees buckle.
The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.
Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.
“Jongseong—!”
The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.
His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.
“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.
Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.
AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛
edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3
Gif sets are SO important to me. Yes, please take this scene and break it up into 4 or 6 three second loops that I can study over and over to appreciate the small details of it
in which you and jay are forced to take care of a fake baby for a week.
pairing: football player!jay x fem!reader
wc: 19.4k
cw: high school au, strangers to friends to lovers, forced proximity, themes of academic stress/pressure, a tiny bit of jealousy once, one kiss, mentions of multiple idols, reader is implied to be a year younger than jay, rivals to ?? (secondary characters), friendship dynamics, strong language.
warnings: none, it's all fluff!
a/n: happy jay day! i can't believe he's turning 24, time flies! <3 so, as a gift, i wanted to write a little (or not so little) something for you. i had so much fun writing this, so i hope you'll enjoy it as much as i did!
the bell had barely stopped ringing when ms. choi clapped her hands twice, the sound sharp enough to cut through the usual friday afternoon chatter.
“alright, everyone settle down. this is for both juniors and seniors today. phones away.”
you slide a little lower in your seat, already sensing something painful is about to happen. the shared class period with the seniors had always been a mixed bag — sometimes interesting, sometimes just loud. but today it feels different, almost… dangerous.
ms. choi smiles like she's about to hand out candy, and that's when you know. something big is coming. she may fool others with that sweet smile, but you know better than that.
every time she uses that smile, every time she has that glimpse in her eyes… it means trouble. she's known not only for being a great teacher, but also for her love for “life skills” projects. she always does one. she has done one ever since you started high school. every. single. year.
you can just cross your fingers and hope for the best.
“dear students, this semester we’re doing the baby project,” you hear a loud sigh coming from the back. she rolls her eyes, a little smile on her lips. “yes, mr. kang, the one you’ve all heard horror stories about. you’ll be paired randomly across grade levels. and you'll be given one electronic doll per pair. it cries, it needs feeding, changing, burping, playing — on a completely random schedule, including nights and weekends. just like a real baby,” she explains as she walks around the class. “you’ll keep a shared digital logbook. your combined grade depends on how well you cooperate and how high the doll’s health score stays by sunday night next week.”
“but ms. choi,” yunjin starts, raising her hand. “we're so busy! the drama club is starting rehearsals on monday, and it's 2 hours every day. how can i take care of the baby if i'm supposed to be singing?“
“yeah, same with the debate club. we're going on a tournament next weekend.” sunoo adds.
“and what about the football team?” jay, one of the seniors sitting on the back, cuts in, leaning back in his chair but clearly tense. “nationals are in three weeks. scouts are going to be there.” he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “if i mess that up, i can kiss my scholarship goodbye.”
then, the chaos starts. everybody is talking. there are so many voices in the room you can't even tell what they're saying.
ms. choi claps her hands once, sharp enough to cut through the noise. “alright, alright — everyone, that’s enough.”
the room slowly quiets. she softens her expression slightly.
“you’re all proving my point for me. you’re busy, stressed, juggling a hundred things… welcome to real life, where responsibilities don’t wait until it’s convenient. this is exactly why you’re doing this project. life doesn’t pause when things get busy,” she continues. “you learn how to manage responsibility alongside everything else.” she gestures toward the class. “and just to remind you — this is a paired assignment. so instead of complaining to me, start discussing how you’re going to handle it with your partner.”
yunjin opens his mouth, ready to say something.
“no 'but's,'” she cuts her. “my decision is done. now, let's go with the pairs!”
a collective groan rolls through the room. someone in the back actually whispers “please no.”
ms. choi ignores it and picks up the small bowls of folded papers.
“again, the pairs will be randomly assigned. one junior, one senior. and before you ask, mr. sim, no, there won't be changes accepted.”
“but mr. choi,” you hear jake, one of the seniors, speak. “i'm sure sunghoon and i would make great parents! look at us, handsome, funny, and very good at ta—”
then there's a loud sound, like a smack on the back of his head. then an “ouch!” coming from jake's mouth.
“seems like mr. park. doesn't agree,” ms. choi laughs, shaking her head. “let's keep going then. now, please, when i call your name, come sit with your partner at the front tables so we can go over the rules together.”
your stomach twists. you hate the idea of group projects. even more if you can't go with one of your friends. even more if you have to interact with a senior, as you don't know any of them personally. you glance sideways at kazuha, who is already giving you a sympathetic look from two seats away.
you watch ms. choi rummaging through the papers of each bowl. then, names started getting called.
“kim sunoo and kang taehyun.”
“nakamura kazuha and kim gaeul”
“huh yunjin and park sunghoon.”
you gasp, and yunjin’s eyes go wide.
park sunghoon is the captain of the football team, the 'popular guy.' he's the acclaimed king of the whole school. he's everything, and he can get everything he wants — for example, permission to celebrate private football events at the the covered courtyard behind the school. and yunjin, the president of the drama club, who had been trying to convince the director for months to be able to perform the christmas play at that exact same spot, can't stand him. at all.
you mouth “good luck” at her while she stands up, shoulders squared like she's heading into battle.
then, more names.
you don't pay attention to them. you just glance around the room, making a quick mental list of every single senior who hasn't been named yet.
you see ningning, one of the head cheerleaders. she isn't exactly mean — in fact, she gifted you her lipstick once, saying 'it suited you better' — but she just doesn't talk too much with others outside her friend group. there's jisung, known for being the president of the dance club. he's charismatic, and, according to yunjin who once shared a class with him, very responsible. he'd make a good partner, you think. even tsuki, the bubbly girl from the art club would be a better partner than some irresponsible football player who only thinks about running behind a ball!
but you hear your name, and time stops.
and then—
“…and park jongseong.”
your heart drops straight to your shoes.
park jongseong.
known as jay.
you know the name, of course. everyone does. senior. football player. not the captain — that's sunghoon — but still one of the core guys. tall, dark hair that always looks a little messy after practice, quiet confidence that makes him stand out without trying. he's sitting two rows behind you, same aisle. you have never once spoken to him. not a single word in your entire high school career.
you hear the scrape of a chair behind you. then footsteps.
when you turn, jay is already walking toward the front tables, hands in the pockets of his school jacket. his expression is calm, almost neutral, unfaced, but you catch the tiniest furrow between his brows. like he's processing the same information you are.
ms. choi points at the two empty seats side by side.
“go ahead and sit together.”
you stand up on autopilot, legs feeling a little unsteady. when you reach the table, jay is already there, pulling out the chair next to his. he doesn’t say anything at first — just gives you a small nod.
you sit.
up close he smells faintly like fresh laundry and the mint gum he probably chewed between classes. his knee accidentally bumps yours under the table and he pulls it back quickly.
“uh… hi,” he says, voice low so only you could hear. “i’m jongseong. but you can call me jay.”
you swallow.
“i know,” you answer, then immediately regret how that sounded. “i mean— hi, nice to meet you.”
he gives you a tiny half-smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “nice to meet you, too.” he pauses, staring at you.
after some seconds, you realize he's waiting for you to introduce yourself. “shit, sorry,” you laugh and tell him your name.
when she finishes making the pairs, ms. choi starts explaining the rules to the whole group again, but you can barely focus. the doll will be handed out first thing monday morning. you and jay will have to figure out a schedule for who takes it home each night. the logbook has to be updated every single time the baby needs care — with timestamps and who did what. if the doll’s “health” drops too low, it affects both your grades. no exceptions, even for football practice or club activities.
“cooperation is the whole point,” ms. choi says cheerfully. “this isn’t about being perfect parents. it’s about learning how to work with someone you might not know.”
you risk a glance at jay. he's listening, jaw set, fingers tapping once against the table. when ms. choi finishes and tells everyone they can talk with their partners for the last ten minutes of class, he turns toward you.
“so… we’re doing this,” he says, almost like he's confirming it to himself.
“yeah,” you breathe. “looks like it.”
an awkward silence stretches for two whole seconds.
“i can take it— well, him? her? i don't know, the baby,” you both laugh. “friday night and saturday next week if you want,” he offers. “i have a game on sunday morning, so i can give you the baby then.”
you nod a little too fast. “that works. i can do sunday night. no problem.”
“cool.”
another pause.
“i think i’ve never actually talked to you before,” he admits quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry if this is weird.”
“it’s okay. i haven’t talked to you either.”
he lets out a short laugh under his breath. “great. we’re starting from zero then.”
the bell rings before either of you could say anything else.
you stand up quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. jay does the same, hesitating for half a second like he wants to say more, but then just gives you another small nod.
“see you monday, then.”
“yeah… see you monday, jay.”
you practically run outside the classroom.
the second you step into the hallway, yunjin is already waiting, kazuha and sunoo right behind her like backup.
“oh my god,” yunjin says, eyes sparkling with pure chaos. “you got paired with jay? that jay? senior football jay? he’s on the team with sunghoon, right? you know how much i hate that cocky, arrogant guy. and now i have to deal with him for a whole week because of this stupid doll.” she sighs. “he’s probably going to act like the baby is beneath him or something. i swear if he tries to boss me around i’m going to lose it.”
sunoo grabs your arm, practically bouncing. “i've heard he’s so handsome up close, is that right? did he smell good? tell me he smelled good. but also — taehyun already told me we’re both screwed. he said he doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a baby, and that we are going to tank the grade if the doll starts crying during his football practice or something.”
“you looked like you were about to pass out when ms. choi called your names.” kazuha is quieter, but her lips are twitching into a smile. “for my part… at least gaeul seems really nice — she’s super calm and organized. we were already talking about making a schedule right away. she even offered to take the first night so i can finish my dance practice.”
you groan, covering your face with both hands. “i literally never talked to him before today. he said ‘hi i’m jay’ like we were meeting for the first time at a funeral. and now i have to figure out nights and weekends with a senior who’s worried about scouts and nationals.”
yunjin laughs loudly. “this is going to be the best week of my life. you should’ve seen sunghoon when he realized it was me. he looked traumatized. good. he deserves it after stealing the courtyard spot from drama club twice.”
the four of you start walking toward the lockers, your friends still peppering you with questions.
meanwhile, on the other side of the building, jay is leaning against the wall outside the senior lockers while his friends immediately swarm him.
jake throws an arm around his shoulders, grinning like an idiot. “dude. you got paired with that quiet junior girl. she seems normal enough.”
“you better get along with her, man. nationals are in three weeks and scouts are coming,” sunghoon raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “you can’t afford to lose points on some dumb project. if that doll messes with your sleep or makes you miss extra training, your scholarship is on the line.”
taehyun smirks, leaning against the locker. “exactly. i already told sunoo we’re both screwed if you don’t figure out how to keep that thing quiet during practice. coach is not going to care that you’re playing house.”
jay shoves jake’s arm off, but there’s no real heat in it. his ears are a little red.
“shut up. it’s just a project. we’re not even friends. she seems… normal. nice, i guess. i’ll just make a schedule and get through it. i can’t let this mess with training.”
“still,” sunghoon says, more serious now, “make it work with her. we need you sharp for nationals. don’t blow the scholarship over a fake baby.”
jay rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “you guys are the worst. it's just a doll. it can't be that bad, can it?”
still, as he walks toward the parking lot for practice, he can’t stop replaying the short conversation in his head — the way you’d looked a little nervous but tried to play it cool, the soft way you’d said his name.
he shakes the thought away.
it's just a week taking care of a fake baby.
nothing more.
-------
MONDAY. DAY 1:
the alarm on your phone goes off way too early, but you are already wide awake, stomach twisting with nerves. monday morning. baby project day one. you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror while brushing your teeth, trying to convince yourself it's just a stupid doll. nothing to freak out about. you grab your bag, double-check you have a charger and your notebook, and head to school.
the hallways are louder than usual — everyone buzzing about the pairings from friday. you spot sunoo waving frantically from across the corridor, but you only manage a weak smile before slipping into ms. choi’s classroom.
the seats have been rearranged overnight. instead of the usual rows, there are double desks pushed together. a small sign on the board reads “sit with your assigned partner — no exceptions.”
your eyes find jay immediately. he's already at the desk near the middle, one leg stretched out, scrolling on his phone. his hair looks a little damp from morning practice, and he's wearing the school hoodie with his jersey number on the sleeve. when he notices you, he straightens up and gives you a small nod.
you slide into the seat next to him, bag dropping to the floor with a soft thud.
“good morning, partner,” he says quietly, voice still rough from sleep or maybe from shouting on the field earlier.
“morning,” you reply, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “ready for this?”
“not even a little.” he lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “are you?”
“i barely slept. i kept imagining the baby crying at 3 a.m. and my mom killing me.”
before he can answer, ms. choi walks in carrying a stack of papers and a large box that definitely has the babies inside.
“good morning, parents,” she announces cheerfully. the whole class groans. “yes, i said parents. you’re sitting with your partners because today we start officially. first, fill out this information sheet together. it helps you treat the project seriously. you need to know your child before taking care of them.”
she passes the sheets down the rows. you take one and lay it flat between you and jay.
the questions are exactly as expected, printed in neat black ink:
fill out the birth certificate!
1. name of the parents:
2. is your baby male or female?
3. what is their name?
4. how did you pick out the name?
5. include a picture of the baby with each parent!
jay leans closer to read it, his shoulder brushing yours for a second. “okay… so we need a name. any ideas?”
you shrug, trying not to overthink how close he is. “i don’t know. something simple? like… minjun if it’s a boy, or jiwoo if it’s a girl?”
he nods slowly. “jiwoo sounds nice. easy to say when it’s screaming and crying at midnight.”
you both laugh a little, the sound awkward but genuine.
ms. choi starts handing out the dolls one pair at a time. each comes in a soft gray carrier with adjustable straps and a small blanket tucked inside. when she reaches your desk, she places the carrier in front of jay.
“here you go. treat her gently.”
the second the doll leaves ms. choi’s hands, it lets out a loud, realistic wail — high-pitched and demanding.
jay’s eyes go wide. “holy shit—”
he fumbles with the carrier, nearly knocking it over. you react fast, reaching over and gently lifting the doll out. its tiny plastic face scrunched up, mouth open in another cry. you rock it automatically, the way you saw in those parenting videos online over the weekend.
“shh, it’s okay,” you murmur, bouncing it lightly against your shoulder. the crying stops after a few seconds, leaving only soft cooing sounds from the speaker inside.
jay stares at you, impressed and a little relieved. “you’re good at that.”
“i have a cousin who’s two. lots of practice.” you carefully place the doll back in the carrier, adjusting the blanket. “your turn next time it cries, though.”
he gives you a mock salute. “yes, ma’am.”
ms. choi claps to get everyone’s attention again. “now, while you fill out the sheet, i’ll go over the basics. you must bring the baby to class every single day. you also need to cover the basics. feeding: there’s a bottle in the carrier. hold it at the right angle or the sensor won’t register. diapers: the back panel opens — velcro, very simple. burping: pat the back firmly but gently after feeding. the doll will let you know when it’s done. and, in case you were thinking about it, no, mr. sim, the baby is neither a football ball nor a maraca,” some students laugh. “you can't shake it, play with it, or whatever strange things you're thinking about. you'll lose points for that.”
“what if it doesn't stop crying?” kazuha asks.
“well, you can try a lot of things for that! babies get sleepy, hungry, gassy… you never know! you can also try to get others to stop the crying,” she walks as she explains. “however, if it's too much and you just can't stop it, there's a hidden button on the battery's case. if you press it, the baby will shut down completely. however, it'll mean the project is over, and you'll be penalized for that.”
you look at the baby in the carrier. you don't exactly need a good grade, but it'd help you with . a lot. and, according to what jay mentioned the other day, he needs to get his scholarship. and that involves his grades. so… yeah, shutting the baby down early isn't an option.
“any questions?” ms. choi looks around the class.
sunghoon raises his hand from the back. yunjin, by his side, scofs as she tries to calm the baby. “what if it cries during nationals warm-up?”
ms. choi smiles sweetly. “then you learn to multitask, mr. park. life doesn’t stop for football. and miss huh won't be there to help you all the time.”
jay mutters under his breath, “great. exactly what i needed.”
you both turn back to the sheet, grabbing a pen.
you write down your names as the parents' names.
2. is your baby male or female? female
3. what is his/her name? jiwoo
4. how did you pick out the name? we wanted something simple and easy to say when she’s crying at 3 a.m. and we want to bury her in our backyards
you laugh as jay writes. “you can't say that! we're supposed to be loving, responsible parents!” he hands you his pen. you cross it and write down:
5. how did you pick out the name? we wanted something simple and easy to say when she’s crying at 3 a.m. and we want to bury her in our backyards it just felt right
6. include a picture of the baby with each parent!
jay pulls out his phone. “we should take the pictures now so we don’t forget.”
you nod. he holds the carrier between you while you both lean in. the first photo is awkward — you look tense, jay’s smile is too forced. the second picture comes out better: you are smiling softly at the doll, and jay has relaxed, one hand resting on the edge of the carrier like he's already protecting it.
“that one’s good, way better. we look more… parent-like,” he says, showing you the screen. his thumb hovers near your shoulder in the frame.
you feel your cheeks warm. “yeah. send it to me later? so i can print it out and all that.”
“sure, no problem.”
ms. choi continues explaining the logbook app everyone had to download on friday. “update it every single time. who fed, who changed, how long it took. wednesday’s class will be a parent support group — each pair shares one challenge and one win from the first days. be honest.”
the rest of the period passes in a blur of demonstrations. you practice feeding jiwoo with the bottle while jay times it. he changes the first pretend diaper, cursing softly when the doll makes a fussy sound halfway through. by the end, both of you are laughing more than you expected.
when the bell rings, you pack up quickly. jay lifts the carrier.
“i’ll take her first period. you can have her after lunch. is that okay?”
“sounds good.”
you both head for the door. the second you step into the hallway, jiwoo starts crying again — louder this time, like she's testing you.
“oh no—” jay shifts the carrier, trying to rock it while walking. some students turn their heads to stare at both of you.
you took over, bouncing her gently. “shh, jiwoo, it’s okay. we’re right here.”
the crying doesn’t stop. you and jay end up standing against the lockers for a full five minutes, taking turns rocking and patting her back. by the time she quiets, the hallway is almost empty.
“we’re late,” you say, checking your phone.
jay grimaces. “yeah. coach is gonna kill me if this happens during practice later. come on — i’ll walk you to your next class.”
you end up sitting together again in the shared second-period room. you hold the carrier the entire time, heart racing every time jiwoo makes even the smallest sound. jay keeps glancing over, ready to help, but the doll stays quiet. his friends who also share this class — jake and taehyun — are sitting a few rows back and keep whispering jokes you can’t quite hear, but jay shoots them a glare that shuts them up.
lunch is the real test.
you decide to have lunch together. “just in case the baby decides to cry more,” jay says.
you find an empty table near the windows. jay sets the carrier between you, and you both stare at the food on your trays like it's a peace offering.
“so,” he starts, poking at his rice, “how’s your morning been besides the crying?”
“terrifying. i kept thinking she was going to start during the quiz in history.”
he chuckles. “same. i had her during math and she made this little whimper right when i was solving an equation on the board. the whole class turned around.”
before you can reply, jake walks closer, sunghoon and kai trailing behind.
“look at the happy little family,” jake teases, leaning on the table. “jay, you holding up okay? or is the scholarship already crying?”
sunghoon smirks, arms crossed. “don’t drop her during practice, man. coach said no excuses.”
“she’s cute though. jiwoo, right? suits her. loud like you on the field.” kai grins.
jay rolls his eyes but there's no real annoyance. “go away. we’re trying to eat.”
your friends appear seconds later. yunjin slides into the seat next to you, carrying her own baby, eyeing the boys warily.
“everything okay here?” she asks, voice loud enough for them to hear. “need me to scare them off?” she grins. “by the way, sunghoon, sunghoon jr. says he wants his dad to change his diaper. right now.”
“the baby can't even ta—”
“i said right now.” yunjin's expression is serious. sunghoon rolls his eyes but takes the carrier. “he says 'thanks, daddy!'” she smirks.
kazuha sits more gracefully, glancing at the carrier with soft eyes. “she’s quiet now. good job. gaeul has our baby, so i'm off-duty. for now.”
sunoo plops down across from you, already pulling out his phone. “can i take a picture for the group chat? you two look like exhausted parents already.”
“sunoo, no.” you groan, trying to stop him.
but he snaps one anyway, jiwoo sleeping peacefully between you and jay.
the boys eventually wander off after more light teasing, leaving you and jay alone again with your friends hovering protectively nearby.
“they’re not that bad,” you say quietly once they were gone.
jay raises an eyebrow. “they’re idiots. but yeah… they mean well. they're mostly worried about nationals. scouts are coming, and i can’t afford to look sloppy because i’m sleep-deprived from a doll.”
you nod, understanding more than he probably realizes. “that makes sense. i… didn’t know the scholarship part was so serious.”
“it is. football is my way out — better college, better future. my dad travels all the time for work, so it’s mostly on me to make it happen.” he shrugs, but his eyes stay serious. “that’s why i was stressing in class on friday. if this project tanks my focus…”
“we’ll make it work,” you say softly. “i don’t want to mess it up for you either.”
he looks at you then — really looks, like he's trying to decipher something — and his expression softens. “thanks. most people would just complain about the extra work.”
the rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. after lunch, jay takes jiwoo to his remaining classes. you keep checking your phone for updates in the logbook app. he is surprisingly diligent — every feeding and diaper change logged with short notes like “took 8 minutes, she calmed down fast” or “almost dropped the bottle when jake scared me.”
when the final bell rings, you meet him by the main entrance. he is waiting with the carrier slung carefully over one shoulder, looking a little tired but steady.
“hey,” he says. “are you done for the day?”
“yeah.”
he hesitates then, shifting his weight. “look… i drove here today. my car is in the lot. if you want, i can give you a ride home. so you don’t have to take the baby on the bus. it’s probably loud and crowded.”
you blink, surprised. “really? you don’t mind?”
“not at all. plus, it gives us time to figure out the rest of the week’s schedule without rushing.”
you nod before you could overthink it. “okay. thank you.”
the walk to the parking lot is quiet at first. jay carries the carrier the whole way, checking on jiwoo every few steps. his car is a simple black sedan — nothing flashy, but clean inside. he opens the passenger door for you, then carefully places the carrier in the back seat, buckling it in like it was a real child.
once you are both settled and he starts the engine, the silence feels heavier.
“so,” he says after pulling out of the lot, “real talk. how are we actually doing this? i have practice every day after school until six or seven. sometimes later if coach is pushing us for nationals.”
you turn slightly in your seat to face him. “i can take her most school nights if you need to stay late. but weekends might be trickier. you have that sunday match, right?”
“yeah. early morning. i can do saturday daytime if you want the evening.”
you pull out your phone and open the notes app, making a quick shared schedule. “okay… you take friday night and saturday like we said. i’ll do sunday night. then we can switch off during the week depending on practice.”
he glances over at you, one hand on the wheel. “you’re really organized about this.”
“i overthink everything,” you admit with a small laugh. “plus, i don’t want to be the reason you lose sleep before scouts come.”
jay is quiet for a moment, eyes on the road. “i thought you’d be annoyed getting paired with some random football guy. most juniors don’t really talk to us.”
“i thought you’d be annoyed getting paired with a quiet junior who doesn’t know anything about football.”
he smiles at that — a real one this time, small but warm. “you’re not what i expected.”
“what did you expect?”
“someone who’d complain the whole time. or… try to flirt to make it less awkward.” he shrugs. “instead you’re just… calm. you calmed jiwoo down like it was nothing this morning.”
you feel your face heat up. “i was panicking inside.”
“it didn’t show.”
the conversation flows easier after that. he tells you about how he moved here four years ago, how football became his main focus because it gave him structure when his dad was always traveling. you share how your parents work long shifts, so you are used to handling things on your own. how your small friend group — yunjin, kazuha, sunoo — is basically your second family.
“yunjin’s already plotting how to survive sunghoon,” you say, laughing. “she keeps saying he’s going to act like the baby is a football he can just hand off.”
jay chuckles. “sunghoon’s actually decent when he’s not being captain mode. he’s just stressed too. we all are. scholarship stuff hits different when you’re the one who has to make it happen.”
you nod. “i get that. i’m not on any big path like that, but i still stress about grades and what comes after high school. this project feels like a sneak peek at how messy real life is.”
“exactly.” he pauses at a red light and looks over at you. “thanks for not making it weird. or at least… for making the weird parts manageable.”
“same. i thought you’d be all stuck-up jock energy. but you’re actually… nice. and you care about the project even if it’s because of football.”
he rubs the back of his neck again, a habit you are starting to notice. “yeah. can’t let a doll ruin my shot. but… it’s not just that anymore. it’s kind of fun figuring it out with you.”
the light turns green. he drives on, but the air in the car feels lighter somehow.
when he pulls up in front of your house, he parks but doesn’t unlock the doors right away.
“i’ll text you the log updates tonight if she wakes up. and… thanks for the ride. seriously.”
“anytime.” he reaches back and carefully hands you the carrier. jiwoo is sleeping soundly. “see you tomorrow.”
“see you tomorrow, jay.”
you step out, carrier in hand, and watch him drive away. your heart is beating a little faster than usual, but not from panic this time.
maybe this week won’t be so bad after all.
-------
TUESDAY. DAY 2:
the soft glow of your phone screen cuts through the darkness of your room at exactly 2:07 a.m. jiwoo’s cry blares through the speaker — sharp, insistent, and way too real for a plastic doll. you groan, rolling over and fumbling to grab her from the carrier beside your bed. your eyes are blurry, your hair is a mess, and every muscle protests as you sit up.
“shh, jiwoo, please,” you whisper, rocking her gently against your shoulder while you tap the feeding button on the app. the doll quiets for a few seconds, then starts up again. you try burping her next, patting her back with careful, practiced motions. it takes almost fifteen minutes before the crying finally stops and the logbook updates with a green checkmark.
you snap a quick screenshot of the timestamp and the note you type in — “2:12 a.m. — fed and burped, took 14 minutes, i handled it” — and send it to jay with a simple text.
you: jiwoo decided 2 a.m. was party time. screenshot attached. hope you’re sleeping better than me.
no reply. his status shows “last seen 11:47 p.m.” he is probably dead asleep after practice. you sigh, set the phone down, and try to drift off again, but jiwoo fusses twice more before your alarm finally goes off at 6:30 a.m. by the time you drag yourself out of bed, you feel like you have already lived a full day.
the morning air is crisp as you walk to school, carrier strapped across your chest like a tired parent. jiwoo stays mercifully quiet for the walk, but your eyes are heavy. you spot your friends near the main gate and wave weakly.
kazuha stands there first, her posture still graceful even with dark circles under her eyes and the carrier holding baby eunchae balanced on her hip. she offers you a small, exhausted smile.
“morning,” she says softly. “or… whatever this is.”
you let out a tired laugh. “exactly. jiwoo woke me at 2 a.m. and then again at 4. how’s eunchae?”
kazuha adjusts the blanket around her doll. “she was perfect until 3:30. gaeul texted me the whole time though. she said she'll take her tonight so we take turns. she’s really good at this. we even made a shared playlist of lullabies last night.”
sunoo appears next, practically dragging his feet, baby carrier slung over one shoulder like it weighs a thousand pounds. his usually bright face looks pale and puffy.
“taehyun is the worst,” he announces dramatically, flopping against the wall beside you. “he had the baby last night and barely slept. he texted me at 1 a.m. saying ‘how do you make it stop’ with like ten crying emojis. i had to walk him through feeding and burping over voice notes while half-asleep. this morning he looked like a zombie in the hallway and told me we’re both going to fail if this keeps up.”
you wince in sympathy. “at least he tried. jay didn’t even answer my text at 2 a.m. since he was probably dead asleep.”
yunjin storms up last, her carrier bouncing with every angry step. baby sunghoon jr. — he had insisted on the name yesterday just to annoy her — is tucked inside, quiet for once.
“that idiot sunghoon,” she starts immediately, voice rising. “he promised he’d meet me right at the school door this morning to take the baby for first period. i waited five whole minutes like an idiot while sunghoon jr. started fussing. nothing. no text, no sign of him. when i finally found him near the lockers he just shrugged and said ‘practice ran late, sorry.’ sorry? i had drama rehearsal notes to review! i’m so tired i could cry, and he’s acting like the baby is not a demonic object capable of breaking your eardrums.” she huffs, crossing her arms. “we’re supposed to be a team and he’s already dropping the ball. literally.”
kazuha places a gentle hand on yunjin’s shoulder. “i mean… at least you got through the night. gaeul and i split everything evenly. it actually felt… nice? like we were figuring it out together.”
sunoo nods, yawning widely. “taehyun kept apologizing in the chat this morning. he said he’ll take extra nights this week to make up for it. still, i feel like a single parent already.”
you adjust jiwoo’s blanket, smiling tiredly at their complaints. “jay at least offered to take her during his morning classes. but yeah… 2 a.m. hits different when you have to be functional by 8.”
the four of you stand there for a few more minutes, trading war stories like exhausted parents at a playground. yunjin keeps muttering threats about making sunghoon do all the night shifts, sunoo dramatically reenacts taehyun’s panicked voice notes, and kazuha quietly suggests making a group chat just for “surviving the project” tips. the conversation feels comforting in its shared misery, and for a moment the weight of the carrier on your chest feels a little lighter.
the morning classes drag. you sit with jay in mr. kim’s room, but he arrives a minute late, hair still messy from rushing. he slides into the seat beside you, eyes apologetic.
“sorry about last night,” he whispers as soon as mr. kim starts talking. “i crashed hard after evening practice. saw your text this morning — you handled it like a pro.”
you shrug, keeping your voice low. “it’s fine. she settled eventually. how did your night go?”
“pretty good, slept a lot. but… i took care of everything on the app. when you fed jiwoo, when you changed her, the whole thing. logged it all.” he pulls out his phone and shows you the app. “see? i even added a note that you did the 2 a.m. burping.”
you smile despite the tiredness. “thanks. teamwork, i guess.”
he nods, but his expression turns more serious. “i’m trying not to let this mess with training. coach already warned us about distractions before nationals.”
throughout the rest of the morning, your phone buzzes every so often with texts from jay.
jay: she’s being good in history. just made a small fuss during the quiz but i rocked her under the desk.
you: lucky. she’s sleeping now but i keep checking the health score every five minutes.
jay: same. we’re at 92%. not bad for day two.
jay: by the way, are you free after lunch? i have optional practice at 1 but i can skip if we need to handle something.
the messages feel easy, almost natural now. you catch yourself smiling at your screen more than once.
right before lunch ends, disaster strikes. you check the app while walking to your next class and freeze. jiwoo’s health score has dropped sharply to 76%. a red warning flashes: “baby showing signs of illness — needs immediate care and rest.”
your stomach sinks. you text jay quickly.
you: jiwoo’s sick. health at 76%. what do we do?
jay: meet me at the lockers after the bell. we’ll figure it out.
when you reach the spot, he is already there, carrier in hand even though it is your turn. his face is focused, brows drawn together.
“the app says she needs quiet time and extra feedings today,” he explains, voice low. “if we ignore it, the score keeps dropping. i already told coach i’m skipping the 1 p.m. optional session. i’ll make it up at the 6 p.m. full practice — extra sprints or whatever he wants.”
you bite your lip. “i was supposed to go to foreign language club. but i can skip too. we can take her somewhere quiet.”
he nods, relieved. “music room is usually empty after lunch. let’s go there.”
the two of you spend the next hour tucked away in the small practice room at the end of the arts hallway. jiwoo fusses on and off, but you take turns holding her, feeding her the special “medicine” drops from the kit, and logging every action. jay sits cross-legged on the floor beside you, back against the wall, gently rocking the carrier with one foot while you update the logbook.
“this feels weirdly real,” you murmur after a while, watching jiwoo’s lights finally shift back toward green. “like we’re actually worried about her getting better.”
jay chuckles softly, running a hand through his hair. “tell me about it. i keep thinking if her score drops too low it’s going to look bad on my record. but also… i don’t want to let you down either.”
you glance at him, surprised by how honest he sounds. “you’re not. we’re both trying.”
he offers a small smile. “yeah. we are.”
by the time the health score climbs back to 89%, the afternoon is half gone. you both head to your separate classes, but the shared worry lingers like a quiet thread between you.
after school, jay finds you near the exit.
“practice is at 6,” he says, shifting the carrier to you. “but come watch if you can? the field’s open. you can bring jiwoo and hand her off to me after. that way i get some time with her before the real session starts, and you don’t have to wait around alone.”
you hesitate only a second. “okay. i’ll be there.”
the bleachers are mostly empty when you arrive, just a few other students scattered around. you sit a few rows up, carrier beside you, watching the team warm up. jay spots you almost immediately and jogs over during a water break, sweaty and breathing hard but grinning.
“you came,” he says, wiping his face with the bottom of his jersey. up close you notice the way his shoulders look broader in the practice gear, the small scar on his nose you had never noticed before.
“figured it was only fair after you skipped optional practice for her,” you reply, carefully handing over the carrier. jiwoo is quiet for now, lulled by the fresh air.
he takes her gently, adjusting the straps like he has done it a hundred times already. “thanks. i’ll bring her back after this set. coach is letting me sit out the last drills if i do extra conditioning later.”
you watch as he jogs back to the field, carrier carefully set down near the bench where the manager can keep an eye on it. the boys notice immediately. jake yells something teasing across the grass, sunghoon shakes his head with a smirk, but jay just flips them off without missing a beat. seeing him balance football and the doll makes something warm settle in your chest.
practice runs long, but right at 7:30 jay waves you down. he is breathing heavily, hair sticking to his forehead, but he looks energized rather than exhausted.
“we’re done for now,” he says, slinging his duffel over one shoulder and taking the carrier with the other. “my house is closer than yours. do you wanna come over? my mom’s home and she’s been dying to see the baby everyone’s talking about. plus we can eat something real before i drive you back.”
you agree before the nerves can talk you out of it. the walk to his car is short, and soon you are pulling up to a neat two-story house on a quiet street. jay parks in the driveway and kills the engine.
“warning — my mom is going to be excited,” he says with a sheepish smile. “my dad is traveling again, so it’s just us.”
the second you step inside, the smell of something warm and savory greets you. mrs. park appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes lighting up the moment she sees the carrier.
“oh my goodness, you must be her!” she exclaims, voice bright and welcoming. “jay told me all about the project. come in, come in. and this must be little jiwoo!”
she coos over the doll immediately, asking to hold the carrier while you both take off your shoes. jay watches with an embarrassed but fond expression, rubbing the back of his neck.
“mom, please stop acting like that's a real baby. and please, don’t scare her away on day two.”
“nonsense. this is my grandaughter now. and that poor girl is already surviving parenting with you — i'm sure she’s tough.” mrs. park winks at you. “you two look exhausted. sit down. i’ll heat up some ramen. real food, not that cafeteria stuff.”
jay leads you to the living room, where you both collapse onto the couch. he takes jiwoo for a bit, rocking her absently while you text your friends quick updates. the house feels lived-in and comfortable — football trophies on a shelf, family photos on the wall, a stack of textbooks on the coffee table.
“this is nice,” you say quietly, watching him with the baby. “different from school.”
he glances up, a softer look in his eyes. “yeah. at school everyone sees the football guy. here it’s just… me trying to cook the best ramen ever.”
true to his word, he heads to the kitchen a few minutes later and returns with two steaming bowls of instant ramen, perfectly prepared with an egg and green onions on top. he sets one in front of you, then sits close enough that your knees almost touch, still holding jiwoo in one arm.
“here. eat before she decides it’s crying time again.”
you take the bowl gratefully, the warmth spreading through your tired body. “thank you. seriously. i didn’t expect any of this today.”
he shrugs, but his smile is genuine. “neither did i. but it’s not so bad having someone to do this with. makes the scholarship stress feel a little less heavy.”
you talk while you eat — about his upcoming match, your favorite subjects, the way yunjin is plotting revenge on sunghoon, how taehyun apparently sang lullabies badly over voice note last night. jay laughs more freely here, in his own space, the reserved jock facade melting away into someone thoughtful and a little shy when he catches you watching him.
after dinner, mrs. park insists on taking a photo of the three of you — you, jay, and jiwoo — for her own memories. jay protests half-heartedly but ends up smiling anyway.
when it is finally time to leave, he drives you home through the quiet streets, windows down just enough to let in the cool evening air. jiwoo sleeps in the back the whole way.
“thanks for today,” he says as he pulls up to your house. “skipping practice, coming over… all of it. i know it’s extra for you.”
you unbuckle, turning to face him. “i wanted to. you're… pretty nice, actually.”
he meets your eyes, something soft and new flickering there. “you’re pretty nice, too.”
the moment stretches for a second longer than it should. then jiwoo makes a small sound in her sleep and the spell breaks.
“text me when you get her settled tonight,” you say quietly.
“i will. goodnight, sleep well.”
“night. try to sleep.” you laugh softly.
you step out and walk toward your house, watching his taillights disappear down the street. your heart feels fuller than it did this morning, the exhaustion mixed with a quiet, growing warmth. day two is over, but something between you and jay has quietly begun to shift — slow, steady, and surprisingly real.
-------
WEDNESDAY. DAY 3:
the morning light filters through your curtains as you get ready for school, jiwoo’s carrier already waiting by the door from last night’s hand-off. jay had taken her after he dropped you home yesterday, and you had fallen asleep surprisingly fast, knowing she was with him. your phone buzzes with a single text from him at 7:12 a.m.
jay: on my way to school. jiwoo survived the night. barely. see you in class.
you smile at the message, a tiny flutter in your chest that you quickly brush off as leftover tiredness. you grab your bag and head out, the carrier feeling lighter today for some reason.
when you walk into ms. choi’s classroom for first period, jay is already there, slumped a little in his seat at your assigned double desk. his eyes have dark circles underneath, his hair is messier than usual, and he is rubbing his face with both hands like he can wipe the exhaustion away. the carrier sits between your spots, jiwoo quiet inside for now.
you slide into the chair next to him, setting your bag down gently.
“morning,” you say softly, studying his face. “you look… really tired.”
he lets out a low chuckle, voice rough and sleepy. “yeah. i didn’t sleep much. jiwoo decided 1:30 a.m., 3:45 a.m., and 5:20 a.m. were all perfect times to scream. i fed her, changed her, burped her — the whole routine. at one point i had to knock on my mom’s door and ask for backup because she wouldn’t settle. mom rocked her for like twenty minutes while i logged everything.”
your eyebrows shoot up. “why didn’t you text me? i could’ve talked you through it or at least stayed up with you over messages.”
jay shakes his head, offering a small, genuine smile that makes the tiredness in his eyes soften. “i thought about it. but you handled the 2 a.m. shift on monday night, and you have her all day today. i wanted you to actually sleep. you’ve been good about this whole thing — didn’t seem fair to drag you into another rough night when i could handle it.”
you feel a warm pull in your chest at his words, something gentle and considerate that you hadn’t expected from the quiet football senior. “that’s… really sweet of you. but next time, text me anyway. we’re supposed to be a team, right?”
he nods, leaning back in his chair. “yeah. a team. i’ll remember that.”
before you can say more, ms. choi claps her hands at the front of the room, her usual bright energy filling the space. the desks are arranged in a loose circle today, pairs sitting side by side.
“good morning, everyone! welcome to our first parent support group session. today we’re going to share — honestly — one challenge and one win from the first two days of the project. no sugarcoating. this is about learning how to communicate and support each other through real-life messiness. we’ll go around the circle. volunteers first, or i’ll pick.”
the room fills with a mix of groans and nervous laughs. sunoo raises his hand immediately, looking like he has been waiting to vent.
ms. choi nods at him. “kim sunoo and kang taehyun — go ahead.”
sunoo sighs dramatically, gesturing to taehyun who sits beside him with equally tired eyes. “our challenge is that we’re both terrible at this and might actually fail. taehyun had her monday night and texted me panicked voice notes because he couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t stop crying. i had to guide him like a customer service rep at 1 a.m. last night she woke up three times and we both barely slept. we’re worried we won’t make it to the end of the week without the health score tanking.”
taehyun rubs the back of his neck, adding in his calm but deadpan voice, “yeah. the challenge is sleep deprivation and my complete lack of baby instincts. the win is… we’re still at 84% health and we haven’t thrown the doll out the window yet. small victories.”
the class laughs lightly. ms. choi smiles encouragingly. “honest. good. next?”
yunjin jumps in without waiting, her voice sharp but tired. baby sunghoon jr. rests in the carrier between her and sunghoon, who looks mildly guilty.
“challenge: my partner thinks the baby is an optional accessory he can pick up when it fits his football schedule,” yunjin says, shooting sunghoon a pointed look. “he promised to meet me at the door yesterday morning and didn’t show. i waited, the baby fussed, and i had to handle it alone before rehearsal. he’s great on the field but apparently coordination off it is a struggle.”
sunghoon clears his throat, voice low. “challenge accepted. i messed up the hand-off. win is that last night i took a night shift so she could sleep, and the health score actually went up. we’re learning… slowly.”
yunjin huffs but there’s a tiny reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “fine. that part was decent.”
next come kazuha and gaeul. kazuha speaks first, her voice calm and measured as always.
“our challenge was the random crying during my dance practice yesterday, but we worked around it. win is that we actually enjoy teaming up. gaeul is super organized — we made a shared calendar and even a playlist of soft songs for when the baby gets fussy. health score is at 95%. it feels nice working together.”
gaeul nods, smiling warmly at kazuha. “exactly. no big drama, just steady progress. we’re both getting better at reading the cues.”
more pairs share — some funny stories about dolls crying in the middle of tests, others about late-night arguments over whose turn it was. then ms. choi’s eyes land on you and jay.
“go ahead — your turn.”
you glance at jay. he gives you a small nod, like it’s okay if you start. you take a breath.
“challenge… the nights are harder than i thought. jiwoo woke me at 2 a.m. monday, and jay had a rough one last night too. we’re both tired, and balancing it with classes and his football schedule is tricky. but the win is that we’re actually communicating. he skipped optional practice yesterday to help when she got ‘sick,’ and we got the health score back up together. we’re… managing. better than i expected.”
jay leans forward slightly, voice steady but quieter than usual because of how worn out he is.
“yeah. challenge is the sleep and making sure this doesn’t mess with nationals prep — scouts are watching. win is she’s really good at calming jiwoo down fast, and she’s been flexible with the schedule even when i have practice. we’re figuring it out as a team. health at 89% this morning. not perfect, but we’re not failing.”
ms. choi nods approvingly. “honest and balanced. that’s what this is about — supporting each other when life gets busy. good work, you two.”
the support group wraps up with a few more pairs, and then ms. choi reviews some tips for the rest of the week. the rest of the morning feels lighter after the sharing session. you and jay sit together in the next class, trading quiet comments about the other pairs’ stories. he looks less weighed down now that he has talked about the rough night.
lunch arrives, and instead of sitting with your separate friends, you both naturally head to the same table near the windows again. jay carries the carrier this time, setting it carefully between you. jiwoo stays mostly quiet, and he handles a small fuss with surprising ease — rocking her gently while you unpack your food.
“you’re getting really good at that,” you say, watching him pat her back with the right rhythm.
he shrugs, but there is a small proud smile on his lips. “practice makes perfect, i guess. last night was rough, but this morning she only cried once and settled fast when i fed her. mom helped with tips too — she said i was holding her too tense at first.”
you laugh softly. “your mom seemed really excited about the project yesterday.”
“she is. keeps asking for updates like it’s a real grandkid.” he pauses, glancing at you. “she liked you, by the way. said you seem kind and level-headed. high praise from her.”
your cheeks warm a little at that. “tell her thanks. the ramen was good too.”
the conversation flows easily over lunch — about how sunoo and taehyun are dramatically bonding over their shared exhaustion, how yunjin is slowly warming up to sunghoon despite her complaints, and how kazuha and gaeul make the whole thing look effortless. jay talks a bit more about football, the pressure of the upcoming match, and how skipping optional practice yesterday actually made him focus better in the evening session because he wasn’t resenting the project.
“it’s weird,” he admits, taking a bite of his food. “i thought this would be a total distraction, but having someone to share the load with makes it feel less like a chore.”
you nod, feeling those small butterflies again as you watch him interact with jiwoo. “same. i was nervous about being paired with a senior i didn’t know, but you’re… easy to talk to.”
he meets your eyes for a moment, something soft flickering there before he looks back at the carrier. “you too.”
the afternoon classes pass without any major jiwoo meltdowns. you take her for most of them while jay attends his, but he texts you updates and silly memes about tired parents whenever he can. by the final bell, the day feels surprisingly nice — productive, calm, and warmer than the chaotic start of the week.
as you pack up for the last class of the day, jay appears beside your locker.
“i’ll walk you,” he says simply, taking the carrier from you even though it is your turn.
you blink. “it’s out of your way though. your class is on the other side of the building.”
he shrugs, adjusting the straps on his shoulder. “doesn’t matter. we can talk a bit more. plus, jiwoo’s been good all afternoon — i want to make sure she stays that way until the hand-off.”
you fall into step beside him, the hallway buzzing around you but feeling distant. the conversation stays light — favorite snacks for late-night study sessions, funny stories from his team practices, how you and your friends sometimes do convenience store runs at midnight. every so often his arm brushes yours when he shifts the carrier, and each time a small spark of butterflies flutters in your stomach.
when you reach the door of your classroom, he stops and hands the carrier back carefully.
“here. she’s all yours for the rest of the day. text me if she gives you trouble.”
you take it, fingers brushing his for a brief second. “thanks for walking me. and for last night… even if you didn’t text.”
he smiles, that half-smile that is becoming familiar. “anytime. see you tomorrow.”
“see you tomorrow, jay.”
you watch him walk away down the hallway, shoulders a little straighter despite the tiredness. as you step into class and sit down, the butterflies linger — quiet, unexpected, but definitely there. the project is forcing you two to spend time together, but the way he chose to let you sleep, the way he walks you even when it is inconvenient, the easy conversations… it is starting to feel like more than just a shared grade.
wednesday ends on a gentle note, the kind that leaves you replaying small moments in your head long after the final bell.
-------
THURSDAY. DAY 4:
the night passes smoother than the previous ones. jiwoo only wakes you once, around 1:40 a.m., with a short, fussy cry that you handle quickly. you feed her, burp her, and rock her back to sleep in under ten minutes, logging everything neatly in the app before crawling back under the covers. when your alarm goes off in the morning you actually feel somewhat rested — a small win that makes the walk to school feel lighter.
you meet jay at the usual spot outside ms. choi’s classroom. he looks better today, the dark circles under his eyes faded a bit, and he gives you a genuine smile when he sees you approaching with the carrier.
“morning,” he says, voice still a little husky from sleep. “how was she last night?”
“surprisingly good,” you reply, handing the carrier over for his morning classes. “only one wake-up and she settled fast. i think we’re getting the hang of her patterns.”
he nods, adjusting the straps carefully. “that’s a relief. i had a decent night too after the rough one yesterday. thanks for taking the full shift today — practice is going to be brutal later.”
the morning classes go by without any major incidents. jiwoo stays mostly calm in your care, and jay texts you occasional updates from his side, including a funny photo of her “sleeping” on his desk during a break. the shared logbook fills with small notes back and forth, and the health score hovers steadily in the high 80s.
by the time lunch ends and afternoon classes begin, the schedule clash becomes obvious. jay has mandatory football practice starting at 6 p.m. — right when jiwoo’s app starts giving warning beeps about needing attention. you check your phone during the last period and see the health score dipping slightly. you make a quick decision.
after the final bell, you grab the carrier and head straight to the football field instead of going home. the late afternoon sun is warm on your back as you walk across the grass, the distant sound of whistles and shouts growing louder. a few players are already warming up, stretching and jogging drills.
you spot jay near the bench, helmet off, talking to coach. he turns when he hears footsteps and his face lights up the moment he sees you — eyes widening slightly, shoulders relaxing, a bright, surprised smile breaking across his face.
“hey,” he calls, jogging over immediately. sweat already dots his forehead, and his practice jersey clings a little to his chest. “you came all the way here?”
you shrug, trying to play it casual even as your heart does a small flip at how happy he looks. “the app said she needs care soon, and your practice clashes. figured i’d bring her so you can take a turn during water break. didn’t want the score to drop because of timing.”
he takes the carrier gently from you, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. “you’re a lifesaver. seriously. coach is strict about focus today, but water breaks are every twenty minutes. i can handle her then.”
before you can respond, sunghoon and jake wander over, helmets tucked under their arms, matching grins already forming.
“well, well,” jake says, voice loud and teasing. “look who decided to bring the baby to practice. jay, you lighting up like that when she shows up? that’s new.”
sunghoon crosses his arms, smirking as he eyes the way jay is carefully adjusting the carrier on his own shoulder. “yeah. i’ve never seen you smile that big during warm-ups. usually you’re all focused and grumpy. now one junior with a doll shows up and suddenly you’re glowing.”
jay rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears turn pink. “shut up. we actually care about this project. unlike some captains who can’t even meet their partner at the door on time.”
sunghoon laughs, not bothered. “touché. but seriously, man — you two are starting to look like actual parents showing up to support each other. it’s cute.”
jake wiggles his eyebrows. “cute and dangerous for your focus. coach is gonna notice if you keep glancing at the bleachers every five seconds.”
jay shoves jake’s shoulder lightly, but he is smiling despite himself. “you two are the worst. go run laps or something.”
the teasing intensifies for a few more seconds until coach blows the whistle, calling everyone back to drills. jay hands the carrier back to you for now, giving you a quick, grateful nod.
“i’ll come find you at the next water break. thanks again for coming.”
you find a spot on the lower bleachers, close enough to watch but not in the way. practice is intense — sprints, tackling dummies, passing routes. you keep an eye on jiwoo, feeding her when she starts to fuss and logging it right away. the health score climbs back up steadily.
during the first water break, jay jogs straight over, breathing hard, grabbing his bottle with one hand while reaching for the carrier with the other. he handles jiwoo with surprising gentleness for someone who just finished running drills, rocking her lightly while taking quick sips of water.
“is she good?” he asks between breaths, sweat dripping down his temple.
“yeah. she calmed down fast when i fed her. you’re getting really natural with her now.”
he grins, tired but proud. “thanks to you. team effort, remember?”
the break ends too soon, and he hands her back before jogging off again. you watch him rejoin the team, noticing how sunghoon claps him on the back and says something that makes jay shake his head with a laugh.
the second water break comes, and this time ningning — one of the head cheerleaders — walks over just as jay approaches you. she is in her practice uniform, ponytail swinging, bright smile on her face. she stops right beside jay, barely glancing at you or the baby.
“hey jay,” ningning says, voice sweet and flirty, tilting her head. “you looked really good out there today. that last route you ran? impressive. maybe after practice you can show me some tips? i’ve been wanting to get better at… coordination.”
she steps a little closer, ignoring the carrier in your hands and the way jay is clearly focused on you. a tiny, unexpected spark of jealousy flares in your chest — sharp and warm at the same time. you hate how it feels, but you can’t stop it. ningning is confident, popular, the type who fits perfectly with the football crowd. you are just… you, standing here with a fake baby like an awkward parent.
jay barely hesitates. he shifts closer to you, one hand lightly touching the edge of the carrier as if to anchor himself.
“thanks, ningning, but i’m good,” he says politely but firmly, voice steady. “i've got practice, then i have to handle this project with her. we’re kind of busy with the baby schedule.”
ningning’s smile falters for a second, her eyes flicking to you and then to jiwoo. “oh… right. the doll thing. well, if you change your mind later—”
“i won’t,” jay cuts in gently but clearly, offering her a small nod. “but good luck with your cheer stuff.”
she walks away with a little wave, but the flirtation is obviously shut down. jay turns back to you immediately, expression softening.
“sorry about that,” he says quietly, taking the carrier again for the last few minutes of his break. “she’s always like that. doesn’t mean anything.”
you swallow, the jealousy fading as quickly as it came, replaced by a warmer flutter. “it’s fine. you didn’t have to… i mean, you could’ve talked to her.”
he shakes his head, looking at you directly. “nah. we’re doing this together. plus, i’d rather figure out how to keep jiwoo’s score up than worry about cheer tips right now.”
coach’s whistle blows again. jay hands the carrier back, his fingers brushing yours once more.
“stay if you can? after practice i’ll drive you home again — unless you have plans.”
you nod, heart beating a little faster. “i’ll stay.”
the rest of practice drags on, but you find yourself watching jay more than the drills — the way he moves with focus and energy, the quick smiles he shoots toward the bleachers when he thinks you are looking. when practice finally ends, he jogs over, hair damp with sweat, grabbing his bag and the carrier in one smooth motion.
“ready?” he asks, voice tired but content.
“yeah.”
as you walk toward the parking lot together, the teasing from sunghoon and jake echoes faintly behind you — “look at the happy family leaving together!” — but jay just laughs it off, shoulder bumping yours lightly.
thursday leaves you with a quiet realization: the jealousy you felt was small, but real. and the way jay shut it down without hesitation makes those butterflies feel a little stronger, a little harder to ignore.
-------
FRIDAY. DAY 5:
the night slips by in a haze of quiet routine. jiwoo wakes only once, around midnight, with a soft whimper that you soothe almost instantly. you rock her against your shoulder in the dark, whispering nonsense words until she settles, the carrier lights blinking green again. the logbook entry feels routine now — “12:07 a.m. quick rock and burp, settled in 4 minutes.” you fall back asleep faster than you have all week, the exhaustion from earlier days softening into something almost manageable. when morning comes, the house is quiet, your parents already gone for their shifts, and you feel a strange sense of calm as you prepare for school.
friday had left a lingering warmth in your chest — the way jay had shut down ningning so quickly at the field, the easy way he had handed jiwoo back with that soft half-smile, the texts that kept coming even after practice. you catch yourself replaying those moments while you walk to school, the carrier light on your chest. your friends are waiting at the gate again, their faces a mix of tired smiles and dramatic sighs.
“jiwoo was an angel last night,” you tell them, adjusting the blanket. “only one wake-up and it was over fast. i actually got decent sleep.”
kazuha nods, her own carrier steady. “same with eunchae. gaeul and i are in a good rhythm now. she even sent me a good-morning text with a lullaby suggestion.”
sunoo groans theatrically but grins. “taehyun took her again and only panicked once. he’s starting to brag about his burping technique. it’s cute in a chaotic way.”
yunjin crosses her arms, though her eyes sparkle with reluctant amusement. “sunghoon actually texted me at 11 p.m. asking if the baby needed anything before he crashed. progress? maybe. but he still calls her ‘the tiny distraction’ when he thinks i’m not listening.”
the conversation flows easily as you all head inside, trading more stories about night shifts and health scores. the shared exhaustion has bonded the group in a way that feels almost familial now, and you laugh more than you complain. the morning classes pass in a blur of notes and occasional glances at your phone. jay texts you a couple of times from his own classes — short updates on jiwoo’s schedule and a silly meme about sleep-deprived parents that makes you smile in the middle of english.
by the time lunch arrives, you meet him at the usual table near the windows. he looks focused but relaxed, the carrier already between you as he rocks it gently with one foot while eating.
“was she good for you last night?” he asks, voice low so the nearby tables don’t overhear.
you nod, taking a bite of your food. “yeah, really calm. only one quick fuss. you?”
“perfect. slept straight through after practice. thanks for handling the full day yesterday — it helped a lot with an essay i had to hand today.” he leans in a little closer, eyes meeting yours. “we’re actually doing okay with this, aren’t we?”
the question feels heavier than it should, laced with something unspoken. you feel the tension from yesterday’s field visit linger in the air between you — the teasing from his friends, the way he had chosen to stay focused on the project, on you. “yeah,” you reply softly. “better than i expected. you’re not as bad at the dad thing as you thought.”
he chuckles, the sound warm and low. “don’t give me too much credit yet. tonight’s my full night with her, right? after practice.”
you confirm the schedule you had texted earlier. practice is running late again — coach pushing hard for nationals — so it will end around 8 p.m. jay offers to pick you up from your house once he’s done, since he will be taking jiwoo for the night anyway. the idea of seeing him after dark, outside of school, sends a quiet thrill through you that you try to ignore.
the afternoon drags a little, jiwoo staying mostly cooperative in your classes. you update the logbook diligently, and jay keeps the texts coming — casual questions about your day, a photo of his lunch tray with a caption about missing “family lunch,” and a reminder about the pickup. each message builds the tension a little more, the easy rhythm between you feeling less like a forced project and more like something you both look forward to.
when the final bell rings, you head home, jiwoo in the carrier. you do homework, help with a few chores, and wait for the evening to unfold. around 8:15 your phone buzzes.
jay: just finished. showered quick. heading your way now. still okay if i pick you up?
you reply instantly. the wait feels longer than it is, your heart picking up pace when headlights finally sweep across your driveway. you grab the carrier — jiwoo quiet and ready for the hand-off — and step outside. jay’s car idles at the curb, him leaning over to open the passenger door from inside.
“hey,” he says as you slide in, the familiar scent of his mint gum and fresh laundry filling the small space. he looks tired from practice but his eyes brighten when they land on you and the carrier. “she been good?”
“perfect,” you answer, buckling in while he carefully takes the carrier and secures it in the back. “how was practice?”
“brutal but good. coach had us running extra for conditioning. nationals nerves are real.” he pulls away from the curb, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face. “i was thinking… instead of just dropping you off right away, do you want to grab dinner somewhere? nothing fancy — there’s that 24-hour diner a few blocks from here. we can eat quick, update the log together, and then i’ll take her for the night.”
the invitation catches you off guard in the best way. the tension that has been building all week — the shared glances, the protective way he handled ningning, the easy conversations — tightens in your chest. “yeah,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual. “that sounds good. i’m actually hungry.”
he smiles, that small half-smile that makes the butterflies stir stronger. “cool. my treat. you’ve been carrying a lot of the load this week.”
the drive is short, filled with light talk about practice drills and your last class quiz. jay parks near the diner, a cozy spot with neon signs and the smell of burgers and coffee drifting out. he insists on carrying the carrier inside, his free hand brushing yours accidentally as you walk through the door. the place is half-empty at this hour, soft music playing in the background.
you slide into a booth across from each other, the carrier placed carefully on the seat beside you. a waitress drops off menus and water, cooing briefly at jiwoo before taking your orders — simple burgers, fries, and shakes for both of you.
conversation flows naturally at first. jay talks more about the scholarship pressure, how scouts will be at the sunday match, and how the project has surprisingly helped him manage stress by forcing him to schedule everything better. you share stories about your friends’ drama — yunjin slowly softening with sunghoon, sunoo and taehyun turning their panic into a running joke. the food arrives warm and comforting, and you both eat while taking turns glancing at jiwoo, who stays peacefully asleep.
halfway through the meal, an older woman at the next table leans over, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the carrier. she has kind wrinkles around her eyes and a gentle smile.
“oh, what a beautiful little family,” she says warmly, clasping her hands. “you two look so young to have such a precious baby. how old is she?”
the question hangs in the air. you open your mouth to correct her — “oh, no, she’s not real, it’s a school project” — but jay speaks first, his voice smooth and playful, leaning into the moment with surprising ease.
“she’s almost a month old now,” he says, reaching over to gently adjust jiwoo’s blanket with careful fingers. his tone is soft, almost proud. “our little jiwoo. she’s the most precious thing ever — keeps us up at night but we wouldn’t trade it for anything.” you can't help but laugh quielty.
the old lady beams, eyes crinkling. “she has your eyes, young man. and you, dear, have such a gentle way with her. new parents are always so sweet together. cherish these moments — they go by so fast.”
you feel heat rush to your face, the tension spiking sharply. your heart pounds as you glance at jay, expecting him to laugh it off or explain. instead, he just nods along, that soft smile still in place.
“we will,” he says sincerely. “thank you. she really is everything to us.”
the woman wishes you well and turns back to her own table, leaving a charged silence between you and jay. you stare at him, eyebrows raised, the butterflies turning into something heavier, warmer, more insistent.
“what was that?” you whisper once she is out of earshot, half-laughing, half-flustered. “i was about to tell her it’s a doll for school.”
jay rubs the back of his neck, but his eyes meet yours without embarrassment. “i know. sorry— it just… felt harmless. she looked so happy thinking we were this cute young couple with a real baby. i didn’t want to disappoint her. plus…” he pauses, voice dropping lower, the tension thickening the air around the booth. “it wasn’t entirely weird to play along. we’ve been doing this all week — the hand-offs, the late texts, the worrying together. it kind of feels like we are figuring out the parent thing. even if it’s fake.”
his words settle over you like a blanket, heavy with implication. the project has forced proximity, but moments like this — the field visit, the car rides, now dinner — are turning it into something more. you feel the pull stronger than before, the way his gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary, the way your skin tingles when his knee brushes yours under the table.
“you’re quite dangerous when you decide to be charming, aren't you?” you murmur, trying to keep it light even as your pulse races.
he laughs softly, but there is a new intensity in his eyes. “only with you, apparently. the project’s messing with my head a little. or maybe it’s just making me notice things i didn’t before.”
the rest of the meal passes in a haze of charged conversation — lighter topics mixed with quieter admissions. he asks about your plans after high school, you ask about his football dreams beyond the scholarship. every shared laugh, every accidental touch while reaching for fries, builds the tension higher. jiwoo stays quiet, almost like she is in on the moment, her presence a constant reminder of the fake life you are building together.
when the check comes, jay pays despite your protest, waving it off with “you’ve earned it after all the night shifts.” outside the diner the air is cooler, the streetlights casting a soft glow. he drives you the short distance home, the car filled with comfortable but electric silence. jiwoo is secured in the back, ready for her night with him.
he parks in front of your house but does not unlock the doors right away. the engine hums low, and he turns slightly in his seat to face you.
“thanks for tonight,” he says quietly. “dinner, the company… all of it. i know it’s late and you could’ve just handed her off at the door.”
you unbuckle slowly, heart still racing from the old lady moment and everything unsaid. “i had fun. even when you decided to play happy family with a stranger.”
he chuckles, but his expression turns more serious, eyes searching yours in the dim light. “about that… i wasn’t completely joking. this week has been weird, but in a good way. being paired with you — it’s made me realize i like spending time with you. not just for the grade or the schedule. more than that.”
the confession hangs there, raw and tentative, increasing the tension until it feels almost tangible. you swallow, the butterflies now a full storm in your stomach. “i… feel the same. it started as awkward, but now it feels like we’re actually connecting. the project’s forcing us to be honest in ways we probably wouldn’t otherwise.”
jay nods, his hand resting on the gear shift close to where yours lingers on the console. for a moment it seems like he might reach over, close the small distance, but he holds back, respecting the slow pace you both seem to need.
“get some rest,” he says finally, voice gentle. “i’ll handle jiwoo tonight and text updates.”
you step out, the cool air hitting your flushed cheeks. “night, jay. drive safe with her.”
“night.”
he waits until you are inside before pulling away, taillights fading down the street. inside your room you collapse onto the bed, replaying every second of the evening — the old lady’s assumption, jay’s easy play-along, the quiet admissions in the car. the tension has shifted tonight, no longer just friendly cooperation but something deeper, sweeter, full of possibility. the fake baby has cracked open real feelings, and as you drift off, you wonder how much longer you can both pretend it is only about the project.
the week is winding down, but whatever is growing between you and jay feels like it is just beginning — slow, tentative, and impossible to ignore.
-------
SATURDAY. DAY 6:
saturday morning arrives with a silence that feels almost foreign after a week of being woken by high-pitched digital wailing. when you finally blink your eyes open, the sun is streaming through the curtains in long, dusty bars of gold. you reach for your phone instinctively, your thumb hovering over the baby app before you remember: jay has her.
you scroll through your notifications and find a string of texts from him, sent in the quiet hours of the early morning.
at 3:14 a.m.:
jay: she’s finally out. took her twenty minutes to settle after a diaper change. why does she look so peaceful when she’s been a menace for two hours?
jay: also, i think i’m hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but i’m pretty sure she just made a sound that sounded like 'ball.' she’s going to be a star athlete.
then, the last one, sent at 8:30 a.m.:
jay: morning. we’re alive. barely. i’m caffeinated and jiwoo is currently staring at a wall. park at 11 still on?
you smile into your pillow, typing back a quick confirmation. the butterflies that settled in your stomach at the diner last night are still there, humming a low, steady tune.
the park is halfway between your houses, a sprawling green space filled with families and dogs catching frisbees. you spot jay almost immediately, leaning against a large oak tree near the pond. he’s wearing a simple black hoodie and joggers, the baby carrier strapped to his chest. he looks like he belongs in a catalog for 'world's most attractive tired dad.'
when he sees you, his face breaks into that wide, genuine grin that always makes your pulse skip a beat.
“look who it is,” he calls out as you get closer. “jiwoo, look, your mom is here to save us from this boring tree.”
you laugh, stepping into his space. the scent of his laundry detergent and a hint of coffee hits you. “morning. how are the 'star athlete' and her exhausted father doing?”
“she's being suspiciously quiet today,” jay says, looking down at the doll. “it’s like she knows it’s the weekend. she’s been in 'easy mode' since 9:00 a.m. i’m actually a little scared she’s plotting something big for later.”
“maybe she just wants us to have a nice day,” you suggest, reaching out to adjust the tiny hat on jiwoo’s head. your fingers graze the fabric of jay’s hoodie, and for a second, your gaze catches his. the air between you feels thick and sweet.
“i’d like that,” jay says softly.
you spend the next two hours wandering the paved paths of the park. without the pressure of school hallways or the rush of practice, the conversation feels effortless. you talk about everything and nothing. he tells you about his favorite childhood dog — a golden retriever who was terrible at fetching — and you tell him about the time you tried to dye your own hair in middle school and ended up with a patch of neon orange that took months to fade.
“no way,” he laughs, his shoulder bumping yours as you walk. “i need to see pictures of that. please tell me your parents have evidence.”
“buried deep in the family archives,” you say, shaking your head. “you have to earn the right to see the orange hair phase, park jongseong.”
“oh, so we're on a points system now?” he teases, his eyes sparkling. “how do i earn points? do i get some for being a solo parent last night?”
“maybe a few,” you admit.
eventually, you find a wide, flat stretch of grass away from the main crowd. jay drops his duffel bag — which you realize is filled with both baby supplies and football gear.
“alright,” he says, pulling out a well-worn football. “since we have some peace and quiet, and since you've spent all week watching me run around a field, it's your turn. i’m going to teach you how to throw a proper spiral.”
you eye the ball skeptically. “jay, the last time i threw something, it was a crumpled piece of paper at a trash can and i missed by three feet. i don't think this is a good idea.”
“trust me,” he says, stepping closer. he stands behind you, his presence warm and grounding. “it's all about the grip. here.”
he reaches around, his hands covering yours as he guides your fingers onto the laces of the ball. his chest is inches from your back, and you can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. your heart is doing triple-time against your ribs.
“fingers on the laces,” he murmurs, his voice right next to your ear. “don't grip it too tight. you want a little space between your palm and the ball. see?”
you nod, your voice feeling trapped in your throat. his hands are large and calloused, a contrast to the gentleness of his touch.
“now, bring it back by your ear,” he instructs, moving your arm with his. “step forward with your opposite foot, and when you release, flick your wrist. like you're pointing at the target.”
he steps back, giving you space to try. you take a breath, step, and throw. the ball wobbles through the air, traveling about ten feet before thudding unceremoniously into the grass.
jay lets out a snort of laughter.
“don't say it,” you warn, pointing a finger at him.
“i wasn't going to say anything!” he says, holding his hands up in defense. “it was... a very brave first attempt. the target was the ground, right? because you hit it perfectly.”
“you're the worst,” you laugh, picking up a handful of grass and tossing it at him.
“hey! i'm the coach!” he jogs over to retrieve the ball. “again. focus. imagine ningning is standing right where the ball lands and you're trying to— no, wait, that's mean. imagine there’s a scout there. or just imagine i'm there waiting to catch it.”
the next twenty minutes are a blur of laughter and terrible throws. jay is patient, constantly encouraging you, and eventually, you manage a throw that actually spirals, landing right in his outstretched hands.
he let out a loud “yes!” and jogs back to you, lifting a hand for a high-five. “see? natural talent. scholarship is basically in the bag.”
“i think i'll stick to my day job,” you pant, your face flushed from the exertion and the fun.
“which is?”
“come on. i'll show you.”
you lead him to the far edge of the park, where a small, hidden trail winds through a patch of dense trees. it opens up into a tiny clearing overlooking a quiet creek. there’s an old, sun-bleached wooden bench tucked under a willow tree.
“this is it,” you say, sitting down and patting the spot next to you. “my quiet spot. i come here to read when everything feels a bit too loud.”
jay sits, careful of jiwoo in the carrier. he looks around at the dappled sunlight on the water and the way the willow leaves sway in the breeze. “it's nice,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer register. “it's really peaceful. i get why you like it.”
“it’s the only place i can actually hear my own thoughts,” you admit.
“what are your thoughts saying today?” he asks, turning his head to look at you. the light catches the amber flecks in his eyes.
you feel the weight of the question. your thoughts are currently a chaotic loop of his hand felt warm on mine and i don't want this project to end.
“mostly that i'm glad we got paired together,” you say, choosing the safest version of the truth. “even if ms. choi is a madwoman for doing this to us.”
jay laughs, but it’s a quiet, thoughtful sound. “yeah. she’s definitely crazy. but i think... i think i owe her a thank you note. i don't think i would've ever had the guts to just come up and talk to you otherwise. i always saw you in the halls, and i thought you seemed... cool. but you were always so quiet and had that 'don't bother me, i'm reading' look.”
“i do not have a 'don't bother me' look!” you protest, nudging him with your elbow.
“you totally do. it’s intimidating,” he insists. “but i’m glad i got past it. i like the 'bothering you' part of my day the best now.”
the afternoon fades into a soft orange glow. eventually, hunger wins out, and you head back to his house. mrs. park is out running errands, so the house is quiet and cool.
you end up in the kitchen again, making simple sandwiches while jay gives jiwoo a “bath” (wiping the doll down with the designated kit wipes). it feels domestic and easy. you find yourself humming a song as you plate the food, and jay catches your eye, a small, knowing smile on his face.
“what?” you ask, feeling your face heat up.
“nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “just... you're a good mom, jiwoo. your dad is lucky.”
“jay!”
“what? i'm just stating facts for the logbook,” he teases.
after eating, you sit on his living room floor, surrounded by textbooks you’re both pretending to read. in reality, you’re mostly talking. the conversation shifts to tomorrow — the match.
“it's at 10:00 a.m.,” jay says, his expression turning a bit more serious. “the scouts from the state university are going to be there. it’s the biggest game of the season so far. i’m... i’m actually pretty nervous.”
“you'll be great,” you say firmly. “i've seen you practice. you're the most dedicated person on that field. they'd be idiots not to see that.”
“will you really be there?” he asks, his voice low. “even though you don't have to be? the project is technically 'at home' on sundays.”
“i'll be there,” you promise. “front row. i’ll even bring a sign if you want, although sunghoon might try to steal the spotlight.”
“please don't bring a sign,” he laughs. “but just seeing you there... it'll help. a lot.”
as evening settles in, he drives you back to your house. the car ride is quieter than the one to the park, a comfortable, heavy silence filling the space. he pulls into your driveway and kills the engine, but neither of you moves to get out.
the streetlights are just starting to flicker on. jiwoo is asleep in the back, her little electronic breathing the only sound in the car.
jay turns in his seat, his arm resting on the back of yours. he looks like he wants to say something — his mouth opens, his brow furrows slightly, and his eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
“hey,“ he says, his voice barely a whisper.
“yeah?“ your heart is thundering.
he reaches out, his thumb catching a stray lock of hair near your ear and tucking it back. his touch is lingering, his hand staying near your jaw for a second too long. the tension is so thick it feels like a physical thing between you, a cord pulling you closer.
“i...” he starts, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. he looks almost pained, like he's fighting an internal battle.
he stops. he swallows hard, his hand dropping back to the steering wheel.
“i'll... i'll see you tomorrow morning,” he says, his voice a bit strained. “10:00 a.m. don't forget the 'medicine' drops for jiwoo, just in case she gets fussy in the stands.”
you feel a wave of disappointment, followed by a rush of affection. he's chickening out. but in a way, it's endearing — the confident star athlete, reduced to nerves by a quiet junior.
“i won't forget,” you say, reaching for the door handle. “good luck tonight with her. and good luck tomorrow. you've got this.”
“thanks,“ he says, his eyes still fixed on you as you step out of the car.
you walk to your front door, feeling his gaze on your back. when you get inside, you watch from the window as his car pulls away. your heart is still racing, the memory of his hand near your face burning on your skin.
tomorrow is the last day. the project ends, the doll goes back, and the 'fake' family is over. but as you look at the last text he sends you before you go to bed — get some sleep, partner. see you at the kickoff — you know that whatever this is, it isn't fake at all.
-------
SUNDAY. DAY 7:
sunday morning arrives with a sky so blue it feels intentional, a backdrop designed for a series finale. you wake up before your alarm, the silence of the room feeling heavy now that jiwoo is with jay for the final morning. today is the day. the last day of the project, the big game, and the unspoken deadline for whatever has been growing between you and park jongseong.
you dress carefully — denim jacket, comfortable shoes, and your hair done just the way you know he likes it, even if he hasn’t said it out loud. your heart is already doing a nervous dance in your chest as you grab your bag and head to the stadium.
the high school bleachers are already filling up when you arrive. the air smells like cut grass, popcorn, and that electric, high-stakes tension that follows the football team everywhere. you spot the junior-senior crew almost immediately. yunjin is there, wearing a drama club hoodie but sitting suspiciously close to where sunghoon’s jersey is draped over a seat. sunoo is waving a literal foam finger, and kazuha is looking calm as ever, baby eunchae resting in the carrier between them.
“there she is!” sunoo yells, beckoning you over. “the woman of the hour! how are the nerves?”
“awful,” you admit, sliding into the seat beside them. “where’s jay?”
“down by the locker rooms,” yunjin says, nudging you with her elbow. “he’s been looking at the entrance every thirty seconds. you better go say hi before he pulls a muscle from craning his neck.”
you laugh, but you don't need to be told twice. you head down the bleachers toward the gated area where the players are doing their final warm-ups. jay is easy to find. he’s in full gear — jersey number tight across his shoulders, pads making him look even more imposing, cleats clicking on the pavement. he’s holding the carrier in one hand, looking slightly out of place amongst the hyper-masculine energy of the pre-game huddle.
when he sees you, the focused, 'footballer-mode' mask he wears completely shatters. his eyes light up, and he breaks away from a conversation with jake to jog toward you.
“you’re here,” he says, his voice a little breathless.
“i promised, didn’t i?” you smile, your heart doing a somersault.
he holds out the carrier, looking relieved. “coach said i have to hand her off now. i was worried you’d get stuck in traffic or something.”
you take the carrier from him, the weight familiar and grounding. you look down at the doll, then back up at him. a bit of mischief sparks in your brain, fueled by the adrenaline of the morning. you lift the carrier slightly, tilting jiwoo’s head toward jay.
“alright, jiwoo,” you say, pitching your voice into a high, silly, muppet-like squeak. “tell your dad what we practiced.”
jay blinks, a surprised laugh bubbling out of him.
you wiggle the carrier’s handle so the doll bounces. “you’re gonna do great, daddy!” you squeak in the cute voice. “go kick the ball really hard! make sure the scouts see how fast you are! we believe in you!”
jay is clutching his stomach, laughing so hard his ears have turned a bright, endearing shade of red. “oh my god, stop. you’re killing me.”
“we have a bet with sunghoon jr. that you’ll score two goals!” you continue, the muppet-voice getting even more ridiculous. “don’t let us down, big guy!”
jay reaches out, his hand covering yours on the carrier handle for a brief, warm second. his laughter subsides into a soft, glowing look that makes your breath catch. “thanks, jiwoo. and thanks... for being the weirdest, best partner ever.”
“go,” you say, your normal voice returning, soft and encouraging. “we’ll be right there in the front row.”
“watch me,” he says, and it feels like a promise.
the game is a blur of noise and color. you sit with the carrier on the seat beside you, your hands clenched in your lap. every time jay gets the ball, the crowd erupts, but your world narrows down to just him — the way he moves with a blend of power and grace, the way he communicates with his teammates, the sheer determination in his stride.
halfway through the second half, the score is tied. jay breaks through the defense, the ball a blur at his feet. he maneuvers past two defenders, the stadium holding its collective breath, and then — thud. the ball hits the back of the net.
the roar is deafening. jay is swarmed by his teammates, jake jumping on his back, sunghoon ruffling his hair. but as the team head back toward the center line, jay turns. he scans the bleachers with a frantic intensity until his eyes land right on you.
he raises a fist in the air, a bright, triumphant grin directed straight at your section. you’re blushing so furiously you feel like you might actually catch fire, but you’re cheering louder than anyone, holding jiwoo up like a tiny trophy.
by the time the whistle blows, they’ve won. the field is a sea of people, but you stay in your seat, waiting. you watched the scouts talk to him, watched his mom hug him, watched the team celebrate. slowly, the crowd thins out. your friends head to the parking lot, yunjin giving you a knowing wink as she drags sunoo and kazuha away.
“we’ll see you tomorrow at the hand-off!” she calls out.
finally, it’s just you, sitting in the quiet of the cooling afternoon, with jiwoo resting in her carrier. the shadows of the goalposts stretch long across the grass.
you hear the gate creak. jay is walking toward you. he’s changed out of his jersey into a simple school tee, his hair damp from a shower, his jacket slung over one shoulder. he looks exhausted, but there’s a glow about him that has nothing to do with the win.
he climbs the bleachers and slides into the row behind you, sitting so his knees are right next to your shoulders.
“hey,” he says, his voice low and intimate in the empty stadium.
“hey, star player,” you turn slightly to look at him. “the muppet-voice worked, i think.”
he laughs, a tired, happy sound. “it definitely did. i kept hearing it in my head every time i got near the goal.” he reaches down, his hand resting on the back of the seat next to yours. “scouts seemed happy. i think... i think the scholarship is safe.”
“i never doubted it,” you say softly.
the silence that follows isn’t awkward; it’s heavy. it’s the silence of a countdown.
“so,” jay says, his voice dropping an octave. “tomorrow morning. 8 a.m. ms. choi’s room. we give back the doll, she checks the final health score, and that’s... that’s the end of the project.”
“yeah,” you swallow. “back to normal life. no 2 a.m. logs. no shared calendars. no medicine drops.”
jay stares out at the empty field for a long time. his fingers trace the edge of the bleacher. “i was thinking about that. the 'back to normal' part.” he looks back at you, his expression guarded, shy in a way you’ve never seen him. “i don't think i like it.”
your heart starts to thud against your ribs. “you don’t?”
“no.” he lets out a sharp breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “this week was supposed to be a nightmare. i was so stressed about nationals and my grades, and then i got paired with this quiet girl i’d never spoken to, and i thought... great, another thing to juggle.”
he leans forward, his face closer to yours now. the scent of his soap — something clean and citrusy — drifts over you.
“but then we started talking,” he continues, his voice steadying. “and i started looking forward to the 2 a.m. texts. i started looking forward to walking you to class. i even liked the weird dinner at the diner where we pretended to be a real family.”
he pauses, his eyes searching yours, searching for permission to keep going. you can’t speak; you just nod, your pulse racing.
“i know the baby was fake,” jay says, his voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “the project was an assignment. the schedule was a requirement. but... i don’t think what happened between us this week was fake. i don't think the way i feel right now is part of the grade.”
you feel a tear prick at the corner of your eye — a mix of relief and overwhelming warmth. “jay...”
“i really like you,” he says, the words coming out in a rush, raw and honest. “not as a partner. not as 'the girl who’s good with dolls.' just you. i don’t want to go back to being the senior who only sees you in the hallway. i don’t want to stop having an excuse to talk to you.”
you reach out, your hand finding his on the bleacher. his skin is warm, and his fingers immediately lace through yours, tight and grounding.
“i was so scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “i thought as soon as we handed jiwoo back, you’d just... go back to being the popular football guy and i’d be the quiet junior again. i didn’t want the week to end either. i like you too, jay. so much.”
the tension that has been building since monday — the accidental knee bumps, the car rides, the protective glances — finally snaps. jay leans in, his free hand reaching up to cuppe your cheek. his thumb brushes over your skin, his touch so gentle it makes you melt.
“is it okay if i kiss you?” he asks, his eyes searching yours one last time, his breath warm against your lips.
“yes,” you whisper.
he starts to lean in, his eyes fluttering shut. you close yours too, leaning forward, the world falling away until it’s just the two of you in the quiet stadium—
WAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAH!
the sound is like a physical blow. you both jump, nearly knocking heads. jay yelps, his hand flying back to the bleacher, while you scramble to look at the carrier.
jiwoo is screaming. not just a little fuss — this is the full-volume, 'i-haven't-been-fed-in-years' digital tantrum. her red lights are flashing like a police siren.
“no!” jay groans, throwing his head back and laughing in pure, frustrated disbelief. “not now! jiwoo, are you serious right now?”
you’re laughing too, doubled over, the tension broken by the sheer absurdity of it. “she knows! she’s jealous! she wants the attention back!”
“she’s a cockblocker,” jay mutters, though he’s grinning. “a plastic, electronic cockblocker.”
you fumbled for the bottle in the bag, clicking it into the doll’s mouth. the screaming stops, replaced by the aggressive, rhythmic sucking sound of the sensor registering the 'feeding.'
jay leans his forehead against your shoulder, still chuckling. “i can’t believe her. we were this close.”
“well,” you say, looking down at the doll, then back at the boy who just confessed his heart to you. “it’s part of the project, remember? 'responsibilities don’t wait until it’s convenient.'”
jay lifts his head, his eyes soft and bright. he reaches out, taking the bottle from you to hold it himself, his other hand moving back to your waist.
“fine,” he says, his voice low and playful. “we’ll finish the feeding. we’ll finish the project. but tomorrow, after we hand her back...”
he leans in again, this time stopping just an inch from your ear.
“...i’m taking you on a real date. no dolls. no logs. just us. and i’m going to finish what i started.”
you shiver, a smile spreading across your face. “i’d like that, jay.”
the sun disappears behind the horizon, leaving the stadium in a soft, purple twilight. as the doll makes a satisfied burp sound, jay pulls you into a hug, his chin resting on top of your head. the project is almost over, but as you sit there in the quiet together, you know that the 'real life' ms. choi talked about is just beginning. and for once, you aren't nervous about it at all.
-------
MONDAY. THE PROJECT ENDS:
monday morning feels different. the usual heavy dread that accompanies a school week has been replaced by a strange, bittersweet hum of finality. you stand in front of your mirror, adjusting your uniform one last time, and for a moment, your room feels too quiet. the gray carrier is gone — jay had it for the final night, even though you had originally planned on taking her — and the absence of that small, plastic weight on your chest feels like losing a limb.
as you walk to school, you see other juniors and seniors trudging toward the entrance, all of them carrying their respective 'babies' for the last time. the atmosphere in the hallways is a chaotic blend of relief and mourning. sunoo passes you near the lockers, looking like he’s aged ten years in seven days, but he’s wearing a triumphant grin.
“we’re free!” he shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “taehyun and i checked the score at midnight. 86%! we survived the apocalypse!”
you laugh, but your eyes are already scanning the crowd for a specific messy-haired senior. you find him standing right outside ms. choi’s door. jay is leaning against the wall, the carrier slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the star player who just won a game — relaxed, confident, and glowing. when his eyes land on you, that lopsided half-smile appears, the one that makes your heart do a triple-backflip.
“morning, partner,” he says, his voice low and warm as he steps away from the wall to meet you.
“morning,” you reply, feeling your face heat up as you remember what happened on the bleachers. “how was the final night?”
“she was an angel,” jay says, looking down at jiwoo. “i think she knew it was moving day. she stayed quiet all night. either that, or she felt bad for ruining the moment at the stadium.”
you giggle, nudging his arm. “don’t blame the baby. maybe she was just giving her dad some space to think.”
jay’s expression softens, and for a second, the bustling hallway fades away. he reaches out, his pinky finger hooking into yours for a brief, hidden moment. “i did a lot of thinking. and i’m ready for this to be over. the project, i mean. not the rest of it.”
the bell rings, sharp and insistent, breaking the spell.
ms. choi’s classroom has been transformed. the double desks are back in their original rows, and a large table at the front is lined with empty cardboard boxes, waiting to receive the electronic residents. ms. choi herself is practically vibrating with energy, wearing a bright floral dress and holding a clipboard like a trophy.
“alright, parents! settle down, settle down!” she claps her hands, the sound echoing with finality. “it’s the day we’ve all been waiting for. the day of liberation! please, bring your children to the front and place them in their respective bins. and don’t forget to leave your shared logbooks on my desk.”
the room erupts in a flurry of movement. it’s a parade of tired teenagers. jake and sunghoon walk up together, looking like they’ve just returned from a war zone.
“she called me ‘handsome’ in the logbook,” jake whispers loudly to ms. choi as he hands over his doll. “i think she’s going to miss me, ma'am. can i get a visitation schedule?”
ms. choi laughs, shaking her head. “sit down, mr. sim. your ‘child’ needs a factory reset, not a visit.”
you and jay walk up together. you place the logbook — filled with a week’s worth of late-night notes, frantic updates, and the occasional silly doodle jay had added during history — onto the stack. then, jay carefully lowers jiwoo into the box. for a second, he lingers, his hand resting on the doll’s head.
“see ya, kid,” he mutters.
as you head back to your seats, ms. choi starts pulling up the final data on the projector. the room goes silent as the health scores and participation metrics flicker across the screen.
“i have to say,” ms. choi begins, her eyes scanning the class with genuine pride. “i am incredibly impressed. every single year i do this project, and every year i expect chaos. but this group? you’ve shown remarkable maturity. even those of you i was… shall we say, concerned about.”
she looks pointedly at sunghoon and yunjin, who are sitting as far apart as possible while still sharing the desk.
“ms. huh, mr. park… a final health score of 82%. considering you spent half the week arguing over courtyard permits in the comments of your logbook, that is a miracle. i’m glad to see you could put aside your differences for the sake of your ‘son.’ although, sunghoon, perhaps next time don’t try to use the doll as a football? it was logged as a ‘high-impact incident.’”
the class roars with laughter as sunghoon turns a bright shade of red. yunjin just smirks. “he tried to teach him a header, ma’am. i had to intervene. i worry about sunghoon jr.'s safety.”
“and mr. kim, mr. kang,” ms. choi continues. “the most frequent loggers in history. 400 entries? i didn’t realize a doll could be fed every fifteen minutes. but your dedication to communication was top-tier.”
she moves down the list, teasing each pair with a mix of affection and wit. then, she stops. she looks at the top of the chart, where one pair sits with a staggering 96% health score.
“and finally… our star parents.” she gestures toward you and jay.
you feel every eye in the room turn toward you. jay shifts in his seat, clearing his throat, but he doesn’t look away.
“96%,” ms. choi muses, a playful glint in her eye. “not only was the health near perfect, but the logbook was… well, it was a narrative. i particularly enjoyed the entry where mr. park explained the history of football to a doll at three in the morning to get it to stop crying. and the photo of you two at the diner? very authentic.”
she leans against her desk, her smile turning soft. “it’s clear that some of you took the ‘life skills’ part of this assignment very seriously. you didn’t just manage a doll; you managed each other. and i think,” she looks between you and jay, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “that some of those skills might translate quite well into the real world. wouldn't you agree, jay?”
jay rubs the back of his neck, his ears turning pink, but he catches your eye and winks. “best partner i could’ve asked for, ms. choi.”
“well!” ms. choi claps her hands again. “the grades are posted. you are all free to go. but remember — life doesn’t stop being busy just because the doll is gone. keep looking after each other.”
as the bell rings, the room explodes. people are hugging, high-fiving, and sprinting for the door. it’s a mass exodus of relief.
you and jay take your time packing your bags. the silence between you is heavy again, but it’s a good kind of heavy. the “fake” part of your life is officially over, and the “real” part is waiting outside the door.
“so,” jay says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “no baby. no logbook. no ms. choi breathing down our necks.”
“yeah,” you say, looking up at him. “what now?”
jay reaches out, taking your hand in his — not for a moment, and not hidden. he laces his fingers with yours right there in the middle of the empty classroom.
“now,” he says, his eyes focused on yours with that same intensity from the stadium. “i take you to the courtyard. we sit in the sun. and i don’t have to check a phone once.”
the walk through the hallways feels like a victory lap. you see jake and sunoo arguing about who had the harder night shifts, and you see yunjin and sunghoon actually talking — really talking — near the drama hall. the school feels smaller, friendlier.
when you reach the courtyard, the spring sun is warm on your skin. you find a quiet bench under a cherry blossom tree, the petals beginning to drift down like pink snow. jay sits close, his shoulder pressed against yours, his hand still holding yours tightly.
“it’s weird, isn’t it?” he asks, looking out at the grass. “not having to worry about a crying sound every five minutes.”
“it’s a little too quiet,” you admit. “i keep thinking i hear her.”
jay pulls your hand up, resting it on his knee. “i’m glad we did it. even the 3 a.m. shifts. it was the best week i’ve had since i moved here.”
“even with the football stress?”
“especially with the football stress,” he says, turning to face you. “because i wasn’t doing it alone. i’ve spent four years trying to be the guy who has everything under control by himself. the project showed me that... i’m better when i’m half of a team.”
he reaches up with his free hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, just like he had at the stadium. but this time, there are no bleachers, no crowds, and no electronic babies waiting to interrupt.
“i really meant it, you know,” he whispers, his face inches from yours. “what i said yesterday. i don't want to go back to how things were.”
“me neither,” you breathe, your heart pounding a rhythm of pure, unadulterated joy.
jay leans in, and this time, the world stays silent. when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tentative, and tastes like the mint gum he always chews and the promise of something real.
when he pulls back, he’s grinning, his eyes bright. “ninety-six percent health score,” he mutters against your forehead. “but i think the relationship score is a hundred.”
you laugh inevitably, leaning your head on his shoulder as the cherry blossoms fall around you. the baby project is over, but as you sit there in the sun with jay, you know that the real work — the beautiful, messy, wonderful work of being together — is only just beginning.
this fic genuinely pulled me out of a huge dumpster & i couldn’t be any more thankful AAAA
i enjoyed every single sentence of this story so much & just knew the gem that was incoming with the teaser :’) absolutely amazing writing & great characters !!!!
Invisigal's concept is interesting, but her execution leaves a lot to be desired. She’s invasive, sexually harasses and assaults Robert, and when she messes up, she lashes out or plays victim, wallowing in self-pity. However, despite AdHoc giving Invisigal ample screen time, they gloss over her actions and behavior, never properly addressing them because they were more focused on making her a love interest instead of a well-developed character.
Another issue is how Invisigal’s redemption hinges on Robert. Before he became a dispatcher, only Blonde Blazer and Z-Team supported her, granting her multiple chances. Blazer always supported her, while only Golem and Flambae continued to do so after episode 7. However, since Invisigal has feelings for Robert, then his support matters the most, with Adhoc even placing the responsibility of her redemption solely on him. In her villain ending, the screencard states he “neglected” Invisigal, referring to her as if she were a child or pet instead of an adult ex-criminal who's capable of making her own decisions.
Invisigal is a 27-year-old woman who craves being a hero but is trapped in a toxic cycle, continuously falling back into bad habits because they're so familiar. Her concept is appealing, but her execution was poor.
robert robertson helping you to clean up your wounds. ˚.✦
The room is only lit by a desk lamp and Robert's phone flashlight. The blood stains the floor and your breath hitches each second.
You’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter at SDN, shirt peeled up and stuck to the gash along your lower ribs, trying not to wince too obviously. Robert kneels in front of you, brow furrowed in the focused way he gets when he’s worried but refusing to show it. His hands are steady as he presses a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic against the wound.
You hiss through your teeth.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, almost swallowed by the hush of the room. “Almost done cleaning it.”
“It’s fine,” you lie. It burns like hell, but you’d rather focus on the warmth of his fingers brushing your skin than the sting. “You’re good at this. Too good. Starting to think you secretly moonlight as a field medic.”
He huffs a soft laugh, eyes flicking up to yours for a second before dropping back to the cut. “Just don’t like seeing you bleed.”
There’s something in the way he says it—quiet, matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—that makes your chest tighten more than the wound ever could.
You watch him work: the careful way he dabs away dried blood, the gentle pressure when he tapes fresh gauze over the worst of it. His hair’s fallen into his eyes, dark strands catching the lamplight. You want to brush it back. You don’t.
“You didn’t have to come back for me, y'know,” you say, voice softer now. “You got the villain down. You could’ve left me to patch myself up.”
He pauses, hands stilling against your side. “You really think I’d do that?”
“No,” you admit. “But you should’ve. I slowed you down.”
Robert shakes his head, resuming his work with even gentler touches. “You never slow me down. You keep me grounded. Always have.”
The air feels heavier suddenly. You swallow.
“Rob…”
He glances up again, and this time he doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark, searching, close enough that you can see the faint scar through his left eyebrow, the one he got saving you two years ago.
You take a shaky breath. “I need to say something. And I need to say it now, while I’m half-delirious from blood loss and you can’t run away.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your heart is pounding louder than the pain in your ribs.
“I kinda like you,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. “More than like. A lot more. And it’s stupid, probably, because we’re always in the middle of some life-or-death thing and timing is never right, but… I think about you all the time. When I’m fighting, when I’m not. When I’m bleeding on a counter and you’re kneeling in front of me like I’m something worth saving.”
His hands have gone completely still. He’s staring at you like he’s trying to memorize every word.
You laugh, weak and nervous. “Say something, Robertson. You’re freaking me out.”
He exhales slowly, then carefully sets the bloody gauze aside. Both of his hands come up to rest lightly on your waist, just above the bandage, warm and solid.
“You’re not stupid,” he says. “And the timing’s never been worse.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. “But I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for longer than you think.”
Your breath catches again, this time for an entirely different reason.
He leans in, forehead resting gently against yours.
“I’m kinda in love with you,” he whispers. “Have been for a while. Just didn’t want to say it until I knew you’d live long enough to hear it.”
You let out a watery laugh, fingers finally sliding into his hair. “Jerk.”
“Sure,” he breathes, smiling against your skin. “But I’m your jerk.”
He pulls back just enough to press the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, careful, like you might break. You turn into it, kissing him properly, tasting antiseptic and relief and something that feels a lot like home.
When you part, he rests his forehead against yours again.
“Now hold still,” he murmurs, voice tender. “Let me finish fixing you up. Then we’re getting you into bed. And I’m not leaving your side until you’re healed.”
You smile, heart full, ribs aching in the best way.
You were in the middle of a mission when you received a call from your little girl's school. She has gotten sick and needed to be picked up at that moment. You didn't give any explanations to Robert, you just heard him in your ear warning you that leaving a mission would bring you problems. You didn't care, you had a 6 year old girl waiting for her mother.
Robert would be lying if he said that caught him all of a sudden. You were... probably the best one of the Z Team. The only one who didn't insult him every few minutes, who brought cookies once and matched his sense of humor. He didn't understand why would you risk your place on the team by leaving a mission.
Until next day, when you appeared in the elevator door, suit neat and hair tied up. And a little girl grabbing your hand and hiding behind your legs. You hear a few whispers around the office but try to ignore them while walking straight to Blonde Blazer's office.
Robert lifts his head from his cubicle after hearing the murmurs and sees you wearing your signature armor and the little girl... wearing a Mecha Man's t-shirt?
You knocked once in Blazer's office and forgot to close the door behind you and your daughter. The blonde blinks twice at your daughter and then at you.
"What is happening right now?"
You cleared your throat. “Sorry for the… unconventional arrival. My nanny canceled last minute and the school needs proof she’s recovered. I’ll keep her out of everyone’s way.”
"I don't think this is the right place for a kid, Y/N. This isn't daycare—" Blazer said, keeping it as professional as she could, even though she didn't like telling you that. She knows the struggles.
Robert appeared behind you before she could build momentum. The man moved like someone who had spent his life punching asteroids but was trying very hard not to look like he had spent his life punching asteroids.
“It’s fine! he said, with this easy shrug. “I can keep an eye on her. Chase owes me a favor, he’ll help. No disruption.”
You spun toward him, incredulous. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” His smile had a softness you had never seen during briefings or combat drills. “Besides, Chase loves kids. And your kid seems pretty awesome already.”
Your daughter peeked out at him at that exact moment, big eyes blinking slowly and not breaking eye contact. Robert drew a kind smile and was already holding the door for you to get out of the office with your daughter.
"Robert, you really don't have to. I don't want to put more pressure on you, and I'm pretty sure Chase doesn't love kids."
“You’re not putting pressure on me,” he said. “You’re being a parent. That’s it. Nothing heroic about it, nothing villainous either. Just human.”
Your daughter clung to your hand like a tiny barnacle, watching him with this shy suspicion that children reserve for adults who seem too cool to be real. The Mecha Man painted across her shirt practically glowed under the office lights, and Robert kept sneaking glances at it like it was a ghost from a past life waving at him.
“She’ll be fine,” he continued. “She’s already got half the office wrapped around her finger. Chase included. He pretends he hates kids, but he cries every time Beefs licks his shoe.”
You snorted once, then sighed. “Still… it feels like a lot.”
“It’s not,” he said. “Let us help.”
His certainty hit you harder than it should have. You crouched down to your daughter’s level, brushing a few rebellious hairs off her forehead.
“Sweetheart,” you murmured, “can you introduce yourself?”
She blinked up at you, then very slowly rotated toward Robert, as if turning to face a giant robot. “My name is Faye,” she whispered into her own collar.
Robert crouched down too, hands resting on his knees, smile wide and warm. “Hi, Faye. That’s a cool name. I'm Robert.”
Faye fidgeted, twisting her fingers in the hem of her shirt. Robert pointed gently at her chest.
“That is a fantastic Mecha Man shirt.”
It was like someone flipped a switch inside her. Her entire face brightened, all shyness melting instantly. “Do you know who he is?!”
“I might’ve heard of him once or twice,” he replied with an innocent shrug.
She beamed, absolutely radiant, and Robert looked like he’d just been handed a secret he didn’t know he missed.
You pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Alright, my brave girl. Listen to Robert. Behave. Be polite. And don’t touch anything that glows or hums.”
She nodded solemnly, the vow of a small warrior.
You straightened and exhaled. “Robert… thank you. Seriously. Thank you. I owe you, like, a thousand thank-yous.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Just go do your job. We’ve got this.”
Faye slipped her hand into his without hesitation. The image of her tiny fingers curled around his large ones tugged at something deep in your chest.
You turned to head toward the mission floor, feeling lighter than you expected. Behind you, Faye’s excited chatter drifted through the hallway. Robert had pull a chair by his side for her to sit.
“Do you think Mecha Man likes apple juice?” Faye said dangling her legs.
Robert’s gentle laugh followed. “I have a feeling he does.”
Faye kept swinging her legs, tapping her heels lightly against the chair as if powering some invisible engine. Robert pulled his own chair a little closer to hers so she wouldn’t feel swallowed by the giant desk, and the two of them settled into this strangely natural orbit like they’d always been meant to share a corner of an office together.
“What else do you know about Mecha Man?” Robert asked, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You seem like an expert.”
Faye straightened her spine with a smirk. “He saved a whole city once. And he fought a giant flame guy. And he did it with only one booster fist because the other one was broken.”
Robert huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “That was a rough day.”
She blinked. “You sound like you were there.”
“I… watch a lot of TV.”
That satisfied her completely.
She swung her legs again. “My mommy says he was the coolest hero ever. But I think he’s also the nicest.” Then she paused, thinking hard. “And I like how he doesn’t yell at anyone even when he’s mad.”
Robert couldn't hide his smile
“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think he’d be very happy to hear that.”
Before she could reply, claws clicked against the polished floor. A snuffling sound. A sneeze. A thud.
Then a tiny but somehow wide dog barreled around the corner like a furry meteor.
“Beef!” Robert said, though his tone was more delighted than scolding.
Faye gasped so dramatically her entire torso lifted. “Dog!”
Beef trotted straight toward her, tail whipping so hard his whole back end wiggled. Faye dropped from the chair, landing on her knees, arms wide open.
Beef didn’t hesitate. He nudged his head right into her chest and licked her chin after deciding that she was perfect.
Faye squealed with joy and grabbed his face gently between her little hands. “Hi, Beef! You’re so fluffy!”
Chase arrived two seconds later, out of breath and annoyed in a very theatrical way.
“For the record,” he said, pointing at Beef, “he is supposed to stay in the lounge. He is not supposed to escape because he smelled ‘a new small human.’ His words. Not mine.”
Robert grinned. “Chase, meet Faye.”
Chase raised both eyebrows, then crouched down to her level. “So you’re the tiny chaos agent causing all this disruption.”
Faye blinked once.
Then narrowed her eyes.
Then delivered her judgment, very calmly: “You look like someone who takes naps at work.”
Robert choked.
Beef wagged harder, apparently approving of the burn.
Chase sputtered, hand over his chest. “I—what? Excuse me—”
Faye nodded, sealing the deal. “It’s okay. Old people get tired.”
Robert burst out laughing, loud enough that a few heads peeked over cubicles. Chase stood up, muttering something your daughter didn't catch while Beef sat proudly beside Faye like her loyal knight.
Faye hugged Beef again, burying her face in his fur. Robert watched the scene unfold, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes gentler than you had ever seen.
“You two are going to get along,” he murmured.
Faye popped her head up. “Robert? Can Beef sit next to me?”
“He already decided he’s your bodyguard,” Robert said. “You might as well make it official.”
Faye giggled, grabbed Beef’s ear, and began explaining (very seriously) the entire Mecha Man lore to both of them.
Robert listened too. Because hearing a child passionately recount his own adventures without knowing who he was? That was magic for him.
In the break, he took Faye to the vending machine and had to pick her up to let her choose whatever candy she preferred after promising that she wouldn't tell her mom. The bag with her lunch perfectly prepared was long forgotten.
"I want the twinkies!" She said with a bright smile, tapping the glass, then she added: "Please!"
"That's the best decision you could ever make, kiddo." Robert said, sitting Faye in the table while he pressed the buttons to take two packs of twinkies and a cup of coffee for him.
Then all of a sudden, Faye says: "My mommy called you a twink once."
She opened the plastic without any problems, staring at the letter of it. Faye didn’t say it with mischief. She said it with the same open sincerity she used to declare the sky blue or Beef fluffy.
Robert froze like someone had unplugged him.
“Uh,” he managed. “She… what now?”
“A twink.” Faye nodded gravely and shoved half a Twinkie into her mouth. “But she said it very nicely.”
Robert had faced down plasma cannons with more composure. His brain performed several regrettable somersaults. “Ha. Did she? Funny word to use... What else does she say about me?”
Faye swung her legs and examined the second Twinkie. “Mommy says you have twink energy. And that she likes your voice. And your arms.”
Robert’s soul left his body, filed for leave, and never returned.
“She—your mom? She said that? About my arms?” His voice cracked like a teenager bumping into their crush at a mall.
Faye nodded so hard her ponytail slapped her cheek. “She says you’re very polite. And she says you don’t talk too much but when you do, it makes her tummy feel funny.” Faye tapped her own belly like she was solving a medical mystery. “I think that means she likes you.”
Robert blinked slowly. “Does she. Huh. That’s… information.”
He sipped his coffee. Burned his tongue. Tried to pretend he hadn’t burned his tongue.
Faye continued, blessedly oblivious to the concept of emotional privacy: “Sometimes when she comes home from work she says, ‘Robert said the funniest thing today,’ and then she laughs and laughs even though I don’t know the joke because it’s about weird stuff.”
Robert set his coffee down a little too fast. “She laughs? I make her laugh?”
“Yep.” Faye took a dainty bite of Twinkie and spoke around the crumbs. “She smiles when she says your name.”
Robert attempted to gather his dignity and ended up gathering Beef instead, who had waddled over and pressed his snout into Robert’s knee like you okay, buddy? you need grounding? you spiraling?
Robert scratched Beef’s ears, eyes darting anywhere but Faye’s tiny truth-bomb face.
“Well… your mom’s pretty cool too,” he said, trying for casual. “She’s… brave. And kind. And she does this thing where she makes jokes under her breath that nobody else hears, but I hear. And she’s nice to me for some reason.”
“That’s ‘cause she likes you,” Faye said, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. She leaned forward. “Do you like her?”
Robert inhaled his coffee steam like that might help. “Uhh. I think your mom is… neat.”
Faye squinted like an old wise hermit. “Neat is a word mommy uses for socks.”
Robert winced. “Okay. Stronger than neat.”
Beef barked once, as if urging him on.
“Your mom is… great.” Robert rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s hilarious. And terrifying. And she’s smarter than everyone on the team. And she makes good cookies. And she leaves missions for you, which is kind of beautiful, actually.”
Faye tilted her head. “So you do like her.”
He exhaled in defeat. “Yeah, kiddo. I do.”
She grinned “I’m telling her.”
Robert nearly levitated off the break-room floor. “PLEASE do not tell her.”
Faye hopped off the table, hands on her hips. “You can’t stop me. I’m fast.”
Robert held up both hands, laughing helplessly. “Kid, listen. There’s a very complicated adult dance happening here, and your mom scares me in, like, a deeply attractive way.”
Faye gasped dramatically. “Mommy likes your arms and you like her scary!” She clapped. “You should get married.”
Robert paled. “We’re not getting married yet. Wow, Faye, that’s—ambitious.”
She shrugged. “Beef agrees.”
Beef barked again, absolutely supporting the union.
Robert buried his face in his hands. “I’m so fucked.”
"Fucked?" Faye tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. The fear on Robert's face is instant.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. We don't say that word, Faye."
"You just said it."
"But that's because I'm dumb. People who are dumb say that word. You aren't dumb, right?"
"Nope!"
"Then don't say that word ever again."
Thank God, that was enough for her to not think about it anymore. Robert felt his chest smaller after the talk with the girl, or maybe it was just his heart getting bigger. He tried to not pay much attention to it, knowing that you kinda have a crush on him took him out a little.
Robert tried very hard to focus on anything except the emotional supernova blooming in his ribcage. He wiped a crumb off Faye’s cheek tenderly, then let her scamper back toward Beef, who immediately flopped over so she could rub his belly.
He watched her for a second. Kids are startling creatures, tiny engines of sincerity who toss truth around like confetti. And she had tossed a whole bucket at him.
He leaned back in the break-room chair and told himself to get it together. You liked him? That wasn’t supposed to be real. You were… well, you. The one who took disasters as lightly as he took paper cuts. The one who made terrible puns under your breath because you knew he’d hear. The one who had a daughter who loved Mecha Man without knowing she was sharing snacks with him.
He looked down at his hands and they were trembling. Just a little. Just enough.
The next hours of the shift were more relaxed, Faye was starting to get sleepy, dropping her head in Robert's shoulder with her little fists curling in Robert's shirt. He scooped her without any trouble, letting her sit comfortably on his lap and falling asleep almost instantly.
Robert sat very still, like if he breathed wrong, the spell would break.
And then the shift ended.
The elevator chimed.
You stepped out.
You froze.
Because there they were. Your daughter asleep in Robert’s lap, her cheek pressed directly against the broadest part of his chest, his hand resting gently on her back.
Robert looked up at the sound of your boots.
And for one heartbeat, the world went oddly quiet.
Something warm and ridiculous and enormous unfurled inside your chest, blooming like those butterflies people always talk about. But butterflies were too polite. This felt more like a whole migrating colony of cosmic moths slamming around in your ribs.
Robert opened his mouth, closed it, then spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, instinctively soft so she wouldn’t wake.
“She got tired,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to say she was tired, obviously, because that would imply she’s mortal.”
You stepped closer, mindful of the moment’s fragile gentleness. “Yeah,” you whispered. “She does that. Fights sleep like it insulted her.”
He smiled, eyes flicking back to Faye asleep on him. “She’s… a really good kid.”
“She likes you,” you murmured.
The words slipped out without your usual protective quips. And you felt the heat crawl up your neck as soon as you’d said it.
Robert swallowed. Hard. His fingers twitched once against Faye’s shirt but didn’t move.
For a moment you just stood there. Close but not touching, both speaking softly.
“I should take her,” you whispered, stepping forward.
But Robert didn’t move, not out of reluctance, more like uncertainty. As though passing her over might feel like waking up from some strange dream he wasn’t ready to leave.
You reached out, gently lifting your daughter into your arms. She murmured and nestled into your neck, arms dangling loose with exhaustion.
Robert watched you with an intensity that almost ignited the air between you.
You adjusted Faye’s weight, then looked up at him. “Thank you… for all of this. I mean it.”
He leaned close enough you felt the heat of him, close enough the whisper brushed your ear.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
A pause.
Breathless honesty slipped into his tone. “I liked being around her. And I… like being around you.”
Your heart stuttered so violently you wondered if he could hear it.
You whispered back, “Did she told you anything?”
He huffed out a helpless laugh. “She told me just enough.”
Another pause. A charged one.
He looked down at his hands, then back at you.
Robert’s throat worked like he was swallowing gravel. Words hovered behind his eyes, trying to form, trying to gather the courage to jump the fence of his teeth. He wasn’t usually this skittish, you were a different kind of danger. The kind that could say no. The kind that could change everything.
His fingers flexed once, curling back into his palms. “There’s… something I should—”
Whatever he meant to say tangled itself into silence.
Your daughter’s sleepy weight in your arms, the faint warmth of her breath on your collarbone and the quiet hum of the building settling for the night. It all made the hallway feel like a snow globe of too-soft feelings.
You tilted your head just slightly. “Robert?”
The sound of his name seemed to shove him toward honesty. You watched him gather himself like someone preparing to leap across a very long, very uncertain gap.
“I was thinking,” he said, voice low and careful, “that maybe… sometime… maybe you and I could—”
He stopped again. Not because he changed his mind. Because fear punched him directly in the courage.
He cleared his throat. It didn’t help. “I mean, if you ever wanted to go somewhere. Not for work. Just… you know.”
You waited. Letting him work it out.
He squeezed his eyes shut once, like rebooting a very overwhelmed system, then tried again with a shaky exhale.
“I’d like to take you out.”
A beat.
“But if that makes you uncomfortable, or if it complicates things with Faye, or if you think it’s a terrible idea—”
“Robert.”
His mouth snapped shut.
Your eyes held his, steady in that dim hallway glow. He looked like a man braced for an explosion that might tear him in two.
You spoke gently. “You’re asking me out?”
He nodded with the smallest motion imaginable, as if anything bigger might spook his own resolve. “Yeah. I am.”
“I didn’t think you were capable of being this nervous,” you murmured.
He huffed something like a laugh, but it was shaky. “I’m terrible at this. Apparently asking you to dinner turns me into a malfunctioning vending machine.”
Your smile softened. “You didn’t malfunction.”
He gave a disbelieving snort. “I absolutely malfunctioned.”
“You tried,” you said. “You asked. That counts.”
A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it for twenty minutes.
“So… is that a yes?” he whispered, barely audible.
You shifted Faye in your arms and you stepped just one inch closer, letting the air between you warm.
“It’s a yes,” you said softly. “But we’re taking it slow. For her and for us.”
Relief hit him so visibly it softened the line of his shoulders, loosened something taut in his expression. A smile broke through the nerves.
“Slow is fine,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The elevator chimed again behind you, a polite reminder that the world still existed outside this moment.
You backed toward it, eyes still on his. “Goodnight, Robert.”
His voice followed you in a rough whisper that held far more than the words themselves.
“Goodnight.”
The doors slid closed and you had the dizzying sense that something had just begun like the first quiet click of a lock sliding open.
Synopsis: You had no idea that being hired as the personal assistant to the most powerful executive, Leon Kennedy, would pull you into a world this intense. What starts as a job quickly blurs into something far more personal, forcing you to question where professionalism ends, and whether it’s worth the risk.
Tags: CEO!Leon, alternative universe, boss x employee, workplace relationship, close proximity, elevator, mutual pining, slow burn, power imbalance.
Warnings: a job
Words: 16k~
The lobby feels too polished to belong to real people. Everything gleams, glass, chrome, marble, reflecting movement in softened fragments as if even the building itself has decided nothing abrupt should happen here. You pause just inside the entrance, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, smoothing a hand over the front of your blazer more out of habit than necessity. This is it. First day. Biggest bank in the city, maybe the country, and you’ve somehow landed at the very top of it. You take a breath, square your shoulders, and walk toward reception.
The woman behind the desk looks up when you give your name. Her eyes flick down, then up again, slow and deliberate, taking in your outfit, your posture, the folder tucked under your arm. It isn’t overtly rude. There’s even a polite smile attached to it. But there’s something else underneath, something measured and quietly assessing. When you add, “I’m here for Mr Kennedy. I’m his new personal assistant,” the look shifts, just slightly. Not surprise. Not quite skepticism. Something closer to recognition, like she’s seen this before.
“I see,” she says, tone smooth. She types something into her computer, then gestures toward the elevators. “Top floor.”
There’s a beat where it feels like she might say something else. A warning, maybe. Advice. Instead, she just smiles again, the same polite curve of her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You thank her anyway and turn toward the elevators, trying not to read into it more than you should.
The ride up is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every small movement, every shift of fabric as you adjust your sleeves again, tugging them into place. Your reflection looks back at you from the mirrored walls, composed but not quite settled. You glance down at your portfolio, flipping it open with your thumb, scanning the pages you’ve already memorised. Previous clients, project management experience, glowing references. It’s solid. More than solid. You know you’re good at what you do.
It just doesn’t feel like enough here.
The numbers climb steadily. Each floor feels like a step further away from anything familiar. By the time the doors open, you’ve already closed the portfolio again, tucking it back under your arm as if that might make you look more certain.
The top floor is quieter than the rest of the building. Fewer people. Less movement. The kind of controlled environment where everything feels intentional. You step out, taking in the layout briefly before heading toward the nearest desk. The woman seated behind it glances up as you approach, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she studies you.
“Yes?”
“I’m here for Mr Kennedy. I’m his new-”
“I know who you are,” she says, not unkindly, just efficient. Her gaze lingers for a second, not unlike the receptionist downstairs, then she nods toward the double doors behind her. “Mr Kennedy will see you now.”
There’s no small talk. No attempt to ease you in. Just a direct line from arrival to confrontation.
You nod, offering a quick smile that she doesn’t return, and walk toward the doors. Your hand pauses briefly on the handle, just long enough for you to steady yourself, then you push them open and step inside.
He doesn’t look up.
For a moment, you wonder if he’s even aware you’ve entered, but that feels unlikely. The room is too still, too controlled for anything to go unnoticed. He’s seated behind a wide desk, papers arranged in precise stacks, a laptop open in front of him. His focus is absolute, attention fixed on whatever he’s reading, pen moving occasionally in short, deliberate strokes.
You step further into the room and wait.
Five seconds. Ten.
You don’t interrupt. You don’t introduce yourself. If this is a test, you’re not going to fail it by speaking too soon.
Fifteen seconds. Twenty.
Your awareness sharpens, every small detail registering, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the way the light falls across the desk, the exact angle of his posture as he leans slightly forward, entirely absorbed in his work.
Thirty seconds pass before he looks up.
The movement is unhurried. Controlled. His gaze lands on you with a precision that feels almost physical, sweeping over you from head to toe in a single, assessing glance. It isn’t leering. It isn’t inappropriate. It’s clinical. Like he’s evaluating something and has already decided what it’s worth before confirming it.
He’s sharper up close than you expected. Not just in appearance, though that’s undeniable, the tailored suit, the clean lines of it, the kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself, but in the way he holds himself. There’s a stillness to him that feels intentional, like every movement has been pared down to only what’s necessary. His eyes are tired in a way that suggests it isn’t from lack of sleep but from something more constant, something ingrained.
“You’re the new assistant,” he says.
Not a question.
“Yes,” you reply, keeping your tone steady, offering a small, polite smile that he doesn’t acknowledge.
He sets his pen down, leaning back just slightly, enough to create space without losing any of the control he seems to carry naturally. “Sit.”
You do.
He doesn’t waste time. There’s no introduction, no attempt at conversation that isn’t directly tied to the role you’re here to fill. A phone is placed in front of you first, then a laptop, each set down with the same precise motion. “These are yours. They are not optional. You are expected to be reachable at all times during working hours.”
You nod once. “Of course.”
“Your desk is outside this office,” he continues. “You will manage my schedule, my communications, and any additional tasks as required. If something is unclear, you clarify it. If something is wrong, you fix it.”
No softness in it. No room for interpretation.
“The hours will be long,” he adds, voice even, detached. “You will be compensated accordingly.”
There’s a pause, brief but noticeable, like he’s waiting for something. A reaction, maybe. Hesitation.
Instead, you smile. “That’s alright. I like staying busy. Keeps things interesting.”
It slips out easily, the kind of light, optimistic response that has carried you through every other role you’ve had. For a second, you almost expect it to land the same way here.
It doesn’t.
“I would like to remind you, Miss ____,” he says, tone unchanged, “that you are my third assistant in five months.”
The words settle between you without emphasis, but they don’t need it. There’s no threat in them. No raised voice. Just a statement of fact that carries more weight than anything louder would.
You hold his gaze, the smile still there, though smaller now, more controlled. “Then I’ll do my best to improve that statistic.”
There’s a beat where nothing moves. His expression doesn’t change, not in any obvious way. If there’s a reaction, it’s too subtle to catch, buried under the same composure he’s maintained since you walked in.
“See that you do,” he says.
That’s it. No encouragement. No dismissal. Just an expectation placed where you can’t ignore it.
You nod, gathering the phone and laptop, standing when it’s clear the meeting is over. He’s already looking back down at his work by the time you reach the door, your presence dismissed as efficiently as it was acknowledged.
Outside, the air feels different. Not lighter. Just less concentrated. You move to your desk, setting your things down, taking a moment to orient yourself before the day properly begins.
You feel it then, the weight of what you’ve stepped into. Not overwhelming, not enough to shake you, but present. He’s not difficult in the way you expected. Controlled in a way that leaves no room for anything unnecessary.
You straighten slightly, pushing that thought aside as you power on the laptop, already preparing yourself for what comes next.
The first few days blur into something relentless. The work doesn’t come in waves; it arrives as a steady stream that never quite slows, each task folding into the next before you’ve fully finished the last. Paperwork stacks on your desk faster than you can clear it, documents that need reviewing, revising, sending, resending. Emails come in at a pace that demands immediate triage, each one flagged, prioritised, redirected. You don’t get the luxury of easing into it. You either keep up, or you fall behind.
The phones don’t help. Your work phone vibrates almost constantly, sharp bursts against the surface of your desk that pull your attention away from whatever you’re focused on. The desk phone joins in, ringing at intervals that never quite line up, forcing you to juggle both at once while still tracking everything else. And then there’s the intercom. Always the intercom. It never knocks. It never waits. A short buzz, your name, and then instructions delivered in the same clipped, efficient tone every time. No greeting. No filler. Just what needs to be done and when.
“Reschedule the eleven.”
“Cancel this afternoon’s meeting.”
“I need you to review this document.”
You stop expecting context. You learn to fill it in yourself.
The calendar becomes its own kind of battlefield. Meetings overlap, priorities shift without warning, entire blocks of time collapse into each other and have to be rebuilt on the fly. You move things, adjust things, call people back, apologise without apologising, all while keeping his schedule intact in a way that feels less like organisation and more like constant correction. Double bookings become puzzles you solve in real time, rearranging everything around a single fixed point; you.
He doesn’t comment when you get it right. You’re starting to understand that he won’t.
The car rides are quieter. The first time you step into the back seat beside him, the door closing with a soft, final sound, you expect something, conversation, instruction, acknowledgment of your presence beyond the work itself. Instead, there’s nothing. The windows are tinted, cutting the city off into a muted blur, movement reduced to shadows and passing light. He sits beside you, posture unchanged from the office, attention on his phone or the tablet in his hand. You sit the same way, back straight, hands folded loosely in your lap when you’re not checking something, the silence stretching without invitation.
You try once, early on. A simple comment about traffic, something neutral, something easy to respond to.
He doesn’t look up. “Focus on the afternoon schedule,” he says, not unkindly, just firm.
You don’t try again.
Meetings are another adjustment. You’re present in all of them, seated slightly behind or beside him, laptop open, notes ready, documents organised before they’re needed. You don’t speak unless you’re addressed directly. Not by him, not by anyone else in the room. You become part of the background, an extension of his workflow rather than a participant in it. When he does look to you, it’s brief, purposeful.
“Availability next week.”
“Send that through.”
You answer quickly, clearly, and then you disappear again into the edges of the room. Invisible, but necessary.
It’s a strange position to hold. To be both overlooked and relied on at the same time.
His behaviour doesn’t change. Cold isn’t the right word, it suggests something emotional, something reactive. This is more precise than that. Controlled. Efficient. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t show frustration in any obvious way. He just expects. And when something doesn’t meet that expectation, it comes back to you corrected without commentary, the adjustments made in a way that assumes you’ll understand them without explanation.
There’s no praise. No acknowledgment beyond the absence of correction.
You adjust anyway.
Somehow, you manage to keep your personality intact through it. It surprises you a little. You’d expected the environment to wear it down, to force you into something sharper, more guarded. Instead, you find small ways to hold onto it, brief smiles at people in the hallway, light comments when the moment allows for it, a tone that stays warmer than his without crossing into unprofessional. It’s a balance you’re learning in real time.
The kitchen becomes one of the few places where the pressure eases, even if only slightly. It’s quieter, tucked away from the main flow of the office, the kind of space where people allow themselves to relax for a few minutes before stepping back into the controlled environment outside. You step into it mid-morning, more out of necessity than anything else, your focus still half on the emails waiting for you at your desk.
The coffee is not good. You knew that already, but you make it anyway, watching as the machine produces something that looks right but smells slightly off. You take a sip, wince faintly, and lean back against the counter.
“How’s the new job?”
You glance over. Another admin staff member, someone you’ve seen around but haven’t properly spoken to yet, steps in, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.
“Fine,” you say, offering a small smile.
She raises an eyebrow, like she doesn’t quite believe that. “Fine,” she repeats. “That’s it?”
You shrug lightly. “It’s busy.”
“He’s kind of scary, isn’t he?” she says, lowering her voice slightly, leaning in just enough to suggest this is something shared rather than stated outright.
You let out a small laugh, more reflex than anything. “He is a great boss,” you say, careful with your wording, even as you feel the need to soften it. “He puts a lot of hours in.”
She studies you for a second, then nods slowly, like she’s deciding whether to accept that or not. “You know he isn’t married, right?”
You blink, caught off guard by the shift in topic. It hadn’t crossed your mind. Between the constant work, the structure of his days, the complete absence of anything personal in the way he operates, it simply hadn’t come up.
“Oh,” you say. “Is that so?”
She leans in a little closer, the tone shifting into something unmistakably conspiratorial. “Yeah. No wife. No kids. Nothing.”
You nod, filing that away without really knowing what to do with it. It feels like information you shouldn’t have, even if it’s harmless.
“And he’s like-” she pauses, searching for the right phrasing, then grins, “really hot, right?”
You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound sharper than you intended. It pulls you out of the rhythm of the morning in a way that feels almost inappropriate. “I guess,” you say, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit, shaking your head. “He is kind of handsome.”
It feels ridiculous as soon as you say it. Like you’ve stepped into something you shouldn’t have. You both laugh, the moment light, almost normal.
Then the sound of footsteps cuts through it.
You turn your head instinctively, the movement immediate, and your stomach drops.
Leon Kennedy stands in the doorway.
For a second, your brain doesn’t catch up. This isn’t where he should be. Not here, not in the kitchen, not in a space that’s this casual, this exposed. He doesn’t belong in this part of the office.
He steps in anyway.
The atmosphere shifts instantly. The easy warmth of the conversation collapses into something tighter, more controlled. Your coworker straightens, stepping back slightly, her earlier tone gone completely.
He doesn’t look at either of you immediately. Moves past with the same measured precision he carries everywhere else, reaching for a mug like this is something he does all the time. It isn’t.
Your face feels warm. You’re suddenly very aware of everything you just said.
He heard you. He had to have.
He fills the mug, the sound of the machine louder now in the silence, then turns slightly, his gaze landing on you with the same calm, unreadable focus as always.
“____,” he says, your name precise, uninflected. “I need those files reviewed before the end of the day.”
“Yes,” you say quickly, the word coming out a little tighter than you intended. “Right away.”
You don’t meet his eyes again. Your attention drops to your shoes, to anything that isn’t him, as you set your cup down and move toward the door. The moment stretches just long enough to feel like it might break, then you’re past him, back into the hallway, the cooler air doing nothing to settle the flush in your face.
You don’t look back.
There’s too much work waiting for you anyway.
The day starts early and never really lets up. By the time you sit down at your desk, there are already three changes waiting in your inbox, two marked urgent, one flagged directly from him. You work through them quickly, adjusting schedules, confirming availability, replying where needed, your attention splitting across screens and devices in a way that feels automatic now. The rhythm is familiar, constant, demanding, manageable as long as you stay ahead of it.
You almost do.
The interruptions don’t stop. Your work phone vibrates in sharp bursts against the desk, your office line rings just as often, and the intercom cuts through both with its usual precision. It never knocks. Never waits. It just expects.
“Move the eleven.”
“Push that draft to legal.”
“Cancel the afternoon meeting. Something else has come up.”
You handle it all without hesitation. Calendar shifts, calls made, apologies delivered smoothly, solutions found before problems fully form. It works.
Somewhere in the middle of it, your personal phone lights up. A reminder. Dinner tonight. Something you agreed to weeks ago, before your time stopped being your own. You glance at it briefly, just enough to feel the pull of it, normal, easy, yours.
The intercom buzzes.
“Change of schedule,” he says. “Dinner meeting tonight. Seven.”
Of course.
You don’t hesitate. “Understood.”
You send the text under your desk. Can’t make it. Work thing. Rain check? The replies come in quickly. Mock outrage, light teasing, promises to reschedule, but you don’t linger on them. You can’t. You flip your phone over and get back to work.
By the time evening rolls in, you’ve been moving non-stop for hours. The meeting itself is controlled, sharp, exactly what you expect. You sit just behind him, notes organised, tracking every shift in conversation, every figure mentioned, every implication that isn’t said outright. At one point, the client references a revised projection, something newer than what you’d been sent earlier that afternoon, and you feel it immediately, that small disconnect. You check your notes again. Nothing. No updated document. No revision in your inbox. Just the original file Leon forwarded to you with a single line: Prepare summary.
You adjust anyway. You always do.
You build the summary based on what’s said in the room, aligning it as closely as possible with the numbers you were given earlier. It’s not perfect, but it’s cohesive. It works.
You send it through when you’re back at the office.
It comes back quickly.
This is wrong.
No explanation. Just that.
Your jaw tightens slightly as you open the document again, scanning for the issue. It takes a second, but when you find it, your stomach drops, not because you made a mistake, but because you didn’t.
The figures are different.
Not slightly. Not rounding errors or formatting issues. Entire projections shifted, percentages adjusted, timelines altered, margins tightened in a way that changes the entire tone of the summary. You scroll back to the original file he sent you earlier. The numbers don’t match.
He sent you the wrong document.
You check the meeting notes again, replay the conversation in your head. The client had been referencing the updated version, the one you were never given. You’d built your summary off outdated information because that’s what you had. Because that’s what he sent you.
And now: This is wrong.
The frustration hits sharp and immediate, cutting through the exhaustion you’ve been carrying all day. It’s not just the mistake. It’s everything around it. The hours. The constant pressure. The expectation that you get everything right without being given what you need to do it. You’ve adjusted to it, worked around it, filled in gaps that shouldn’t have been yours to fill.
You fix it anyway. Pull the updated numbers from the fragments you remember, cross-reference what you can from the meeting, rebuild the section properly. It takes time. Time you shouldn’t have to spend. Time you already don’t have.
The intercom buzzes.
Your name.
Of course.
You stand, tablet in hand, and walk into his office without hesitation. He’s behind his desk, posture unchanged, attention already on you before you fully step inside.
“You saw the issue,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It’s been corrected.”
A pause.
“It shouldn’t have needed correcting.”
That’s it.
Flat. Controlled. Final.
And something in you snaps.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a clean break in the restraint you’ve been holding onto for weeks.
You hold his gaze.
“Maybe if you actually gave me the right information,” you say, voice steady, precise, sharpened just enough to make it land exactly where it should, “that wouldn’t have happened.”
The silence is immediate.
Outside, through the glass, movement stops. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. You don’t need to look to know people are listening.
Inside, nothing shifts.
Leon doesn’t react the way you expect.
No irritation. No raised voice. No immediate correction.
He just looks at you.
A long, unbroken look that feels heavier than anything he’s given you before. Not dismissive. Not clinical.
Focused.
There’s something there this time, something clearer than before. Not anger.
Interest.
It flickers behind his eyes, brief but unmistakable, like you’ve just done something he didn’t anticipate, and did it well.
“Is that all?” he says.
The tone is unchanged. It could be any other moment, any other instruction.
“Yes,” you reply.
Another beat.
You don’t wait. You turn and walk out, pace even, posture steady, not giving anything else away. The outer office is too quiet, the attention too obvious even when people pretend otherwise. You reach your desk, grab your bag, and head straight for the elevators.
The doors close.
You stare at your reflection in the mirrored wall, the adrenaline hitting all at once now that you’re alone. Your heart is beating faster than it should. Your hands are steady.
You replay it. The words. The tone. You didn’t soften it. You didn’t apologise.
Three assistants in five months.
You exhale slowly.
You’re fired.
Not now. Not like this. Tomorrow. Clean. Efficient. Final.
“Fuck you, Leon Kennedy”, you whispered to yourself, walking out of the building.
The next morning feels sharper than usual. You arrive on time, earlier than you need to, settling into your desk with a quiet kind of resolve that sits somewhere between preparation and acceptance. If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen today. Clean. Efficient. The way everything here works.
Your inbox is already full.
You pause for half a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard, then open it anyway.
No termination notice. No meeting request from HR. No carefully worded message about “next steps.” Just work. More of it than usual flagged, prioritised, layered in a way that immediately demands your attention. You scan through the first few items, then the next, your focus narrowing as the content settles in.
These aren’t routine.
The documents are heavier, more detailed, tied to ongoing deals rather than surface-level scheduling or coordination. Draft agreements. Internal projections. Communication chains that require context you haven’t been formally given, but can follow anyway. It’s not less work. It’s more. And more importantly, it’s different.
You straighten slightly in your chair.
The intercom buzzes.
You don’t hesitate this time. “Yes?”
“Come in.”
His office looks the same. He looks the same. Composed, controlled, already working before you’ve fully stepped inside. There’s no pause for tension, no acknowledgment of what happened yesterday. He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t even look up immediately.
“Close the door.”
You do.
He slides a file across the desk toward you, precise, deliberate. “You’ll handle this.”
You pick it up, scanning the first page quickly. It’s not something you’ve dealt with before. Not directly. The kind of task that requires more than coordination, analysis, discretion, independent judgement.
You look up.
He’s watching you now.
Not waiting for you to speak. Just watching.
“I’ll need access to the full correspondence thread,” you say, tone steady, professional. “And the updated projections from yesterday’s meeting.”
A beat.
Then, a single nod. “You’ll have them.”
That’s it. No explanation. No acknowledgment of the shift.
You nod once in return. “Understood.”
When you step back out into the outer office, the air feels different. You sit down, open the file again, and start working through it piece by piece. It takes more concentration than your usual tasks, more attention to detail, but you settle into it quickly. The pressure is still there. It just feels directed now.
The morning passes faster than you expect.
You’re halfway through cross-referencing a set of figures when you hear footsteps approach. Measured. Familiar. You don’t look up immediately. You don’t need to.
He stops beside your desk.
“I have double checked the document I have sent to you,” he says.
There’s the faintest lift of his brow. Subtle. Controlled.
It takes you a second to process it.
It’s not quite a joke. Not in any conventional sense. There’s no change in tone, no shift in expression. But it’s there. Intentional. A reference. Acknowledgment without saying the words.
You glance up at him.
“Good,” you reply, just as evenly. “That should help.”
Another beat.
Something flickers at the edge of his expression not quite amusement, but close enough that you notice it. A smirk
He moves on without another word, continuing down the hallway like nothing happened.
The car ride over is quieter than most, but not empty. The city moves past in blurred streaks beyond the tinted windows, softened into something distant and irrelevant, like it exists on a different timeline to the one you’re in. You sit beside him in the back seat, tablet open on your lap, running through the meeting notes again even though you already know them. You always do this, check, recheck, tighten what doesn’t need tightening. It gives your hands something to do.
Leon doesn’t look at you when he speaks.
“This is a high-profile client,” he says, tone even, like he’s stating a fact you should already understand. “We want this to go well.”
You glance up briefly, then nod once. “Understood.”
It’s not new information. You knew that the moment the meeting landed in your calendar, flagged, reshuffled, given priority over everything else. Still, there’s something about the way he says it, measured, deliberate, that sharpens your focus just a little more.
He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. The expectation sits clearly between you.
The car slows, then stops smoothly outside another glass-fronted building, just as polished as your own, just as controlled. The driver steps out to open the door, but Leon is already moving, stepping out with the same unhurried precision he carries everywhere. You follow a second later, adjusting your grip on your folder as you fall into step beside him.
Inside, the building feels different but familiar in structure, clean lines, quiet conversations, people moving with purpose. You check in, confirm the meeting room, handle the small logistical details without needing direction, and then you’re moving toward the elevators.
They’re already busy.
People cluster in front of them, waiting, conversations overlapping in low, contained tones. When the doors open, the space fills quickly, bodies shifting inward, everyone making room without quite acknowledging each other. You step in with them, adjusting your position instinctively, angling yourself just enough to avoid contact while still holding your ground.
The doors start to close.
A hand stops them.
Leon steps in behind you.
The space tightens immediately. There’s nowhere to move now, nowhere to shift without making it obvious. You keep your posture steady, shoulders back, gaze forward, professional in a way that feels almost automatic at this point.
He’s right behind you.
Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that you feel it anyway, the presence of him, solid and unyielding, the faint shift of air when he settles into place. Someone brushes past your side as the elevator lurches upward, but it’s him you’re aware of. The space, or lack of it, between you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your tablet.
“This is nothing,” you tell yourself, focusing on the numbers lighting up above the door, tracking each floor as it passes.
It should be nothing.
His arm lifts slightly at one point, bracing against the wall just above your shoulder as the elevator slows again, and for a second you’re caught between him and the polished metal, not trapped, not quite, but aware in a way that feels sharper than it should. You don’t move. Neither does he. There’s no adjustment for comfort, no unnecessary shift to create space that doesn’t exist.
His breathing is steady behind you. Controlled. Measured.
You don’t turn your head, but you can feel the angle of his attention, the quiet awareness that mirrors your own. It passes quickly. Or maybe it just feels like it should.
The doors open.
Air returns. Space expands. You step forward immediately, out of it, the moment dissolving as quickly as it formed, but it lingers anyway, settling somewhere under your skin.
The meeting itself runs smoothly, at first. You take your usual position slightly behind and to the side of Leon, laptop open, notes aligned, every document already pulled up in the order you anticipate they’ll be needed. The room is all glass and polished wood, the kind of place designed to reflect control back at the people sitting in it. You register faces quickly, titles even quicker, mapping who matters, who speaks first, who waits. Leon doesn’t rush into anything. He lets the room settle around him, lets the other side open with their projections, their expectations, their carefully rehearsed confidence.
You track everything. Numbers, phrasing, pauses. When figures are mentioned, you’re already pulling them up. When timelines are questioned, you have the corresponding documents ready before Leon even needs to ask. It’s seamless in a way that feels almost invisible, the kind of efficiency that only works when no one notices it happening.
You only speak when necessary. When Leon glances back at you for confirmation, you give it, clear, concise. When someone across the table directs a question your way about availability or scheduling, you answer without hesitation, then fall back into silence just as quickly. You exist at the edge of the conversation, but you’re holding half of it together.
It’s routine. Until it isn’t.
The shift is small at first. A slight change in tone from one of the executives across the table. He’s the kind of man who fills space even when he’s sitting still, expensive suit, practiced ease, the sort of confidence that leans just a little too far into assumption. He watches you when you speak the second time, longer than necessary, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s reassessing something.
You don’t react. You keep your focus on the screen, fingers still moving, notes still updating.
The conversation continues. Terms are discussed. Adjustments proposed. There’s a moment where Leon asks for a specific figure and you pass it to him without looking up, already knowing what he needs. He takes it without comment, integrates it into his response like it was always part of the plan.
It should stay there. Professional. Controlled.
The executive leans back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping once against the table before he speaks again, tone lighter now, almost conversational.
“I trust your assistant has everything under control this time,” he says, glancing at you briefly before returning his attention to Leon. “We wouldn’t want any oversights.”
It lands softly. Polite enough that no one immediately calls it out. But there’s something underneath it, something deliberate in the way he doesn’t quite address you directly, like you’re not worth the full attention.
You feel it. Of course you do.
But you don’t react. You’ve learned not to. You keep your posture steady, your expression neutral, your attention on the screen like it didn’t land at all. You don’t need to defend yourself here. Not like this.
Leon doesn’t give you the chance to decide.
“If you have an issue with my assistant,” he says, voice quiet, even, cutting cleanly through the room without raising even slightly, “you bring it to me. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”
The shift is immediate.
The room stills in a way that’s almost physical, like the air itself has tightened. Conversations don’t stop entirely, but they pause, just for a second, enough for the weight of what he said to settle properly.
There’s no anger in his tone. No visible irritation. That would be easier to dismiss. This is something else entirely, controlled, deliberate, absolute. The kind of authority that doesn’t need to repeat itself.
The executive’s expression flickers. Just slightly. A recalibration. His posture adjusts, the ease slipping just enough to reveal something sharper underneath. He nods once, the movement tighter than before.
“Of course,” he says. “No offence intended.”
Leon doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t acknowledge it. He simply continues, picking up the thread of the conversation exactly where it left off, as if nothing happened.
But something did.
The rest of the meeting moves forward, but the tone has shifted. Subtly, but unmistakably. The executive is more measured now, his comments cleaner, his attention more focused. The balance of the room has tilted, just enough that it’s noticeable if you’re paying attention.
By the time it ends, everything is back on track, agreements outlined, next steps confirmed, hands shaken in that firm, practiced way that signals professionalism even when something underneath it has changed. You gather your things, closing your laptop, organising your notes with the same efficiency you’ve maintained throughout.
The car ride is quieter than before. Not uncomfortable, just still. The city moves past outside, blurred by the tinted windows, the same as it always does, but you’re more aware of the space inside the car now. Of him sitting beside you, of the way he doesn’t fill silence unnecessarily.
You sit the same way you always do, posture straight, hands resting lightly in your lap, but your thoughts are still on the meeting.
You didn’t need him to step in. You could have handled it.
“I can handle myself,” you say.
It comes out calm. Not defensive. Just factual.
He turns his head slightly, his attention settling on you without urgency.
“I know,” he says.
It should be enough.
It isn’t.
You let out a small breath, your gaze flicking briefly toward the window before returning forward. “Do you realise you just lost a client?”
There’s a short pause, just enough to register the question.
“I don’t care,” he says, “That guy was being an asshole to you.”
You glance at him then, just briefly, trying to read something in his expression, but it’s the same as always. Controlled. Unreadable. He looks forward again a second later, attention already elsewhere.
The rest of the ride passes without either of you saying anything else.
The call comes just as you're starting to unwind.
You've barely been home an hour. Your bag is somewhere near the door where you dropped it without caring, your blazer draped over the back of a chair with none of the usual consideration you give to things that cost money to dry-clean. The rest followed quickly, heels by the sofa, work trousers exchanged for something soft, something you never wear where anyone can see you. An old university hoodie. Leggings. Socks that don't match because you'd stopped caring about that particular detail somewhere around the second month of this job.
You are standing in your kitchen in mismatched socks, watching something uninspiring rotate slowly in the microwave, when the work phone starts vibrating against the counter.
You look at it.
Leon.
You pick it up on the second buzz.
"There's been a leak." His voice is exactly the same as it is at nine in the morning, controlled, economical, each word placed where it needs to be and nowhere else. No preamble. No apology for the hour.
That's all it takes.
The microwave beeps. You ignore it. Your mind is already moving, assembling the shape of the problem from those four words, internal, sensitive, moving fast, containment window closing, and you're reaching for your bag before he's even finished the outline.
"I'm on my way," you say.
You don't change. There isn't time.
The city is different at this hour. The aggressive daytime energy settling into something more ambient, more honest. You move through it efficiently, your mind already in the office, already pulling at threads.
The lobby is reduced to a skeleton of itself. Low lighting, one security desk, your footsteps louder than they should be across the marble. The elevator arrives immediately, which only happens after hours, and you ride it to the top in silence, watching the numbers climb.
The fortieth floor is nearly empty.
Most of the lights are off. The open-plan desks sit dark and unoccupied, monitors sleeping, the usual ambient noise of the place, keyboards, phones, low voices, completely absent. Just the clean hum of the building doing what buildings do when the people inside them have gone home.
His office light is on.
You don't knock. In three months you have never knocked, because by the time you reach his door you have always been expected, and tonight is no different. You push it open and he's at the desk, already working, jacket gone, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his tie loosened to a degree that on anyone else would read as barely notable.
On him it reads like a significant concession.
He doesn't look up immediately. "What do we have."
"Internal document." You set your bag down, pull out your laptop, your voice already in work mode. "Preliminary projections for Q3. It's circulating out of context, someone in compliance thinks it went through a personal account."
His jaw tightens. Not anger. Calculation. You know the difference now.
"Containment?"
"PR's been looped in. Their draft is soft. It needs to be harder."
"Then we fix it."
"Already started."
He looks up then. And it's not the usual look, the quick, functional glance that clocks your presence and moves on. This one lands differently. Takes a second. His gaze moves from your face down, briefly, just once, registering the hoodie, the complete absence of anything resembling work attire, the socks, probably, before coming back up with the neutrality of a man who has decided not to make it a thing.
He doesn't look away.
"I've never seen you like this," he says.
It isn't a criticism. It isn't anything, just an observation, delivered with the same straightforward precision he gives everything. But there's something underneath it, something in the way his gaze had made that unhurried trip and come back to your face and stayed there, that makes the words land differently than a neutral statement should.
Heat climbs the back of your neck anyway.
"I didn't have time to change," you say, and you're aware of how you sound, slightly defensive, slightly flustered, neither of which are things you particularly want to be in front of this man at eleven o'clock on a weeknight in your university hoodie. "I came straight from home, I would have but you said it was urgent so I just… I'm sorry, I know it's not-"
"No."
You stop.
He says it simply, without particular emphasis, but it cuts cleanly through the rambling in the way his voice tends to cut through things.
"It looks good on you," he says.
"Right," you say.
Your voice comes out remarkably even. You're proud of that.
You pull up a chair and get to work.
Time stops behaving normally after that.
It always does when the work is urgent enough. The hours compress into a series of immediate problems, each one demanding your full attention before it dissolves and the next takes its place. Emails drafted, rewritten, stripped back. Phone calls made and concluded. The PR statement reconstructed from the soft, hedging thing it had started as into something clean and precise and deliberately unremarkable, the kind of language designed not to draw further attention by the very fact of its steadiness.
You work in tandem. There's less friction in it now than there was in the beginning, less of that slight resistance that comes from two people not yet calibrated to each other. Somewhere in the last few months the calibration happened without you particularly noticing, you anticipate what he needs before he asks for it, and when he does ask, the requests have gotten shorter, because he no longer has to explain the context.
You both already have it.
By midnight the urgency has ebbed. Not resolved, not fully, but stabilised enough that the immediate crisis has a shape now, contained rather than spreading. The work slows. The silences between tasks get longer.
At some point, food appeared on the corner of the desk. A paper bag, handles twisted, bearing the logo of the Thai place two blocks over that you'd mentioned in passing approximately six weeks ago when he had asked, because he asked, sometimes, in the way that people asked who were gathering logistical information rather than making conversation, what was within walking distance worth knowing about. You hadn't thought he'd retained it.
You pull the bag toward you without comment, start unpacking. He reaches over without looking, takes one of the containers, opens it. No commentary from either of you about the fact that someone ordered for two, that the order was correct, that this is objectively a small and somewhat significant thing.
You eat in a silence that is not uncomfortable.
He's different like this. You've thought it before, on late calls, in cars, in brief unguarded moments that close over again almost before they're fully open, but tonight it's clearer. Without an audience the performance of it drops. Not the competence, not the precision, those are just who he is. But the particular quality of control he maintains in rooms with other people, the authority projected rather than simply held, that's quieter now. He's just working. Just a person in a room, solving a problem.
It's dangerously easier to be around.
"Do you ever stop?" you ask, after a stretch of quiet that has gotten comfortable enough to speak into.
He doesn't look up. "Stop what."
"Working." You gesture loosely at the desk, the screens, the general atmosphere of sustained professional output at midnight. "Like, in general. As a concept."
A pause.
"Do you?" he says.
"Sometimes," you say. "I like having a life."
Another pause. He turns a page. "Sounds inefficient."
You laugh, a real one, quiet, surprised out of you, and shake your head. "You should try it. Genuinely."
He doesn't answer right away. His attention stays on the document in front of him, but something shifts, just slightly, in the set of his shoulders.
"People are unreliable," he says. Tone even. Flat, the way it gets when something is being stated rather than shared. "Work isn't."
It's not an explanation. It's not intended to be one. But it's more than he normally gives, and you're aware of that, and you let it sit for a moment before you answer.
"That sounds miserable," you say, and you mean it without cruelty.
"It's accurate."
You look at him. He doesn't look back, but he knows you're looking, you've learned to tell. "Someone prove you wrong at some point?"
The pause this time is different. Longer. Something tightens beneath the surface of him, just briefly, the way it does when a question lands closer than expected.
"Something like that," he says.
That's all.
You nod, and look back at your screen, and don't push. That's the thing about him you've learned gradually, without meaning to, he offers things at the edge of his own comfort, small and oblique, and if you reach for them too quickly he closes over and you lose the moment entirely. So you've started leaving them where he puts them. Letting them exist without being examined.
It seems to be working.
You end up at the same document.
It happens practically, the final version of the PR statement, both of you reviewing it simultaneously, heads angled toward the same screen. You don't register the proximity until it's already there: your shoulder an inch from his arm, close enough that you can see the faint reflection of the screen in his eyes. His sleeves are still rolled. He smells like the kind of cologne that's simple and expensive in the way that simple, expensive things tend to be.
You are being extremely professional about all of this.
"That line," he says, low, indicating near the middle of the page with one finger. "Change significant concern to notable development. Concern implies reaction. We're not reacting."
"We're responding," you say, already typing.
"Correct."
The correction runs three words and takes approximately four seconds and he says, quietly, without looking away from the screen, "Good."
You have received his approval before. Concise and functional, that works, send it, this is correct, but it has never landed quite like this, at this hour, in this specific proximity, with the particular quietness of a building that has mostly gone to sleep around you.
You look up to ask about the closing line.
He's already looking at you.
Not the assessing look. Not the professional one. Something else, briefly present, that you don't have a name for and don't try to find one for either, because the moment you name it you'll have to do something with it and right now it's easier, so much easier, to let it exist as just a quality of the light, a trick of the late hour, the ordinary disorientation of working past midnight with someone.
"The closing line is fine," he says.
"I was going to ask about the closing line."
"I know."
You hold for exactly one second too long. Then you look back at the screen. "Right."
He straightens. Steps back. The distance returns between you, natural as breathing, and with it the familiar shape of things.
You finish what's left. Tie the loose ends, confirm the statement is queued, close the windows down one by one. The crisis is as contained as it can be tonight. It'll hold till morning.
You gather your things slower than you normally would, the exhaustion arriving now that the urgency has cleared, filling in the space behind it. He's already moving toward the door, jacket retrieved from the back of his chair, a quality of efficiency in it that makes you aware of how little the late hour costs him.
It costs him something. You can see that now, if you look. The tiredness he keeps too tightly held to call tiredness.
The elevator is quiet on the way down.
Not the same quiet as before. Not the kind that's neutral and unremarkable. The kind that has something in it, an awareness, a slightly altered weight, that neither of you is going to be the first to name.
The doors open.
You cross the lobby. The night security guard nods. The door doesn't move when you reach it, and you realise a half-beat later that he's behind you, one hand on the handle, holding it open with the unhurried ease of someone who simply noticed it needed doing.
You step through.
"Thank you."
He nods once.
Outside the air is cooler than you expected, the city at this hour doing its own quiet thing all around you. You adjust the strap of your bag, and you're aware, walking away, of the particular feeling of an evening that has shifted something without declaring what.
You don't examine it on the walk home.
You examine it later, in the dark, in your flat, in the specific silence of a question you haven't asked yourself out loud yet. The answer doesn't come.
The next time it happens, it isn’t a crisis, it’s scheduled, structured, and meant to go exactly to plan. You’ve had it in your calendar for days, flagged, prioritised, built around with the same precision you’ve learned to apply to everything that involves him. It took longer than it should have to secure the reservation, a careful sequence of calls and confirmations to get a table at a place that doesn’t usually make room for last-minute requests. You don’t mention that part when you confirm it to him earlier in the week. He simply nods once, like it was inevitable.
By the time evening arrives, you’ve shifted back into something more formal again, the ease of your flat replaced with structure, posture straightening as you step into the lobby and find him already waiting. He looks exactly the way he always does in public, sharp suit, controlled presence, nothing out of place, but there’s a moment, brief and unguarded, where his eyes flick over you as you approach. Not clinical this time. Not entirely. Something quieter sits underneath it, gone almost as quickly as it appears.
“Ready?” he asks.
You nod once. “Always.”
The car ride is quiet, but not empty. You run through the key points, the client’s expectations, the direction the conversation is likely to take, and he listens, adding a correction here, a clarification there, his tone steady but less clipped than it would have been a few weeks ago. There’s a rhythm to it now, something that feels less like instruction and more like alignment.
The restaurant is exactly what you expected, dim lighting, low conversation, polished surfaces that reflect everything back just slightly softened. You step inside together, the host greeting you with practiced ease. You give the name, already reaching for the confirmation in your email out of habit.
The host disappears briefly.
Returns.
“I’m very sorry,” he says, the apology already prepared. “Your party has cancelled.”
You blink once, the words taking a second to land. “Cancelled?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
Of course they did.
You glance at Leon, already expecting the shift, leave, reschedule, move on. Efficient. Controlled.
He doesn’t react. Not outwardly. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, brief and unreadable, before it settles again.
“Your table is still available,” the host adds carefully. “If you’d like to keep it.”
There’s a short pause.
“We’ll take it,” Leon says.
You look at him, just slightly, not enough to be obvious. He doesn’t return it. Just gestures for you to follow as the host leads you through the restaurant.
You sit across from each other, menus placed in front of you, water poured with quiet efficiency. It should feel like a misstep, like something slightly off balance, but it doesn’t. Not really.
You glance down at the menu, then back up at him, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “I guess it did take me two weeks to get a reservation for you in this restaurant.”
His gaze lifts, settling on you properly this time. There’s a faint shift in his expression, something almost amused.
“Then it would be inefficient not to use it.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”
His gaze lifts to yours, steady, intent in a way that feels different from the office. “I’d hate to waste your effort.”
“Oh?” you say lightly. “Not the reservation?”
“That too,” he replies, but there’s something deliberate in the way he says it.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary before looking back at the menu. “Good answer.”
The waiter returns, you order, and when the conversation resumes, it doesn’t quite return to what it was before.
“So,” you say, resting your chin lightly on your hand, “do you always stay when plans fall through, or is this a rare moment of spontaneity?”
He leans back slightly in his chair, studying you. “Do I seem spontaneous to you?”
“Not even a little.”
“Then you have your answer.” He looks at you again, holding it for a second longer than necessary. “Don’t read into it.”
You tilt your head slightly. “I will anyway.”
That earns you something, small, controlled, but there. Not quite a smile, but close enough that you catch it.
The first drink goes down easily. The second follows with less thought than you’d usually allow. It softens the edges of the evening, loosens something in the way you both sit across from each other. You talk more than you normally would in his presence, small things, light things, the warmth in your tone coming through without you checking it every second.
He doesn’t shut it down. He listens. Responds.
Still brief, still measured, but there’s less distance in it now, less of that deliberate wall he usually keeps in place. At one point you say something, half teasing, half observational, and he exhales through his nose in a way that’s just slightly off his usual rhythm.
You notice immediately. “You almost laughed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t,” he repeats, but there’s a fraction of hesitation now that wasn’t there before.
You grin, leaning back slightly. “I’m counting it.”
He doesn’t argue again, just takes another sip of his drink, but his gaze lingers on you a second longer than it should before he looks away. It’s subtle. You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t already paying attention.
“You’re not as bad as everyone says, you know,” you add, the words coming easier now, softened slightly by the warmth of the evening.
“High praise,” he says, dry as ever.
“I’m serious,” you insist, a quiet laugh slipping through. “They make you sound terrifying. Like people avoid eye contact in the hallway and pray you don’t say their name.”
“They should,” he replies without missing a beat.
You smile, shaking your head. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“It’s efficient,” he says, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “People work faster when they’re nervous.”
“Or they make more mistakes,” you counter lightly. “Hard to think clearly when you’re convinced your boss is about to end your career over a calendar clash.”
He glances at you then, something sharper flickering briefly behind his eyes. “You weren’t convinced of that?”
“Oh, I was,” you admit easily. “Elevator ride and everything. Very dramatic internal monologue.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“I’m stubborn,” you say with a small shrug. “And I like proving people wrong.”
“Is that what this is?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, studying you in a way that feels more curious than critical now. “You proving me wrong?”
“Partly,” you admit. “The rest is just me doing my job.”
“That’s not all you’re doing.”
The comment is quiet, but it lands differently. You pause for a second, searching his expression, but he’s already taken another sip of his drink like he didn’t just say something that felt pointed.
“You still haven’t convinced me you’re terrifying,” you say after a beat, lighter again, though your tone has softened.
“I haven’t tried,” he replies.
“Really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“That wasn’t me trying,” he says, and there’s the faintest edge of something almost amused in it now. “That was me being efficient.”
You laugh softly, leaning back slightly in your chair. “That’s concerning.”
“It should be.”
You study him for a moment, head tilting just slightly, your expression thoughtful rather than challenging. “I don’t think so.”
There’s a pause.
His gaze settles on you again, slower this time, like he’s not just assessing anymore. Like he’s actually considering what you said.
“No?” he asks.
You shake your head lightly. “No. I think you’re very good at acting like you are.”
That earns you a reaction, not immediate, not obvious, but there. A small shift in his posture, the slightest narrowing of his eyes like you’ve landed closer to something real than he expected.
“And what exactly am I acting like?” he asks.
“Unapproachable,” you say simply. “Cold. Like you don’t have time for anything that isn’t work.”
“And you think that’s not true?”
“I think it’s convenient,” you reply, holding his gaze. “For you.”
Another pause.
This one stretches just a fraction longer.
He doesn’t look away.
“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” he says finally, but there’s less resistance in it now, less certainty.
You smile faintly. “I work for you. It’s kind of part of the job.”
“Is it?”
“Mm,” you hum. “Reading between the lines. Figuring out what you’re not saying.”
“And you think you’ve figured me out?”
You take a slow sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then meet his gaze again. “Not completely.”
“Good,” he says, and there’s something quieter in his tone now, something that doesn’t quite match the words. “I’d be disappointed if you had.”
You huff a soft laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I imagine.”
“Only by people who don’t last,” he says, but the edge of it is softer than it should be.
You tilt your head again, studying him like you’re trying to decide something. “I think people just don’t stay long enough to understand you.”
“And you do?” he asks, a slight lift of his brow.
“Not yet,” you admit. “But I’m getting there.”
Something shifts in his expression again. Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable if you’re looking for it.
“I don’t make that easy,” he says.
“I know.”
“Then why try?”
You don’t answer immediately. You could give him something light, something easy to deflect with. Instead, you shrug slightly, the movement small, honest. “Because I think it’s worth it.”
The words settle between you.
He goes still for just a second.
Then he leans back slightly, exhaling quietly through his nose, like you’ve just said something he wasn’t entirely prepared for.
“That’s a dangerous assumption,” he says.
You smile, softer now. “I’ve made worse.”
His gaze lingers on you again, longer this time, like he’s trying to decide whether to challenge that or let it stand.
He lets it stand.
“Careful,” he says instead, voice quieter now, almost undercut with something that sounds like a warning but doesn’t quite feel like one. “You might be right.”
The restaurant empties slowly around you without either of you noticing.
That's the thing you register first when you finally look up from the conversation, the tables around you have thinned, the low hum of the room quieter than it was an hour ago, the staff moving with the particular patience of people waiting for the last guests to decide they're done. The couple two tables over have gone. The larger group near the window that had been loud in an expensive, self-congratulatory way have settled their bill and filtered out. Even the ambient music feels quieter, turned down by some imperceptible degree, the restaurant gently, politely suggesting that the evening has reached its natural end.
Outside, the air is cool and immediate in the way evening air always is after the warmth of a restaurant, like stepping from one world into another. The city is doing its late Friday thing, taxis threading through traffic, the low spill of light from restaurants and bars still open further down the street, the kind of noise that isn't loud but is constant, the city just breathing. You stop on the pavement and breathe it in, and feel the wine warm in your chest, and the edges of everything are softened just enough that the city looks like something you want to stand still and look at for a minute.
Leon stops beside you.
Not a step ahead, the way he usually positions himself when you're moving somewhere with purpose. Not half-turned toward the next thing, already calculating the route. Beside you. Still. Like he's doing the same thing you are, standing in the evening and just letting it be an evening.
"The car's-" you start, reaching for your phone, the instinct to be useful arriving even now, even here. You find the notification you're looking for and then immediately lose the thread of what it said.
"Two minutes," Leon says.
"Right." You lock the screen. "Two minutes."
You're both quiet for a moment. Somewhere between the table and the door you'd been laughing about something, you're reconstructing it now, the shape of it assembling slowly, something about the host, the particular way he'd arranged his expression when Leon had looked at him directly while you were thanking him on the way out. A very specific kind of expression. The kind that meant someone was trying to appear professionally neutral while internally questioning their career choices. You'd done an impression on the pavement, just briefly, not cruel but accurate, and Leon had -
You glance at him.
He's still slightly loose around the edges. Not drunk, you don't think this man is capable of drunk, not in any visible way, you think he'd simply decide not to be and his body would comply out of sheer professional obligation. But something in the controlled precision of him has settled. Like a tension that he carries so constantly he's forgotten it's there has, over the course of the evening, quietly released. He's looking down the street, jaw relaxed, hands in his coat pockets, and the streetlight falls across the side of his face and he looks like a person. Just a person standing on a pavement at the end of an evening, with nowhere pressing to be.
You find this version of him extraordinarily dangerous and file that thought away for later.
"You actually laughed in there," you say, picking the thread back up. "Twice."
He doesn't look at you. "Once."
"Leon. Twice."
"The second one wasn't -"
"It was laughter," you say, with the calm certainty of someone delivering a verdict. "Audible. With sound and everything."
"It was an exhale."
"An exhale," you repeat.
"Yes."
"With your mouth open."
He turns his head to look at you then, and you were ready for the expression, the flat, controlled, I'm not having this conversation look, but that's not what's there. What's there is something completely unguarded, a flicker of genuine exasperation lit up underneath with something much warmer, something with no business being this visible, this readable. He looks almost caught out. Like you've gotten somewhere he didn't entirely plan to let you.
You laugh. Actually laugh, the sound coming out louder than you mean it to in the relative quiet of the street, and you don't bother reining it in.
And then he does it again.
A real one. Short, low, surprised out of him, the laugh of a person who forgot, briefly, to manage themselves, and it sounds slightly rusty, like something that hasn't been used at its full capacity in a while, which somehow makes it better.
"There," you say immediately, pointing at him, delighted. "Sound. And I'm fairly certain I saw teeth."
"You didn't -"
"Top row. Briefly. But present."
"You are -" he starts.
"Correct," you say pleasantly.
He shakes his head, and the smile, the real one, the one that changes his whole face into something warmer and younger and far less manageable, lingers longer than it usually would. He looks back down the street, and it stays. You watch it in your peripheral vision and feel something in your chest move in a way that has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the particular, inconvenient fact of him.
The laughter settles the way good laughter does. You stand side by side on the pavement in the quiet that follows, and it's a different quality of quiet to the ones you've shared before. Not the car silence, purposeful and contained. Not the office silence, functional and bounded. Something looser than that. Something that doesn't need anything from either of you.
The city moves around you, indifferent and continuous.
Your arm is close to his. Not touching, there's still a narrow inch of space between you, but close in the way proximity gets when guards have come down and no one has consciously put them back up yet. You're aware of it without looking at it directly, the way you're aware of the warmth still sitting in your chest, the way you're aware that the evening has become something neither of you planned for and neither of you seems to be in a hurry to end.
"It's been a while," he says.
His voice is quieter than usual. Not directed at the street anymore.
You glance up at him. "Since?"
He doesn't answer right away. He's looking at something in the middle distance, somewhere down the street where the lights blur slightly, and you recognise the quality of his silence, the kind that means he's deciding whether to say the thing he's already thinking. Whether the thing is worth the saying. Whether, tonight, the answer to that question might be different to what it usually is.
"Since an evening felt like that," he says.
You don't say anything. You've learned, over months of this, when not to.
The traffic moves. Someone somewhere down the block is laughing at something, the sound carrying briefly before the city swallows it.
"Easy," he adds, after a moment. Quiet. Like the word costs something small but he's decided to spend it anyway.
You look at him properly then, turning slightly, and he turns his head at the same time, and the distance between you is closer than you realised, or maybe you've just become more aware of it in a way that makes it feel different. His gaze settles on your face with a quality of attention that stopped being clinical a long time ago and hasn't found its way back. It moves, just slightly, eyes, expression, the particular unhurried way he takes things in when he isn't performing anything for anyone, and something in his expression has opened, just fractionally, in a way you recognise because you've been watching for it for months without letting yourself admit that's what you were doing.
"You do that," he says, and his voice has dropped just slightly, not deliberate, just a natural product of the hour and the quiet and the particular stillness of the space between you. "Make things easy."
You open your mouth, something light was right there, something warm and deflecting and safe, the instinct is so practiced by now it was already forming -
He speaks first.
"You're beautiful."
Just that.
No preamble. No careful construction. No qualifier tucked in before or after to soften it or make it manageable. Said the way he says things when he's decided they're true and has run out of reasons to keep them to himself, straightforward, almost matter-of-fact, like it's a piece of information he's been holding for a while that has simply, tonight, found its way out.
The street keeps going. A taxi passes, close enough that you feel the displaced air. Somewhere further down the block a door opens and closes, spilling music briefly into the night before it's gone again. The city does not pause. It does not acknowledge that something just shifted on this particular pavement outside this particular restaurant on this particular Tuesday.
You look at him.
He's looking back at you with that steadiness he carries everywhere, but there's something underneath it now that you've never seen quite this clearly before. Something open. He's not performing composure. He's just standing there, coat collar turned up against the cold, looking at you like he meant it, because he did.
He doesn't take it back.
Doesn't glance away and smooth the moment over with something professional. Doesn't reach for the distance he usually keeps between himself and anything that isn't work. Just holds your gaze, steady and unhurried, and waits.
Your voice, when it finally comes, is quieter than you meant it to be. Just his name. "Leon."
"I know," he says.
And that's the part that gets you.
Not the words themselves, though those have settled somewhere in your chest where they're going to be very difficult to dislodge. It's the I know after them. The quiet acknowledgment of everything they mean, everything they open, everything they make true that was already true and now can't be unfiled. He knows what he said. He knows what it costs. He said it anyway.
You look at him for a long moment in the amber light of the street, the city moving around you like a current around two fixed points, and you feel something you've been carefully not naming for weeks become suddenly, undeniably named.
The car pulls up to the kerb.
You both stand there for one more second before he steps forward and opens the door for you. Not the driver. Him. The same easy, unannounced way he'd done it the night of the crisis, like it's simply something that needed doing and he was closest.
You get in.
He follows. The door closes. The city seals itself off beyond the tinted windows, softened into shadow and passing light, the familiar shape of it reduced to something distant and irrelevant.
Inside is quiet.
Not the working quiet of the car rides before, the purposeful silence with phones and tablets and schedules, the kind of quiet that has a function. This one is different. Warmer. Full of something that neither of you is going to name out loud tonight, because tonight it doesn't need naming. Tonight, it just needs to exist, which it does, easily, in the space between you.
You sit the way you always sit. Back straight, hands resting in your lap. Posture that has become automatic by now, the shape of professionalism so ingrained it persists even here, even now, even after you're beautiful said quietly on a Tuesday pavement in the amber light.
The difference is that you're not maintaining the posture to be professional anymore.
You're maintaining it because if you let it go you're not entirely sure what happens next, and the wine and the evening and the look on his face have made you less certain of yourself than you usually allow.
You look forward. He looks forward. The car moves through the city, the route splitting into yours and his somewhere ahead, the logistics of the evening reasserting themselves quietly in the background.
His arm is an inch from yours on the seat between you.
Neither of you moves.
You watch the lights of the city go past outside, blurred and amber through the glass, and you carry the warmth of the evening inside you like something you don't want to put down just yet, his laugh on the pavement, real and slightly rusty. The way easy had cost him something small and he'd spent it. The steadiness of his gaze when he didn't take it back.
I know.
You exhale slowly, quietly, and feel the specific, terrifying warmth of something that is no longer avoidable.
The car slows. Your street.
You gather your bag, and your coat, and the remnants of your composure, and you turn to say goodnight the way you always do, brief, professional, clean.
He's already looking at you.
"Goodnight," you say.
Something in his expression shifts, just slightly, at the edges. "Goodnight," he says.
Nothing else. No addition. No qualifier.
But the way he says it, like it's not entirely finished, like it's the end of this evening and not the end of something larger that has only just begun. It makes you feel it all the way to the door of your building, up the stairs, into the quiet of your flat.
You set your bag down.
You stand in the dark for a moment, coat still on, the city a low hum outside the window.
And you let yourself think it. Fully. Without deflecting, without filing it away, without reaching for something lighter or easier or safer to hold instead.
You're beautiful.
You sit down on the sofa in your coat. You're not going to sleep for a while.
Monday arrives the way Mondays always do. Early, indifferent, already full before you've had time to prepare for it. You get in earlier than usual, which is something you've started doing without acknowledging why, the habit forming quietly over the past few weeks. Coffee on your desk, laptop open, the morning's first round of emails already sorted by the time most people are stepping out of the elevator.
You feel good, actually. Just enough that Monday morning had a different quality to it. A quiet anticipation that you hadn't let yourself name but could feel at the edges of everything, a warmth sitting underneath the routine of coffee and emails and the familiar shape of the day starting.
You're halfway through your second email when the intercom buzzes.
You reach for it automatically. "Good morning -"
"The Rhodes file." His voice is exactly what it always is. Clipped. Precise. Each word placed and nothing else. "I need the revised figures before nine."
You pause for just a fraction of a second.
"Of course," you say. "I'll have it to you in twenty minutes."
The intercom clicks off. You sit with that for a moment. Then you open the Rhodes file and get to work.
It's nothing, you tell yourself.
It's a busy morning. He's focused. This is what focused looks like on him, you know that, you've known it for months, the clipped efficiency that isn't coldness so much as the absence of anything that isn't necessary. You've sat across from that version of him in meetings, in cars, in his office at midnight, and you know how to read it.
You send the Rhodes file at eight fifty-three and go back to your emails.
By mid-morning you've handled four intercom calls, two of which were corrections delivered without context, one of which was a reschedule that collapsed half your carefully arranged afternoon calendar, and one that was simply your name followed by a request for a document you already had waiting because you'd anticipated it an hour earlier. You deliver it. He takes it. The door closes.
No acknowledgment. No pause. Nothing.
You go back to your desk.
He's busy, you think. It's a busy week. This is what busy looks like.
You are very good at explaining things away.
By Tuesday you've started to notice the shape of it. Not loudly. Not in any way that announces itself. It's in the texture of small things. The quality of the silence when you enter his office, the angle of his attention when you speak and the way conversations that two weeks ago had developed a certain ease now end a beat earlier than they should, clipped off cleanly.
He doesn't look at you the way he looked at you on the pavement. He barely looks at you at all.
Wednesday the intercom buzzes four times before ten. Each one the same. Clipped, functional, stripped back to its barest components, a task, a deadline, an expectation. No filler. No deviation. You complete each request without hesitation, without variation. You are excellent at your job and you do it excellently, and somewhere underneath the professional surface of that you are quietly, steadily, trying to work out what happened.
The dinner. The restaurant. Two weeks and a reservation and a conversation that went places neither of you had planned for it to go. You make things easy. Standing on the pavement in the cool evening air. The laugh, real, unguarded, slightly rusty, the most human you'd ever seen him. You're beautiful. The car ride home and the inch of space between your arms on the seat and the weight of something present and undeniable sitting in the quiet between you.
And then this.
You stare at the intercom for a second after it clicks off.
Then you pick up the document he requested and go back to work.
By Thursday you've stopped expecting anything different and that's almost worse. You feel it in the small things, which is where you've always felt everything with him. You sit at your desk that afternoon and look at your screen and think, with a clarity that arrives quietly and stays: he regrets it.
It's not a dramatic conclusion. It doesn't announce itself. It simply settles in with the weight of something that has been assembling for days and has now finished assembling and is just sitting there, complete, waiting to be acknowledged.
Friday afternoon is when it solidifies into something you can't reason away.
You've been in his office twice already today, both times brief, both times businesslike to a degree that leaves no room for anything else. You've done everything right. Anticipated what he needed before he asked. Delivered it cleanly. Answered questions directly, concisely, professionally. Given him the version of you that exists purely in relation to the work, because that version is safe and familiar and apparently the only one that's welcome now.
You're at your desk, coat already on, running five minutes past the point where you'd normally have left, finishing a thread of emails that needs closing before the weekend. The office has emptied out around you, the floor down to its end-of-week skeleton, a few lights on, low hum of the building, the particular quiet of a place winding down.
The intercom buzzes. You stare at it for a second. Then you lean over and press the button. "Yes?"
"Before you leave." His voice, exactly as it's been all week. Clipped. Even. A task incoming.
"Of course," you say.
You take your coat off. Hang it back over your chair. Pick up your tablet and walk to his office and open the door with the same professional composure you've maintained all week, the same composure you intend to maintain until you are on the other side of the revolving door downstairs and can do whatever you need to do with the quiet, persistent ache that has been sitting in your chest since Monday morning.
He's at his desk. Jacket still on, late in the day, which is unusual. Papers in front of him, pen in hand, his attention lifting to you as you enter.
You stand just inside the door.
"The Wrenwood correspondence," he says. "Check the draft I've forwarded. Make sure the tone is right before it goes out Monday."
That's it.
No preamble. No acknowledgment of the week, of the distance, of the particular quality of the last five days. No flicker of anything behind the professionalism that might suggest he's aware of any of it.
You look at him for just a moment. Just one.
"I'll review it over the weekend," you say.
He nods once. Looks back down at his papers.
You turn to leave.
And underneath the professionalism, underneath the composure you've held perfectly all week without letting it slip once, something quiet and honest moves through you.
You were wrong, you tell yourself, hand on the door. You read it wrong. You built something out of an evening that was just an evening, out of words that were just words. He's your boss. This is your job. That's all this is. That's all it was.
You believe most of that.
The part you don't believe you fold up very small and put somewhere you don't intend to look at.
"Have a good weekend," you say, without turning back.
He doesn't reply.
You close the door.
Outside in the cooler air of the empty office, you stand for a second, hand still resting on the door handle, not thinking anything in particular. Just existing for a moment in the space between one thing and whatever comes next.
Then you take your coat from the back of your chair, pick up your bag, and walk to the elevator without looking back. The doors close.
Your reflection looks back at you from the mirrored wall, composed and steady, the same as it always is. The numbers count down. You look fine.
The weekend passes the way weekends do when your mind has already decided it isn't going to rest.
You go through the motions of it , the Saturday errands, the coffee with a friend you'd been cancelling on for weeks, the long walk you took on Sunday afternoon more out of restlessness than any desire for fresh air. You smile at the right moments and answer questions and laugh at things that are funny and from the outside it probably looks like a normal weekend belonging to a normal person who is perfectly fine.
Underneath that, you are assembling something.
Not dramatically. Not with tears or catastrophising or the kind of spiralling that demands witnesses. Just quietly, over the course of two days, the way you tend to handle things that matter, turning it over, looking at it from different angles, setting it down and coming back to it, until the shape of it becomes clear enough that you can't argue with it anymore.
The shape of it is this: you cannot go back in there and pretend.
Sunday night finds you at your kitchen table with your laptop open and a cup of tea that has gone cold without you touching it.
The resignation letter takes less time than you expect.
That's the part that sits uncomfortably, how easily it comes. A page, maybe a little less. Professional, measured, appropriate. You thank him for the opportunity. You cite personal reasons, which is vague enough to be unarguable. You offer two weeks notice, standard, the kind of clean exit that doesn't create problems for anyone.
You read it back twice.
It's good. It's exactly right. It sounds like someone who has made a calm, considered decision for entirely reasonable and professional reasons.
You press print before you can talk yourself out of it.
The printer hums. The page emerges. You pick it up, read it one more time in hard copy, and then fold it into thirds and slide it into an envelope and set it on top of your bag.
You sit with it for a while after that.
Not reconsidering. Just sitting with it the way you sit with things that are already decided, letting the weight of the decision exist without trying to change it. It's the right thing. You know it's the right thing. The alternative is going back in there indefinitely, managing the gap between what you'd thought was real and what actually is, feeling that specific shame every time his eyes move past you with professional indifference, every time the intercom buzzes and his voice arrives clipped and impersonal and you remember standing on a pavement thinking I think it's worth it.
It isn't sustainable. You know yourself well enough to know that.
You pick up your cold tea, take it to the sink, and go to bed.
You don't sleep particularly well, but you didn't expect to.
Monday morning is grey and certain.
You dress with the particular care of someone who needs their armour on properly. Everything pressed, everything right. The blazer you'd worn on your first day, which you haven't thought about in months but reached for this morning without quite knowing why. Some instinct about endings and beginnings and the way certain things ask to be marked.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
You're fine, you tell yourself.
You believe it, mostly.
The envelope goes into your bag. You leave earlier than usual, moving through the morning city with a quiet focus that has nothing underneath it now, no warmth, no anticipation, just the clean straight line of a decision already made.
The lobby is exactly as it always is. Polished, gleaming, the world softened in its own reflection. You cross it without pausing. The elevator arrives immediately. You ride it to the top in the mirrored quiet, watching the numbers climb, and you don't think about the first time you did this, you don't think about the portfolio under your arm and the composure that wasn't quite settled and the entire unknown weight of what was waiting at the top.
You think: I'm good at this job.
You think: I'll be good at the next one.
The doors open.
The top floor is its usual early-morning self, the quiet before the day properly starts, a few people at desks, the low hum of the building. You walk to your desk. Set your bag down. Take out the envelope and hold it for a second, just briefly, and then you set it on the desk in front of you.
You don't sit down.
There's no point delaying it. That's not who you are, you don't build things up, you don't circle, you don't let difficult things sit longer than they need to. You do them and then they're done. It's one of the better things about yourself, you think, one of the ones you've always been quietly grateful for.
You pick up the envelope.
You walk to his office door.
You knock. Something you've never done, you have genuinely never knocked, in months of walking into that office you have always been expected and always known it and gone straight in, and the knock feels like its own kind of punctuation. A small, deliberate signal. This is different. This is the last time.
"Come in."
You push the door open.
He's at his desk, exactly where he always is, exactly how he always looks, composed, controlled, already working, the morning already fully his. He glances up when you enter, the brief functional look, and then something shifts in it slightly as he takes in your expression. Nothing obvious. Just a fractional change, there and gone.
You cross the room.
You set the envelope on his desk.
You step back.
"My resignation," you say. Your voice is steady. You're proud of that, quietly, in the part of you that notices things. "Two weeks notice, as per my contract. I've outlined everything in the letter."
Silence.
He looks at the envelope.
He doesn't pick it up.
A second passes. Then another. The silence in the room has a quality to it you don't entirely recognise, heavier than the usual kind, weighted in a way that presses against the composure you've arrived here wearing.
You keep your eyes just above his eyeline. Not quite meeting it. You've learned that his gaze has a way of getting into things you haven't given it permission to get into, and today you can't afford that.
"I want to be professional about this," you add, because the silence is stretching and you need somewhere to put your voice.
"What?" he says.
The confusion in it catches you off guard. You'd expected the composure, the controlled nod, the clean efficient acceptance of a situation being resolved. Not that. Not his eyes doing that, blinking, just once, like the words haven't landed in the right order.
"I'll make sure the handover is thorough," you continue, because you started this and you're going to finish it, that's who you are, you finish things. "Whoever comes next will have everything they need. The calendar system, the contacts, the filing structure, I'll document all of it. It won't take long to -"
"What are you doing?"
His voice is different. Not clipped. Not controlled. Almost breathless. Like the words came out ahead of the composure that usually accompanies everything he says.
You keep going.
Because if you stop you won't start again.
"I should have -" you begin, and there it is, the thing sitting in your throat that you hadn't planned for, the thing that arrived somewhere in the walk across this room and hasn't left. You push past it. "I want to say it was a good experience. Genuinely. I learned a lot and I -"
"Don't."
Quiet. Immediate. Like a reflex.
You stop.
The room is very still. You make the mistake of looking at him.
He's already looking at you. Not the professional look, not the clipped, functional assessment that you catalogued in the first weeks and learned to read like a language. The other one. The one from the pavement outside the restaurant, amber light and cool air and the city going past like it had somewhere better to be. The one from the dinner, across the table, when he'd said I know and meant something wider than the words. The one you'd spent a week convincing yourself you'd imagined.
You hadn't imagined it.
It's right there. Open, and direct, and more than you're equipped to handle in this particular moment when you came in here with an envelope and a decision and the clean straight line of something already finished.
Your chest does something complicated and unhelpful.
"Sit down," he says.
"I'd rather -"
"Please."
You turn toward the door.
It's not a decision exactly, more like your body making a choice before your mind catches up, the animal instinct of something that has been holding itself together very carefully suddenly understanding that it cannot hold if you stay in this room one more minute. You take one step and then another and the door is right there and you reach for it -
His hand closes around your wrist.
Gentle. That's the thing that stops you more than the contact itself, the gentleness of it. Leon Kennedy, who moves through the world with precision and efficiency and the complete absence of anything unnecessary, holding your wrist like it's something he's afraid of breaking.
"Please talk to me."
You stop walking. You don't turn around.
His hand moves, both of them now, finding the sides of your arms, turning you with a care so deliberate it almost undoes you on the spot. With his hands, because apparently this is a man who has run out of ways to ask with anything else.
You shake your head.
You're looking at the middle of his chest because it's the only safe place and even that isn't particularly safe right now.
"____."
Your name. Not the way it sounds through the intercom, not the brisk professional syllables of it. The other way. The way it had sounded on the pavement. Like it means something specific in his mouth.
"I can't," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than you intended. "I can't do this, Leon. I came in here to - I have a letter, it's right there, it's done, I just need you to let me -"
"I'm not letting you resign."
"That's not -" you shake your head again, something tightening in your throat. "That's not your decision."
"No," he agrees. "It isn't."
His hands are still on your arms. You're still not looking at his face.
"Then let me go," you say.
He doesn't.
"Look at me," he says instead.
"Leon."
"Please." Again. That word, in that register, that keeps arriving like something he's had to learn to say, like it costs him every single time. "Just look at me."
You look up.
And whatever you were going to say next dissolves completely, because his face, this controlled, composed, unreachable face that you have been trying to read for months, is doing something you have never seen it do. Something unguarded in a way that goes all the way down, no layer of professionalism underneath it to catch on. He looks, for the first time since you've known him, like someone who is afraid.
Not of you. For you. For this. For the envelope on his desk and the coat you're still wearing and the door you were about to walk through.
"I've been avoiding you," he says.
The honesty of it, just that plainly stated, without preamble or qualification, hits you somewhere undefended.
"I know," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you want it to.
"Not because I wanted to." His jaw tightens slightly, the way it does when he's working through something, when he's finding the shape of words for something that doesn't usually get words. "Because I didn't know what to do with it."
You wait.
"The dinner," he says. "The things I said."
"You don't have to explain -"
"I do." Not harsh. Just certain. "I need you to let me explain."
You close your mouth.
He exhales slowly. His hands are still on your arms, anchoring. You're not sure which of you he's anchoring, you or himself.
"I meant it," he says. "Everything I said. I meant all of it."
The thing in your chest that you'd spent a week dismantling very carefully reassembles itself in approximately four seconds.
"Then why?"
"Because I woke up Monday morning," he says, "and I understood exactly what I'd done. What I'd said. And I looked at it and I -" he stops. The pause is brief, but it's real, the kind that comes from a person choosing their words with genuine care rather than efficiency. "I've done this before. Got it wrong before. And it cost -" another pause, shorter. "I wasn't going to do that to you."
You stare at him.
"So you just went cold," you say slowly. "You thought you were protecting me."
Something in his expression confirms it without him saying a word.
"Leon." You breathe out through your nose, something between disbelief and a feeling you can't name. "I was about to quit."
"I know." His voice drops. "I know. I saw you come in this morning and I knew, before you even crossed the room, what you were holding." Something moves behind his eyes. "I've spent the last week telling myself it was better this way. That you'd be fine. That you didn't -" he stops again. "And then you walked in here and I couldn't."
"Couldn't what?"
"Let you believe that what happened didn't matter to me."
The room is very quiet.
Outside his office, through the glass, the floor is starting to fill with the ordinary noise of morning. Phones, keyboards, low voices, the unremarkable machinery of the day beginning. In here there is just this, his hands on your arms and his face open in a way you've never seen it and the envelope on the desk and everything that has been sitting between you for weeks, finally taking up the space it was always going to take up eventually.
"I'm not easy to be around," he says. It's not self-pity. It's just factual, delivered with the same directness he gives everything. "I know that. I know what it costs people. I know what it costs -" something tightens in his voice, just briefly. "I've spent a long time making sure nothing outside work gets close enough to go wrong."
"That sounds lonely," you say softly.
"It's been fine."
"That's not the same thing."
He looks at you. A long, steady look.
"No," he says. "It isn't."
The space between you has narrowed without either of you deciding to narrow it. His hands have shifted slightly on your arms, less anchoring now. Present. His thumb moves once, a small unconscious motion against your sleeve, and you don't think he knows he's doing it.
"That evening," he says, quieter now, "was the first time in a long time that something felt -" he searches for it, and you watch him search, watch the usually effortless precision of him work harder than usual for the right word. "Worth it," he says finally.
Your breath catches.
He'd used your word. Knowingly, deliberately, his gaze steady on yours in a way that makes it absolutely clear he knows exactly what he's doing.
"You said that to me," he says. "At dinner. I think it's worth it. And I thought -" the corner of his mouth moves, barely, a ghost of the thing on the pavement, the one that had teeth and sound and had been slightly rusty. "I thought you had absolutely no idea what you were talking about."
"And now?" you say.
He looks at you for a moment.
Then one of his hands moves from your arm, slowly, and his fingers brush your jaw, just barely, just the edge of it, the most careful thing you've ever felt. Tilting your face up the fraction it doesn't need to be tilted because you're already looking at him, have been looking at him, are going to keep looking at him.
"Now," he says, very quietly, "I think you might have been the only one who did."
And then he closes the distance.
It's careful, the way he does everything, deliberate, unhurried, certain without being forceful. His mouth against yours is a question asked in the specific language of a man who doesn't ask questions lightly, who has considered this one from every angle and arrived at it as the only answer that makes sense.
You answer it.
Your hand finds the lapel of his jacket, not pulling, just holding, and the envelope on the desk behind you ceases to exist, and the morning noise filters in from outside like something from another world entirely.
He pulls back after a moment, just enough. His forehead drops to yours, a gesture so unguarded, so unlike every version of him you've catalogued, that it makes your chest ache quietly.
"Don't resign," he says.
You let out a breath that's almost a laugh. "You can't just kiss me and then make employment decisions."
"I'm not." His voice is still low, still close. "I'm asking."
You lean back just enough to look at him properly. His hands are at your waist now, light, like he's still not entirely sure he's allowed, like he's waiting for you to tell him he's wrong.
You look at his face, open, careful, still faintly afraid in that way you've never seen before and suspect very few people ever have.
And you close the distance.
His breath catches and then his hand comes up to your jaw, slow and careful, the way he does everything when it matters, tilting your face up the fraction it doesn't need to be tilted because you're already there, you're already looking at him, you have been looking at him for a long time now.
His mouth meets yours.
It's careful at first. Of course it is. This is Leon, measured, deliberate, a man who does not do anything without first being certain, and the certainty is right there in the way he kisses you, like he's thought about this, like he's been thinking about this, like he's finally just decided to stop thinking about it and do it instead. Quiet and unhurried and so focused it makes everything else in the room go distant, the Monday morning bleeding out at the edges until there's just this, just here, just his hand at your jaw and yours at his lapel and the particular stillness of something finally arriving after a very long journey.
Then something shifts.
His other hand finds your waist and draws you in, just slightly, just enough, and the carefulness of it deepens into something warmer, something that has been waiting underneath the control for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. You feel it in the way his fingers press gently at your waist like he's making sure you're real. In the way your hand has moved from his lapel to his chest without you deciding to move it. In the way neither of you is in any hurry for this to end.
He pulls back after a long moment.
Not far. His forehead drops to yours, resting there, and the gesture is so unguarded, so completely unlike every composed and controlled version of him you've catalogued over months, that it knocks something loose in your chest quietly and completely.
His eyes are closed.
Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it, the specific expression of a person who has been carrying something heavy for a very long time and has just, finally, been allowed to set it down.
You stay like that for a moment. Foreheads together, the room quiet around you, the morning doing its ordinary thing just outside the glass like the world hasn't just tilted very slightly on its axis.
Then you lean back just enough to look at him properly.
"I'm still mad at you," you say. "For this week."
"I know."
"That was genuinely awful."
"I know."
"You went full robot. It was like the first week all over again but somehow worse."
Something pulls at the corner of his mouth. "I know."
"You're going to have to do significantly better than that."
"I intend to," he says, and the simplicity of it, the complete absence of deflection in it, makes everything around you both dissolve.
"We have work to do," he says eventually, quietly, not moving.
> last updated: 02/23/26
> navigation: 📱smau | 🔞 smut | 📝 on going | 💌 finished | 💣 popular | 🍀 personal faves | 🗞 one shot | ⏰ hiatus | 🏆 award-winning fic | 📓 drabble/short fic
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✰ enhypen masterlist
𝙇𝙀𝙀 𝙃𝙀𝙀𝙎𝙀𝙐𝙉𝙂
→ waiting room 💌🔞💣💣🍀🏆 pairings: heeseung x female reader // genre: college friends to lovers, fluff. smut, this fic was inspired by the song waiting room by phoebe bridgers. synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with. w/c: 21k
→ girlfriend simulator 💌🔞🍀💣 pairing: heeseung × fem!reader // genre: fantasy; romcom; fluff; comedy; light sci fi; college au; game simulator; slow burn; smut (mdni). synopsis: when heeseung agrees to test jungwon’s new dating sim game, girlfriend simulator, he expects a dumb, half finished game, until he boots it up on his switch, the screen glitches, and he’s dragged straight into the world he just created. the “girlfriend” character, you, isn’t scripted at all; and heeseung has to figure out how to get out while accidentally developing feelings for a girl who inconveniently does not exist in real life. // w/c: 37k
→ the sweet escape 💌🔞📓 pairings: bowser! heeseung x princess peach! reader | genre: mario bros au, smut (mdni!!), i would say crack fic bc come on, cheating, rivals to lovers, pwp, secret relationship | synopsis: you're tired of being princess peach: the perfect life, the perfect husband, the suffocating routine. for months you've been secretly fucking heeseung, the bowser: fake kidnappings that turn into real, filthy nights of rough bondage, his mouth devouring you, his cock claiming you while you pretend to resist. | w/c: 5k
→ see you at the movies 📱⏰ pairings: heeseung x female reader // genre: social media au (smau), fluff, crack, strangers to lovers, movie theatre au. synopsis: every thursday night, you walk into the theater alone, big popcorn in hand, like it’s a sacred ritual. heeseung, the overworked (and nosy) employee, can’t help but wonder—do you just hate people, or are you on a mission to watch every movie ever made? either way, he’s starting to think he kinda wants to be your plus-one.
→ gameboy 📱 🗞 pairing: pro player! heeseung x fem! reader // genre: smau (social media au), fake texts, situationship, one shot, player!heeseung
𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙆 𝙅𝙊𝙉𝙂𝙎𝙀𝙊𝙉𝙂
→ just like heaven // part 1 & part 2 💌 🔞 pairings: brother's best friend!jay x female reader // genre: 80s/90s au, childhood friends to lovers. synopsis: you never planned to fall for your brother’s best friend, jay. but the summer before college, on 1989, something shifts—between mixtapes, quiet drives, and the kind of closeness that sneaks up on you. and after a few cassette tapes and long drives, the love you never planned for starts happening. w/c: 21k in part 1 and 15k in part 2
𝙎𝙄𝙈 𝙅𝘼𝙀𝙔𝙐𝙉
→ nicest guy 📱🔞💌💣💣🍀 ft. sunghoon pairings: jake x fem!reader x sunghoon // genre: social media au (smau), fluff, crack, smut | synopsis: you decide to go to your first college party after two years, and after having to take care of two different drunk men, your college life changes drastically.
→ manchild 🔞💌💣💣 pairings: cowboy!jake x fem!reader // genre: cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. w/c: 9.5k
→ responsible guy 🔞💌💣💣 pairing: coworker!jake x fem!reader // genre: coworkers to lovers; smut (mdni!); romcom // synopsis: jake swore he’d never blur the line between work and whatever-this-is. one rule, easy enough. but then you showed up, turning coffee breaks into sharp little dares, late nights into the kind of conversations that feel a little too charged to be harmless. he keeps telling himself it’s work, strictly work, but every glance, every brush past, makes that excuse thinner by the second. // w/c: 13k // this fic is part of the man's best friend collab!
→ i don't wanna be just friends 🔞💌💣💣 pairing: jake x fem!reader // genre: smut (mdni!!), friends to lovers, college au, slowburn-ish // synopsis: jake was stuck. sex had gotten boring, always the same routine, nothing exciting enough to stick in his head. he wasn’t exactly searching for something new, but when a stupid bdsm test came up in conversation with you, he found himself way too curious. suddenly, he’s researching kinks at 3am, making reddit posts like an idiot, and realizing that maybe he doesn’t just want answers, he wants to try them with you. and maybe all he wants right now is ask: i don’t wanna be just friends, don’t wanna be away from you, can i be a pet? // w/c: 28k
𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙆 𝙎𝙐𝙉𝙂𝙃𝙊𝙊𝙉
→ nicest guy 📱🔞💌💣💣🍀 ft. jake pairing: jake x fem!reader x sunghoon // genre: social media au (smau), fluff, crack, smut | synopsis: you decide to go to your first college party after two years, and after having to take care of two different drunk men, your college life changes drastically.
→ how i met sunghoon 🔞💌💣💣🍀 pairing: downbad!sunghoon x fem!reader // genre: romcom, friends to lovers, slow burn, smut, crack // synopsis: sunghoon was always the kind of guy who fell too hard, too fast, the type who thought a shared playlist meant commitment and that liking the same sandwich was fate. spoiler: it never worked out. well, that’s until you showed up. he didn’t mean to fall for you. you were just his friend. the funny, smart, annoyingly pretty friend. it wasn’t supposed to turn into heart flutters and late-night guitar practice. but somewhere between friendly teasing, shared drinks, and the world’s longest friendzone, sunghoon realized he might actually be in love. oops! // w/c: 28k
𝙆𝙄𝙈 𝙎𝙐𝙉𝙊𝙊
→ coming soon!
𝙔𝘼𝙉𝙂 𝙅𝙐𝙉𝙂𝙒𝙊𝙉
→ night changes 💌 pairing: jungwon x fem!reader // genre: stranger things au, romcom, mystery, slowburn, strangers to lovers, 70s au, paranormal // synopsis: jungwon never planned on spending his nights dodging half-demodog girls. he just wanted to be normal hawkins boy in 1976, or at least make it through a party without running away from girls. instead, he ends up pulled into something bigger: training sessions he never asked for, government secrets, and a girl who never tells him her name but keeps saving his life anyway. does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes? jungwon knows it does. but what scares him more is how quickly he stopped wanting to run from any of it. // wc: 22k
→ just my luck 💌🔞 pairing: jungwon x fem!reader // genre: luck swap au, romcom, fluff, crack, strangers to lovers, slowburn, roommates to lovers; smut (mdni) // synopsis: when your impossibly good luck vanishes overnight after kissing a stranger at a masquerade ball, a fortune teller confirms what sounds impossible: you transferred it to someone who needed it more. now you have to find jungwon who accidentally stole your fortune, except you start to think that maybe meeting him was the luckiest thing that ever happened to you. word count: 33k
→ jungwon text's as your brother (nicest guy spin off) 📱🗞
𝙉𝙄𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙈𝙐𝙍𝘼 𝙍𝙄𝙆𝙄
→ 717 amortentia 💌 pairing: slytherin! niki x gryffindor!fem!reader // genre: hogwarts au, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers // synopsis: in your final year at hogwarts, all you wanted was quiet. until a transfer student from durmstrang is placed in slytherin, paired with you in advanced potions, and starts asking the wrong questions. when students begin falling ill and secrets bubble beneath the castle’s surface, you find yourself tangled in a web of forbidden magic, deception, and a boy who was never supposed to care. he came to investigate you. he stayed to protect you. but in the shadows of the castle, even love comes with a price. // word count: 21k words
─ enhypen smau masterlist
── coworkers to lovers series: heeseung | jay | jake | sunghoon | jungwon
── .✦ when enhypen steals your food── .✦ enhypen x latina girlfriends── .✦ enhypen texts after your first kiss── .✦ enhypen when you're interested in league of legends── .✦ enhypen ways of saying they miss you── .✦ enhypen reacting to your new ig post── .✦ did you break up with him yet? (enhypen as your ex)
── .✦ stop using my account! (enhypen as your ex)
✰ txt masterlist
𝘾𝙃𝙊𝙄 𝙔𝙀𝙊𝙉𝙅𝙐𝙉
→ your heart got teeth 🔞⏰ pairings: mafia!yeonjun x female reader // genre: enemies to lovers, yeonjun as your childhood bsf, mafia au!! smut, yeonjun is mafia leader and reader too. synopsis: years ago, yeonjun shattered your life with a single lie — and vanished. now he’s back, offering salvation laced with secrets, handing over pieces of your land to save the very people he once left to die. old scars reopen as you're forced into an alliance stitched together with memory, resentment, and the kind of tension that never really left. while danger brews at every border and loyalty crumbles beneath ambition, you must decide if the devil you once loved is worth trusting again — or burning with everything else. w/c: 28k
𝘾𝙃𝙊𝙄 𝙎𝙊𝙊𝘽𝙄𝙉
→ 1980s horror film 🔞💌🏆 pairing: soobin x bi!fem!reader // genre: smut, slowburn, friends to something, power play, pwp // synopsis: you are mostly into girls. everyone knows that. soobin knows that. but that never stopped him from watching you like he knew something you didn’t. he’s your favorite boy, your quietest tension, you flirt with him because you think it’s fun. until one night, a horror movie, and a question you weren’t ready for — are you really not into guys? and maybe it was never about boys. maybe it was just about him. w/c: 15k
𝘾𝙃𝙊𝙄 𝘽𝙀𝙊𝙈𝙂𝙔𝙐
→ scott street 💌🍀📓 pairings: beomgyu x female reader // genre: childhood friends to lovers, beomgyu as your ex, romance. this fic was inspired by the song scott street by phoebe bridgers w/c: 3.3k
→ out of tune // part 1 // part 2 // part 3 💌🔞 pairings: producer! beomgyu x female reader // genre: enemies to lovers, fluff, smut on part 3. // synopsis: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work. w/c: 27k in part 1 and 26k in part2
