cw. explicit sexual content, masturbation, stalking, coercion / manipulation, power imbalance, sexting
an. yayyy finally wrote something about one of my all-time fave vocaloid songs <33 i love plusboy len sm — he makes me horny, so here u go. art is from ookami ciro
kinich doesn’t even remember how he found your account. maybe someone tagged you, maybe you showed up in his recommended, maybe it was just fate. doesn’t matter now — he’s too far gone.
he scrolls. thumb dragging slow against the glass, screen reflecting in his eyes. heartbeat ticking higher with every new picture, every glimpse of your face.
you’re not even doing anything in them. just you smiling at the camera in your uniform, skirt neat, collar tilted the tiniest bit. you in a café with friends, laughing too wide for the picture to be sharp. you holding up some overpriced drink with glittery nails wrapped around the plastic cup.
normal. so painfully normal. and he can’t breathe.
he zooms in. he lingers. he saves them. every single one, without hesitation, even the ones that look too casual. especially the blurry ones — the ones where your face is half-turned, your lips parted like you’re about to speak.
what were you saying? who were you saying it to? did they deserve to hear it? he wants to know. he wants it to be him.
he wants to press his ear to your mouth and hear every little sound you make.
his chest feels hot, tight, restless. his throat is dry, his skin prickling.
it doesn’t take long before his other hand is pushing past the waistband of his sweats. he doesn’t even bother turning off the light — just sits on the edge of his bed with your page wide open, screen bright, thumb still scrolling as his palm drags over his cock.
pathetic. gross. he knows it. but knowing doesn’t stop him. it never does.
his grip tightens when he finds the one of you in your uniform. collar loose, tie askew, smile soft and unguarded, like you don’t know anyone’s looking. like you don’t know he’s looking.
“fuck,” he breathes, muffling the sound against his hand as his hips stutter up, precum smearing his palm. his voice is hoarse, shaky. “fuck, you’re so—” he doesn’t finish. he can’t.
his release comes too quick, hot and messy across his stomach, shuddering through him until he collapses back into the mattress. but his hand doesn’t stop moving. his eyes don’t leave the screen.
he’s still scrolling. still staring. still wanting.
still hungry.
that’s when the idea takes root, twisting dark and ugly inside him. a burner.
a blank profile, empty face, no trace of him anywhere. a way to reach you without you knowing it’s him. a way to touch you through the screen in places he can’t touch you at school.
he sets it up that same night. blank icon, blank name, nothing to mark it.
then he just sits there. staring at the message bar on your profile. thumb hovering over the keys.
what would he even say?
hi? too weird.
hey, you’re pretty? too obvious.
too much. not enough. every word tastes wrong, feels heavy.
his cock twitches again just thinking about you opening the message, about you reading it with that confused little smile. maybe showing it to your friends, laughing about some faceless stranger. maybe not laughing at all. maybe smiling to yourself.
his chest feels like it’s going to burst open.
finally, he types:
you’re cute.
simple. harmless. except it isn’t harmless, not at all.
he stares at the words until his vision blurs, until his thumb shakes with the urge to erase them.
but he doesn’t.
he hits send.
and then he lies back down, head buzzing, dizzy with nerves and lust, staring at the glow of your page like it might whisper your secret thoughts to him.
like maybe, maybe you’ll message back.
that night, he messages again.
sorry if that was random lol but you really are pretty
he stares at it for a full minute before hitting send, chewing his lip raw. his hand is already drifting between his legs — because just the thought of you reading it, actually reading it, is enough to make him hard again.
his stomach twists with nerves. his chest feels too tight. his cock throbs against his palm.
then he waits.
five minutes. ten. twenty. half an hour. every second is hell. each time his phone lights up with a notification that isn’t you, his heart plummets.
what if you don’t answer? what if you laugh at him? what if you show your friends, say look at this creep, look at this loser?
but then the bubble appears.
typing…
it disappears.
comes back.
disappears again.
his vision blurs. he’s rutting helplessly into his hand, precum soaking his boxers, the suspense enough to push him right to the edge.
and then —
thanks :)
six letters. one curved line. that’s all.
kinich groans into his hand like you just whispered i love you in his ear. he jerks himself off to that tiny smiley, spilling across his sheets, panting your name like it’s holy.
he can’t stop after that. doesn’t want to.
the messages pile up fast over the next week. he tries to keep them casual at first. harmless.
you looked cute in your story today
that outfit really suits you
bet you get stared at a lot in class
his thumb hovers too long before sending that last one. because he writes it with his cock in his fist, precum sticky across his knuckles, mind replaying the way you look two rows ahead of him. legs crossed, skirt brushing your thigh, lips caught between your teeth while you chew absently on your pen cap.
he strokes himself faster just imagining it. the tiny furrow between your brows. the way you lean forward when you laugh. the sound you make when you answer a question right.
he hits send on a groan, hips lifting off the mattress.
and this time — you leave him on read.
he almost loses his mind.
refreshes your profile until his wrist aches. stays up all night, jerking himself raw to selfies he’s already memorized. whispering in the dark that you must have liked it, you must have thought about it, you must have let your eyes linger just a little too long before deciding not to answer.
his sheets are sticky. his thighs ache. he feels hollow and frantic and high, spinning with you.
and the next morning, there you are.
in class. right in front of him.
same uniform, same neat hair. your laugh spills out bright and careless when you lean over to whisper something to a friend. kinich bites his cheek until he tastes blood, because all he can think about is how just last night he came all over his stomach imagining that sound.
he can’t look away. every little thing you do pulls him deeper. the way you kick your foot under your desk. the way your skirt rides up when you shift. the way your head tilts when you’re listening.
do you know?
would you laugh if you found out? would you slap him? would you blush? or — worse, better — would you smile, soft and secret, and send him the pictures he’s been dying for?
that night he opens the chat again. his phone burns in his palm, screen glaring bright in the dark. his cock twitches against his thigh as he stares at the blank box.
he tells himself don’t. not yet. too soon.
but his fingers are already moving.
wish i could see more of you
he stares at the words, panicking. thumb hovering over the screen like maybe if he presses hard enough, he can pull them back. delete them. erase the proof.
too late. it’s already there. already sent.
his cock throbs at the thought of you opening it. at the thought of your thumb brushing over the screen, your eyes flicking down, your expression twisting. shock? disgust? or — maybe — curiosity.
five minutes. nothing.
ten. still nothing.
he’s sweating, sheets sticking to his back, heart pounding so loud it fills his ears. he can’t breathe.
then finally —
more of me?
he exhales like he’s been drowning. body trembling, cock twitching so hard it hurts.
his thumbs are already shaking as he types:
yeah like… pics of you just for me
a pause. too long. too sharp. he digs his hips into the mattress, rutting like a dog while he waits.
and then —
lol ur bold huh
the sound he makes isn’t human. a strangled groan into his pillow, muffling his own need while precum drips sticky down his length. his thighs tense, his stomach clenches.
he types fast, reckless, desperate:
sorry if that’s weird
i just think you’re gorgeous
can’t stop thinking about you
seen.
the little word burns at him. seen. like a brand seared across his chest, across his cock. you read it. you saw it.
you know.
he fists himself harder, biting his lip until it splits, metal tang mixing with his moans.
no reply.
still, he can’t stop.
the next night, he tries again.
i’d treat you right if you let me
bet guys at school don’t know how to take care of you like i would
his breath hitches, his hand working fast, phone balanced on his stomach as precum smears across the screen.
and then you send it — the question that freezes his whole body:
you go to my school?
his heart drops. his cock jerks. it’s too much, too close, too dangerous. and yet — it makes him harder. makes him dizzy with the thought of you knowing.
maybe ;)
his chest feels like it’s going to rip open.
creepy
the word slices through him. makes his stomach lurch. but his cock throbs, because you didn’t block him. you didn’t leave. you’re still here.
not creepy, just lucky i get to see you every day
wish you knew how hot you look in class
the tears come before he can stop them. frustration, lust, shame. his screen blurs, his hand doesn’t stop. his need drowns everything else out.
please… send me something
even just a little one
i promise i won’t show anyone
it’ll just be ours
the three dots never appear. the messages sit there, blue-ticked, cold.
delivered. unanswered.
kinich jerks himself raw anyway, choking on your name into his sheets, phone screen glowing bright in the dark like it belongs to a god.
like you’re right there with him.
his thumbs won’t stop.
they shake over the screen, opening the chat, typing, deleting, typing again. every word feels too much, not enough. his cock is hard the whole time, sticky against his stomach, leaking through the waistband of his sweats.
you don’t know what you do to me every time you post
i can’t think straight
i can’t even focus in class anymore
he stares. waits. nothing.
five minutes.
his chest caves, his teeth grit.
you make me crazy
you like knowing that, don’t you?
still no reply.
he strokes himself harder, precum coating his knuckles, and sends another.
please just send me something
anything
i don’t even care if it’s just your hand or your leg i just want it to be yours
he groans into his fist, biting down on his knuckles until his jaw aches.
bet you’d look so good touching yourself
fuck i’d die to see that
his messages stack one after another, desperate, dripping filth into your inbox.
i’d keep it secret swear to god
it’d just be between us
please please please
his stomach clenches so tight it hurts. his cock throbs painfully.
then — finally —
ur relentless huh
the words hit him like a slap, like a kiss. his hips buck, precum smearing across his fist, his thighs trembling.
he types too fast, letters sloppy, almost unreadable:
only wiht you
yoire driving me insane
you liek the attention dont u?
you wnat me beggin like this?
lol ur dramatic
the sound that tears out of his throat is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. dramatic, sure, but you haven’t told him to stop. you’re still here. you’re still here.
id be so good for u
youd like how i touch u
jsut let me see u once ill make it worth it
he’s shaking so bad the phone wobbles in his hand.
and then — the three dots.
appear. vanish. appear again.
his vision tunnels. every nerve in his body pulls tight, cock twitching violently as he waits.
finally —
maybe i’ll send one someday if u behave
the words detonate inside him. his whole body arches off the bed, cum spilling hot across his stomach before he can even get a proper stroke in. he’s gasping, ruined, stars behind his eyes.
but even as his thighs tremble and his chest heaves, his hands are already moving, sticky fingers smearing over the keyboard.
ill do anything anything u want
just please dont tease me like that
he doesn’t care how pathetic it looks. he doesn’t care if you laugh. he just needs you to keep talking to him, to keep dangling the promise.
because now he knows — someday might mean soon.
it happens late at night.
kinich’s already been edging himself raw for what feels like hours, phone clutched in one hand, rereading the last thing you sent over and over —
maybe i’ll send one someday if u behave.
his chest twists, muscles tight, lungs aching with want. every fiber of him screams to see more, to touch more, to have any piece of you.
then — a buzz.
a picture.
he freezes. his hand tightens around his cock, thumb brushing over the swollen tip, heart hammering so fast it feels like it’s ripping his ribs apart.
he opens it.
not nude. not even close. just your thighs in bed, bare skin above your skirt, knees bent. the tiniest hint of curve, a whisper of what’s waiting for him if you choose to give it.
he chokes on his own spit, nearly dropping the phone onto the floor.
holy fcuk
holy fuck holy fuck holy fuuck
ur killing me
ur so hot u dont even know
his palm moves on its own. wrapping, squeezing, stroking fast over the outline of your legs, over the bare skin, over the thought of you. precum smears thick and sticky across his fist, coating him even as he stutters with need.
do u know how crazy i am for u?
im shaking rn
id get on my knees if you asked
he can’t stop himself. he snaps a picture of his hand wrapped around himself — base only, nothing identifying, nothing that could ruin him if it leaked — and hits send.
look what you do to me i cant stop
his phone buzzes immediately.
omg wtf
he groans, loud, wet, desperate. the sound echoes off the walls, shuddering through him as he presses his face into his pillow.
im sorry but i cant help it
ur legs are perfect
bet the rest of yous even better
he’s trembling. hips stuttering, thighs quivering, chest heaving. breath comes in short, broken pants. eyes locked on the picture, replaying it over and over, memorizing every curve, every fold of skin, every shadow.
please send more anything
ill beg as much as u want
just one more pic i swear
ill lose it if u do
he’s whining now, loud, raw. the kind of pathetic sound he’d never, ever let anyone hear at school. his head tips back against the wall, mouth open, eyes glued to the chat.
dont be mean u started this
dont leave me like this
please baby please
the word baby slips out before he even thinks. before he can stop himself.
he comes so hard it burns, spilling over his fist, hot and sticky, staining his sheets. his vision blurs, breath shaking, and even in the ruin of it all, the picture of your thighs is burned behind his eyes like fire.
and still — even gasping, even trembling, even ruined — his fingers move.
one more just one ill never ask again
he hits send, chest heaving, head spinning, stomach twisting with need. fingers hover over the keys again, unable to stop typing even though he’s already broken.
please just one more anything
ill do anything u want just dont leave me hanging
he buries his face in his pillow, groaning. the phone glows against his chest, casting light over him, over his trembling hand, over the mess of him.
he knows he’s ruined.
he doesn’t care.
he just wants more of you.
the next morning at school, kinich swears the air feels different. heavier, hotter, like every breath is thick with the memory of last night. like the whole hallway knows what you did. what you gave him.
you’re just… there. walking in with your friends, laughing like always, the same uniform, same hair tied just like yesterday. nothing about you’s changed. nothing.
but to him? unbearable.
he’s seen you now — not the polished, public you, but the private you stretched out in bed, thighs bare, skirt hiked just enough. he knows the curve of your skin in low light, the tilt of your knees when you snap a picture just for him. every little detail is branded on his brain, burning him from the inside out.
and you act normal. like nothing happened.
his cock stirs. pants tight. heat crawling up his stomach. you slide into your desk, skirt riding up the tiniest bit, hair brushing your shoulder. he can’t look away. every movement feels deliberate, meant only for him.
the way you cross your legs — throat tightens, pulse hammering.
the way you push your hair behind your ear — fist clenches under the desk.
the way you laugh softly with your friends — his chest aches, hips twitch.
he keeps hearing himself begging from last night, remembers baby still sitting in the chat. shame scorches his chest, but his dick twitches anyway.
does he dare imagine you smiling at that word before you slept? thinking about him? teasing him, just a little?
during break, you lean against the window with your friends, water bottle pressed to your lips, laughter spilling out in light little bursts. kinich’s eyes trace the line of your throat when you swallow, imagining lips there instead. he digs his nails into his palm under the desk, fighting the groan threatening to escape.
he can’t stop thinking. you’re right there. close enough to touch. and no one knows. no one knows he came so hard he couldn’t breathe last night, phone pressed to chest, your picture glowing bright in the dark.
the secret between you two tastes sweeter than anything he’s ever known. hotter than any fantasy he’s dared to have before.
his phone buzzes in his pocket. his heart leaps. he nearly falls out of his chair trying to grab it.
but it’s nothing. not you.
fuck.
he clenches his jaw, shakes his leg under the desk. every second stretches out like fire against his skin. he needs more.
you can’t just send him that and act like everything’s normal.
and the worst part — the part that makes his chest pound and stomach twist — is that you can. you could walk past him, smile, laugh with your friends, and he wouldn’t dare say a word. wouldn’t dare touch you.
but the thought that you might — just might — send another picture, just for him, makes him want to rip off his uniform right there in class, groan his need into the empty room, risk everything for a glimpse of you.
he bites his lip until it bleeds. thinks about his hand under the desk. thinks about the last picture you sent. thinks about one more.
and he can’t stop.
he won’t stop.
every little glance you throw his way — accidental, maybe — sends sparks through him, burns him alive. and he knows he’s yours. or maybe he’s just yours in the way only he believes.
he shudders, thighs clenching. desk feels too small. the hallway feels too crowded. and still — you walk past, like nothing happened. like everything is normal.
but to him, nothing will ever be normal again.
the second he gets home, kinich’s already collapsing onto his bed, curtains drawn, the room half-dark and smelling faintly of his own sweat. phone unlocked, chat open, screen glowing like a promise.
you looked so good today i couldn’t stop staring in class
he waits. two minutes. cock already straining, hard and leaking against his stomach.
then:
felt like you were teasing me on purpose
crossing your legs like that
do you know what you do to me?
ten minutes. nothing. the silence is suffocating. chest burning, stomach twisting in knots. his hand wraps around his cock, hot, sticky, thumb brushing the tip over and over, while the other types like he’s chasing his own sanity.
i’m serious you drove me insane all day you looked even hotter knowing what’s under your skirt
bet no one else in class knows but me
the typing bubble flares. disappears. flares again.
finally —
ur crazy lol
he groans into his pillow, muffled, voice raw. precum drips along his fist, smearing sticky across his skin.
crazy for you
don’t you like it?
don’t you like knowing i can’t sleep without thinking about you?
idk… maybe i do
his hips jerk violently, cock twitching, leaking, bouncing against his stomach. he’s trembling, head spinning, breath catching with every pulse of need.
please send more something riskier
i swear no one will ever see it but me
just one pic baby please
the word slips out again. baby. heat ignites from his chest all the way down. every muscle tightens. he moans softly, biting his lip until it bleeds, trembling with want.
don’t u get tired of begging?
no
i’d beg all night if it meant seeing you again
i’d get on my knees in front of you if i could
please don’t be mean just let me have you a little more
he’s whining now, loud, raw, muffled against the sheets. the kind of pathetic he would never dare let anyone hear at school.
show me under your skirt
just a peek
i’ll lose my fucking mind if you do
three dots appear. vanish. appear again.
he shudders, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, cock pulsing violently in his hand. every nerve screaming.
finally —
maybe if i’m in the mood later
the words hit him like a live wire. he collapses back, cum spilling hot and sticky across his stomach, fingers trembling, shaking from how hard it hits. he gasps your name into the dark.
and still — even ruined, even panting, chest heaving — he’s typing again, fingers slick and shaking:
plaese dont tease me like that
i need it so bad
i cant think straight without u
he presses send and buries his face in his pillow, hips twitching, heart hammering. every part of him aches for you, burning with the memory of your last picture, your tease, your words.
he knows he’s yours now, or at least — he belongs to the obsession, to the want, to the secret you share. and it’s enough to ruin him completely.
it’s late again.
kinich is sprawled across his bed, sheets tangled around his legs, phone gripped in one hand, cock hard and leaking against his stomach. he’s been staring at your last message like it’s carved in stone. maybe if i’m in the mood later.
he’s been edging himself raw all night, waiting, aching, heart hammering. every time the screen buzzes he jumps, hope flaring. refreshing the chat like a madman, groaning into his pillow, thinking about what later could mean.
and then —
his phone buzzes.
a picture.
blurry, mirror selfie. skirt pushed up just enough to reveal the curve of your thigh, a thin strip of panties. no face. barely anything. but to him — it’s everything.
his vision goes white. his chest tightens. hips twitch. cock throbs hard, precum dripping down his fist.
he moans, loud, shameless. sound swallowed by the pillow.
holy fukc holy fuuuck
ur perfect
im gonna lose it
his fingers shake as he types, nearly dropping the phone. hips thrust up on instinct, stomach muscles clenching around each stroke.
ur mine now you know that right?
no one else gets to see you like this just me
he jerks harder. strokes sloppy, desperate, thumb dragging over the tip. precum smears down his wrist, coating him.
fuck baby ur so good to me
bet you touched yourself before taking that pic didnt you?
tell me you did please tell me you did
lol ur insane
he whines loud, rutting into his palm, hips lifting off the bed, nails digging into the sheets. every nerve screams for more, imagining you smirking as you typed it, knowing exactly how badly you have him.
i cant stop send me more bra, tits, anything
i need to see all of you please please please
he’s trembling, chest heaving, mind melting under the weight of need. fingers slick with precum, cock pulsing violently in his grip.
and then — orgasm.
ripping through him so violently he cries out, vision blurring, cum streaking across his stomach, sheets, hands. hips twitching, body trembling from the force of it, moaning your name like a prayer.
but even as the waves fade, he can’t stop. fingers are already typing again.
dont stop now
dont tease me like this
i need u so fucking bad
he leans over, face pressed to the pillow, breath ragged, eyes half-shut but still locked on the screen. heart hammering, cock still throbbing, skin sticky and heated.
every part of him is burned with want, every nerve screaming, and he knows — he’ll do whatever it takes. beg, whine, stroke himself until he’s raw — just to see more. just to feel more.
he sends it.
and waits.
the little typing bubble appears. vanishes. appears again.
his chest tightens. hips twitch. stomach knots.
please… dont keep me waiting
the classroom feels like hell.
you walk in like nothing happened — uniform neat, hair tied up, bag slung over your shoulder, smiling at your friends. normal. casual. but kinich can’t look at you without remembering the picture. skirt shoved up, panties showing, hand barely in frame like you’d been holding the phone yourself. he jerks his knee under the desk, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings.
how the fuck can you sit there like that when you know? when you know what you sent him last night, how he came so hard he nearly blacked out, how he’s still sticky with it in the morning?
you slide into your chair two rows up, flipping through notes, chatting with someone beside you. skirt rides up when you shift in your seat — and kinich’s cock twitches instantly, body remembering the picture, remembering how close it felt.
he digs his nails into his thigh, eyes glued to the back of your head. his brain won’t shut up. those are the same legs. same skirt. same panties, maybe. he imagines you taking that photo before bed, lying on your stomach with the lamp on low, lifting your skirt just for him. maybe biting your lip when you hit send. maybe giggling because you knew exactly how desperate he’d be.
his hand trembles against the desk. he can’t focus on the teacher, can’t write a single note. all he can do is stare, heat pooling low, chest tightening, cock straining in his pants.
during break, you stretch your arms above your head, yawning. your shirt lifts slightly, exposing a sliver of skin at your waist. kinich grips his pen so hard it snaps in his hand.
his phone buzzes in his pocket. he fumbles it open instantly, heart hammering.
u looked tired in class lol stayed up too late huh? ;)
blood rushes south. cock twitching, straining against his zipper. his body already reacting, skin hot, pulse spiking. you’re teasing him. you know exactly what you did.
he’s sweating, breathing shallow, fingers shaking as he types under the desk.
can’t sleep anymore
not when i’ve got you in my head
all i can think about is your pic
i need more
he hits send, chest tight, thighs clenching, stomach knotting. he imagines you smiling when you read it. imagines you teasing him further, just a little.
and even as he waits, heart hammering, cock still throbbing, his fingers itch to type again. please… just one more…
the little typing bubble appears, flickers. vanishes. flickers again.
he can barely breathe.
his body remembers. his mind remembers.
and he’s already imagining lying on his bed later, alone, phone in hand, waiting for your next move, trembling with need, desperate for whatever tiny piece of you you decide to give him next.
you weren’t really thinking much about it before. the anon account was just… there. a little thrill, a distraction, someone to tease when you were bored. someone to pass the time with when lectures dragged on, when your friends were busy, when you were scrolling aimlessly through your phone in bed at night. it was nothing serious. harmless.
but lately… it’s been harder to ignore.
the things he says.
bet you get stared at in class
i couldn’t stop looking at you today
you looked tired during lecture lol
your fingers pause over your phone. the screen glows softly in the dark of your room, the words lingering. he knows too much. how would some random stranger know you looked tired in class? how would he know what you were wearing, how your hair fell across your shoulder, the way you slouched in your chair?
you tell yourself it’s coincidence. maybe he just means it in general, right? maybe it’s nothing, just a lucky guess. but the more you think about it, the less it feels like nothing. every word cuts a little too close to reality.
and then there’s kinich.
you’ve never really paid him much attention — quiet, sits behind you, barely talks unless someone asks him something. unassuming, almost invisible. but lately… you catch his eyes on you. fleeting glances in the hallway. a lingering stare during breaks. when you laugh with your friends, he’s always there, somewhere behind you, looking. and every time you catch him, he looks away so fast, like he wasn’t staring, like he didn’t want you to notice. but you know he was. you always know.
you remember one day, the memory twisting your stomach, a little thrill mixed with dread. you were checking your phone under the desk — trying to hide it, pretending to take notes. a new message popped up.
skirt looked good on you today
you look up, heart skipping. kinich is hunched over his own desk, pen tapping fast against his notebook, cheeks red, fingers fidgeting with something small and invisible. he looks like he’s about to melt into the floor.
your stomach twists. a laugh almost escapes you, because it’s ridiculous, right? it has to be a coincidence. you want to shake the thought out of your head, to pretend it’s nothing. but the dots are lining up too neatly.
the way the anon knows things he shouldn’t.
the way kinich avoids your gaze but can’t stop sneaking glances.
the way his leg bounces under the desk, restless, like he’s hiding something.
the way your chest tightens every time he looks at you, even though you’ve never thought about him like this before.
your phone buzzes that night. you’re in your room, curled up under your blanket, scrolling through your feed to distract yourself. you see the message:
thinking about you rn
touching myself to your pics again
wish you were here instead
you stare at it for a long time, heart hammering in your chest, fingers frozen. a flush spreads over your skin, both excitement and fear tangling together. you try to tell yourself it’s not kinich. it has to be someone else. right? someone anonymous, faceless, just a stranger.
but then your thoughts wander back to him. sitting two rows behind you, always flustered, always fidgeting, face red when he thinks no one’s looking. the way his leg bounces under the desk during class. the way he can’t seem to sit still when you’re around. the way he tapped his pen faster when he thought you weren’t watching.
and for the first time, the first time that thought even dares to form in your mind… you wonder.
is it him?
your chest tightens. a shiver runs down your spine. your fingers hover over the screen, a mix of dread and curiosity. you almost don’t want to send a message back. almost.
Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot
❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞
[oscar piastri x reader]
~7.8k words | rated: E
tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension
you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.
notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3
my masterlist
You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.
Just don’t make noise.
The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.
But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.
You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.
That’s when you see him.
Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.
You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.
He doesn’t notice.
You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.
You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.
Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.
Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.
Click.
He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.
You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.
By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.
Held in. Held back.
You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.
Click.
You keep that one.
You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.
Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.
Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.
Click. Click.
He’s animated even in stillness.
You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.
You zoom in: “be still.”
It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.
Oscar again.
He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.
You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.
Click.
Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.
You lower your camera. Breathe out.
The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.
You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.
You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.
A shadow crosses your table.
“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.
You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.
Silence.
You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.
Then there’s him.
Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.
Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”
You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.
Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”
You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.
That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.
You turn.
Oscar is standing a few feet away.
No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.
“That’s not what I look like,” he says.
His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.
You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”
A pause.
He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”
Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.
You don’t head out with the rest of the team.
No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.
You don’t touch the selects folder.
You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.
Inside, there are maybe five frames.
One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.
And then there’s the one of him again.
Oscar.
Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.
You zoom in, slowly.
The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.
You should delete it.
It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.
But you don’t delete it.
You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.
Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.
DSC_0147_OP81
No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.
You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.
You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.
The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.
The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.
Technically, it’s not a lie.
You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.
You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.
You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.
A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.
This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.
You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.
And then… him.
Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.
But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.
You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.
Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.
The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.
You didn’t.
You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.
You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.
And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.
A presence.
You glance up.
Oscar’s standing in the doorway.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.
“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.
You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”
He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.
“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.
You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.
“Sorting photos,” you say.
He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.
He looks at the screen. Really looks.
You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.
You glance at him.
He’s quiet.
Then: “Do I really look like that?”
The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.
You don’t answer right away.
You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.
He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.
You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”
He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”
You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.
Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.
“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”
He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.
“These are different,” he says after a moment.
You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”
He looks at you then. Really looks.
Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.
You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.
It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.
He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.
You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.
He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”
You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.
“No,” you say.
That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.
Another moment passes.
Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.
You don’t move away.
And he doesn’t move forward.
You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.
On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.
“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.
You almost say, That’s what made it real.
Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.
You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.
He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.
You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.
You glance sideways.
He’s not looking at the screen anymore.
He’s looking at you.
Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.
He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.
And all he says is:
“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”
It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.
It’s just true.
You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.
He steps back.
Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.
His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.
Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.
Just leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.
You don’t move for a long time.
The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.
There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.
You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.
You think you’re alone.
You aren’t.
Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.
He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.
But you raise your camera anyway.
Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.
You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.
He doesn’t.
He lifts his head.
And holds your gaze.
You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.
You click once.
The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.
He doesn’t blink.
You lower the camera.
He stands. He steps closer.
Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.
You could step back.
You don’t.
You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.
His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.
“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”
You don’t speak. Just let him say it.
“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”
That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.
You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.
Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.
And for a second, you both just breathe.
You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.
He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.
He takes that final step toward you.
Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.
Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.
He glances down at it. Then back up at you.
You hesitate.
For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.
But not now.
Not with him.
You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.
When you face him again, the air feels different.
Lighter. Sharper. Bare.
He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.
You take a breath.
So does he.
And then he kisses you.
No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.
His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.
You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.
It isn’t a long kiss.
But it says enough.
You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.
Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.
You don’t speak.
You just pull him back in.
After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.
Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.
You want more too.
But not here.
The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.
You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.
He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.
He just follows.
You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.
But this time, you pause.
The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.
You don’t hesitate.
You open it.
Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.
The door clicks shut behind you.
It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.
You put your camera on the bench now.
Oscar stands behind you.
You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.
This kiss is different.
Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.
But you give it.
You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.
Your hands map over it.
He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.
He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.
He just watches.
You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.
He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.
By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.
“You okay?” you ask, voice low.
He nods. Swallows.
Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”
You lean in, lips at his ear.
“Neither are you.”
Oscar doesn’t rush.
Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.
You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”
He does.
You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.
But it’s real.
He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.
He exhales sharply when you take him in.
You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.
His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.
You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.
Then he says it. Quietly.
“Thank you.”
It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.
You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.
“For what?” you breathe.
He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.
“For seeing me.”
You freeze, just for a breath.
It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.
And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—
And flips you.
Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.
It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.
Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.
“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”
Then he thrusts in.
Slow. Deep. Full.
You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.
He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.
Then he rolls his hips.
Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.
“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t need to.
He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—
God.
He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.
Your thighs shake.
Your nails dig in.
His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.
He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.
“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”
You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”
“I wanted you.”
His hips snap forward.
“I want you.”
He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.
The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.
He knows you’re close.
You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—
And you break.
It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.
He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.
Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.
You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.
Not speaking yet.
Just feeling everything settle.
He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.
Neither of you speaks.
Eventually, he shifts.
Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.
“Hang on,” he murmurs.
He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.
You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”
“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.
You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.
Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”
You blink.
His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.
“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”
He trails off.
You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”
He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.
He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.
He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.
You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:
“Do you regret it?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.
“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”
You shake your head.
“I don't think so,” you whisper.
And you mean it.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.
You reach for it.
Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.
You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.
Oscar follows.
He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.
He doesn’t speak.
You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.
No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.
You take one shot.
Just one.
No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.
You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.
Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.
He doesn’t move.
And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.
The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.
Oscar is still asleep on your chest.
His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.
And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.
Early. Sharp. Professional.
Your blood runs cold.
“Oscar,” you hiss.
He doesn’t move.
You jab your fingers into his side.
He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”
“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”
That wakes him up.
He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”
You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.
“Where are your—?” he starts.
“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”
He glances at the clock.
“Five fifty-eight.”
You freeze. “AM?!”
He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”
You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”
“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.
You both freeze.
Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.
Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.
Then the laugh slips out.
His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.
It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.
And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.
By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.
The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.
You try to ignore it.
You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.
The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.
You don’t look at anyone.
Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.
You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.
You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.
You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.
Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.
And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.
And there it is.
Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.
You don’t smile. You don’t linger.
You just right-click and rename the file:
DSC_0609_OP81
Then you close the folder.
The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.
You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.
Then you move.
Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.
By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.
You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.
The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.
Your body aches.
Not in a bad way.
Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.
You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.
You almost have it.
And then Oscar walks in.
He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.
Not long. Just enough to register.
You feel it in your throat. In your chest.
He keeps walking.
You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.
Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.
There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.
@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.
Your stomach tightens.
You tap it.
The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.
And there it is.
One of yours.
Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.
He looks human. Present. Exposed.
You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.
You didn’t even color-correct it.
But he posted it.
No caption. No emoji. No flair.
Just a tag.
Your throat goes dry.
You swipe up to see the comments.
'he NEVER posts like this'
'why does this feel personal'
'who took this photo?? i want names'
'soft launch energy or what'
You lock the screen.
Then unlock it again.
Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.
He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.
You don’t know what to feel.
Except seen.
And maybe a little bit fucked.
You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.
The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.
You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.
Footsteps approach—light but confident.
You don’t look up until he’s beside you.
Zak.
Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.
“Anything good in there?” he asks.
You click once, purely for show.
“A few,” you say.
He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.
“You see what Oscar posted?”
Your throat tightens.
You don’t look at him.
“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”
There’s a pause.
You don’t fill it.
Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”
You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.
Then he looks down.
“That one yours?”
You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”
“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”
You don’t answer.
Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.
“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”
And then he’s gone.
You don’t move.
Because your heart is pounding.
Not from guilt.
From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.
You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.
Or at least—without actively thinking about it.
You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.
But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.
You flip it over. No new notifications.
You open Instagram anyway.
The post is still there. Still climbing.
Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.
You close the app.
You open it again three minutes later.
You don’t know what you’re waiting for.
Until the screen lights up.
Oscar Piastri
10:02 a.m.
You okay with me posting that?
Didn’t mean to make things harder.
You read it once.
Then again.
Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.
It doesn’t.
You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.
About you.
You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.
It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.
But nothing feels normal.
Your phone buzzes again.
Same name.
Oscar Piastri
10:06 a.m.
I’ll still get the Plan B.
After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.
Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.
You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.
You type:
Thank you.
Don’t worry about the post.
You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.
Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.
Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.
If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.
Best regards,
Lindsey Eckhouse
Director, Licensing & Digital
McLaren Racing
notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3
genre | fluff, lots of angst, friends to lovers, idiots in love, childhood best friends au, slowburn (trust the process), hurt-comfort
word count | 22.5k (i know- my hand slipped)
warnings | no use of y/n, suggestive in some moments, emotional tension, jealous!lando, mentions of insecurities, use of alcohol, cursing, kissing, pet names (sweetheart), lots of tension, pinning, reader and lando being certified yappers, bantering and lots of teasing
summary: "practice makes perfect" or whatever they say. but who would have thought, that simple love lessons which he decided to give his best friend would turn into something much more. something much more complicated.
a/n: SURPRISEEEE !! happy bday to my dearest @norristrii !! 🧡 love u girlie xoxo, hope you’ll enjoy it ! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
“Fucking hell, I quit this shit.”
As you got into the car, you slammed the door shut and let out an exaggerated groan, throwing your bag onto the backseat. Slumping into the seat, you crossed your arms and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at Lando, who already had this annoying, amused look on his face. Damn it.
“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart.” He smirked from the driver’s seat and raised his eyebrow at you.
“Never again.” You muttered, and his lovely laughter filled the whole car.
You both knew that what you said wasn’t true. In a few days, you’d go on another date, say the same words, and laugh it off with him. The life of a hopeless romantic wasn’t easy.
“Well, that bad, huh? Come on, what was it this time?” He asked curiously, biting his lower lip as you sighed dramatically.
The memories from a couple of minutes flooded your head, still vivid, and it made you want to scream from embarrassment.
“He spent the entire date explaining the plot of his favorite sci-fi series. In excruciating detail!” You started, Lando’s mouth slightly going open, “And you know, it’s not bad! But now I know more about space wars and intergalactic trade agreements than I ever wanted to.” A whine escaped from you as you looked out the window at the restaurant you were still in a few minutes ago.
Lando burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the car. “Wait, wait— he actually talked about space wars and explained trade agreements? On a date?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
You looked at him with a withering glare. “Oh boy, let me tell you that it only gets worse.” You added, what made the grin of your best friend only go wider. At this point, listening to all the absurd things your dates did was Lando’s passion.
“When I told him I wasn’t really into sci-fi, he was baffled and said I clearly ‘didn’t understand the complexities of worldbuilding.’ Mate, I didn’t understand anything you said, and you complain that I don’t understand worldbuilding. Nah, that’s just crazy.” There was nothing else left for you but to sigh while sliding down the seat.
Lando doubled over, gripping the steering wheel for some support. “No. Fucking. Way.”
“Yes way,” You groaned, sitting back and throwing your head back against the headrest. “And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he pulled out his phone—mind you it was mid-date—and started reading me a fanfic he wrote. His own fanfiction!” You threw your hands in the air as the ridiculousness of the situation finally kicked in.
Lando’s laughter filled the car, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Oh my God. Please, tell me that it was a romance.”
You glared at him, and your lips twitched despite trying to stay serious. “Of course, it was, even with some smut scenes! Can you imagine?” The audacity of that man still made your skin crawl.
Lando put his hands on his face, cackling uncontrollably. “And you actually sat through all of that? Before you finally texted me to save you from this madness?” At this stage, he was shedding tears from laughing too hard.
“What was I supposed to do? Walk out, just like that? ” You replied, chuckling at the end as you looked at him, “Mind you, it wasn’t easy to even get out now. For fucks’s sake, man.” You closed your eyes as a sigh left your mouth, a smile still wandering over your lips.
Lando shook his head, his soft curls bouncing slightly as he still giggled. “Honestly, I don’t know where you find these people. You must have some sort of a gift.”
You smacked his arm, unable to stop yourself from laughing now. “Oh, shut up, you muppet. It’s not my fault he seemed normal on the app!”
“Normal?” Lando repeated, his voice full of mockery, “The man brought his fanfiction to a date. That’s a new low, even for you.” He snickered, not being able to stop himself from teasing you.
“I’m never dating again.” You groaned again, covering your face with your hands. “How is it possible that I always meet the biggest twats in Monaco? I swear, all of the best men are already taken.” You crossed your arms over your chest.
Lando scoffed while giving you a side-eye. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart.” He commented as you also alluded to him (still) being available on the love market.
After a while, he looked at you, again. Lando was grinning, and his voice softened just slightly. “But don’t worry, you’ll bounce back. You always do.”
He patted your thigh and gave it a small squeeze as he used to do. “Besides, you’ve got me as a backup.”He added teasingly while sending you a wink.
You glanced at him, rolling your eyes but smiling. That freaking muppet. Your muppet.
“Yeah, yeah. Just drive, will you?” You responded while concentrating on the scenery outside the window, still feeling his eyes on you.
As Lando drove away from the restaurant, his chuckles still echoing in the car, you couldn’t help but feel lighter in your heart. Somehow, even the worst nights didn’t seem so bad with him. He had this ability to make even the worst moments feel less draining.
────୨ৎ────
When you got to Lando’s apartment, without much thought you changed into some of his clothes. You couldn’t wait any longer to take this uncomfortable dress off of you and put something cozy on while also removing the makeup you wore that night. In the meantime, Lando took the takeout he ordered for both of you to the living room, and prepared two glasses for the wine.
After every failed blind date, Lando would save you, take you to his place, eat, and talk about the ridiculous date you had while drinking some cheap wine. He was always there for you, after every shitty day and even worse dates.
You’ve known each other for most of your lives as you met in primary school. It all started pretty innocently—barely audible “hi”, cute smiles here and there, then having fun together after school. Just you two being youthful kids.
With time, everything progressed and so did you.
The two of you became inseparable. You hung out with Lando most of your days, staying at his house more than at your own.
Every new thing that was known to you was tried together with Lando. With him you went through the tough time of puberty, you skipped school, you snuck out of your house at night, you went to your first parties, you tried alcohol for the first time, and of course, he was your first kiss (which turned out to be pretty awkward).
It was Lando and you against the world. And the shitty dates.
But as you both grew up, things started to change. You both always insisted that there was no romantic tension between you, even though all of your friends, your families, and even strangers constantly mistook you for a couple. But that was just how it was between you two; non-stop bantering with friendly flirting. You’ve never overthought it too much as you considered it a closed case.
The two of you sat cross-legged on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine standing on the coffee table, right beside the takeaway boxes. Lando leaned back, getting comfortable on the couch as he watched you swirl your glass like some sort of wine connoisseur.
“So,” He said with a teasing smirk, “Mister Fanfiction is officially out of the list, huh?”
You groaned, hiding your face behind your glass. “Don’t remind me. I can still hear him narrating those battle scenes like he was auditioning for an audiobook.”
Lando laughed, shaking his head. “To be honest, I don’t know how you do it. At this point, it’s almost impressive. You’ve got a talent for finding the weirdest men in Monaco.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Careful, Norris. You’re on thin ice.” Lando grinned as you stuck out your tongue at him, clearly enjoying himself.
“I’m just saying, that maybe…” He paused, observing your face with a smirk, “Maybe you’re the problem.”
You blinked at him, “Excuse me?” A snicker left your mouth. “So now suddenly all of the failed dates are my fault?”
“No, no! Think about it,” He continued, shrugging as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Clearly, you need someone to teach you how to date properly.”
You raised a brow, your lips twitching. “Oh, really? And who’s going to do that? You?”
Lando took another sip of his wine, smirking behind the glass. “Maybe I should. You know I have some experience, and God knows I’ve watched you crash and burn enough times to know how to handle you. Practice makes perfect after all.” He chuckled, still oblivious to what was going on in your head.
To his surprise, you suddenly leaned forward, setting your glass down with a decisive clink. “Okay then. Teach me, Mr. I-know-everything-about-love.”
He froze in his spot, staring at you while holding his breath. “Wait. What?” He tilted his head questioningly, flabbergasted at your reaction.
“You heard me,” You said, crossing your arms. “Teach me how to date. If you’re such an expert, show me what I’m doing wrong.” A smirk appeared on your lips as you noticed how taken aback he was by your directness.
His grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of nervousness. “Hey, I was just joking.” Lando excused himself quickly, scratching the back of his head.
What he didn’t expect was for you to counter. “I’m not.” Your tone daring him to back out.
The boy hesitated, the tips of his ears turning pink. He cleared his throat before finally speaking, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You must have drank too much wine tonight.” He reached to take your glass, but you moved your hand away, making it impossible for him to reach.
“Why not?” You challenged him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Too afraid you’ll fail?”
Lando scoffed, quickly straightening up his position. “Please. If anyone can turn your love life around, it’s me, sweetheart.”
“Then prove it.” You said, leaning in.
Even you were quite shocked with yourself. But frankly, you weren’t sure if it wasn’t speaking the side where all the emotions toward him accumulated in you. And seeing him this flustered was worth risking it all.
For a moment, Lando just stared at you, caught between amusement and sheer disbelief. Where did this sudden change in you come from? However, he had to agree, he enjoyed it.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, he finally answered, “Fine. But we need some ground rules.”
You laughed, bringing your knee close to your chest, “Rules? Oh, this is going to be good.” You tilted your head while looking at him curiously.
“Rule number one,” He said, pointing at you, “No falling in love with your teacher.”
You scoffed and looked at him pityingly, “Oh please,” You rolled your eyes at him, “Trust me, Norris, that is not happening—never.”
“We’ll see,” He shot back, smirking. “Rule number two, I’m in charge. You do what I say.”
You grinned at his words, “Bossy, aren’t you?”
“Hey, you asked for my help,” He retorted, his confidence returning. “Now, are we doing this or not?” His aquamarine eyes were stuck on you, searching for an answer.
A bright grin adorned your lips as you raised your glass for a toast. “Deal.” You said, “Teach me how to date, muppet.”
He clinked his glass against yours, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed his bravado. “Oh, you're going to regret this.”
“Bet.”
The two of you burst into laughter, but as the conversation moved on, neither of you could shake the unspoken tension that lingered in the air. Something new, something electric. Something that could only end up in two ways. Perfectly right or terribly wrong.
────୨ৎ────
The faint glow of morning sunlight seeped through the blinds, casting soft stripes across your cluttered room. A half-empty glass of water sat precariously on the edge of your nightstand, next to a book you promised yourself you’d finish weeks ago. Outside, the distant hum of traffic mingled with the chirping of early birds, a cruel reminder that the world was already awake.
And then came the shrill ring of your phone, piercing the peace like a dagger.
You groaned, blindly reaching for the offending device. When your hand finally found it, you squinted at the screen through bleary eyes.
Lando. Of course.
You contemplated letting it ring, but with his persistence, you knew better.
Sliding to answer, you muttered, “What?” Your voice was hoarse, scratchy from sleep.
His unmistakably cheerful voice came from the other end of the line, far too chipper for this hour. “'Morning! Hope you’re ready for your first lesson.”
You blinked at the ceiling, your brain struggling to process his words. “Lan, it’s nearly eight in the morning. Have you gone crazy?”
“Nope,” He replied, completely unbothered. “And that is the perfect time to start our lesson. Come on, get out of bed, stinky.”
You groaned again, pulling the blanket over your head in protest. “Just let me sleep, dickhead.”
“Nope. I’ll be at yours in ten.”
Your eyes snapped open, the phone slipping slightly in your grasp. “Ten minutes?! Lando, I swear—”
“Get ready, you can’t miss your first lesson.” He chortled, making you groan at his words.
“Fuck you.” You hissed in frustration.
His laughter rang through the line, light and unbothered. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
The call ended before you could respond, leaving you staring at the ceiling in disbelief. The soft ticking of the clock on your wall mocked you as you groaned loudly into your pillow.
For a brief moment, you debated ignoring him, but you knew Lando too well. If you didn’t answer the door, he’d just bang on it until the entire building woke up.
────୨ৎ────
Lando ended up sticking to his word and arrived in the next ten minutes. You were barely awake when the loud, obnoxious knocking jolted you from your bed. Groaning, you dragged yourself to the door, still wrapped in your blanket. You opened it to find Lando standing there, annoyingly bright-eyed and grinning like the devil himself.
“Morning, sweetheart!” He said, way too chipper for 7 AM.
You squinted at him, clutching your blanket tighter. “It’s not morning. It’s an ungodly hour, and I hate you.”
“Nah, you love me. Now come on, get dressed. We’ve got lessons to start.”
“Lessons on what? Torturing me at ungodly hours?” You grumbled, stepping aside to let him in.
Lando strolled in like he owned the place, collapsing onto your couch. He propped his feet up on your coffee table, looking entirely too comfortable.
“Nope. Lessons on how to become a dating pro, obviously.” He shot you a grin, his dimples on full display. “And step one is not looking like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
You grabbed a pillow from the couch without hesitation and launched it at his head. Laughing, he dodged it effortlessly as he leaned back into the cushions.
“I’m not doing this,” You grumbled, standing with your arms crossed. “Find another victim.”
Lando laughed, patting the spot next to him. “Oh, come on. You know you’re going to have fun. And besides, you were the one who insisted on me teaching you.”
You groaned, finally giving in and sitting next to him, your blanket still draped around your shoulders. “I take it back. This was a terrible idea.”
He nudged your shoulder with his. “No take-backs. Now, let’s get started. First lesson is about showing up on time and looking cute.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “Says the guy in sweatpants and a hoodie.”
Lando laughed, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “Fair point. But you’re still the one who needs lessons, not me. And I’m setting the rules here, aren't I?”
“That’s not a rule. That’s just you being annoying.” You mumbled, burying yourself in the cushions as you leaned back.
“Hey, you want to get better at this or not?” Lando teased, “Now, sit up. Lesson One starts now.”
You groaned but sat up begrudgingly, rubbing your eyes. “Fine.”
Lando crossed his arms, his grin widening. “Lesson One is also about your confidence. The way you carry yourself is everything. If you go on a date looking like you just crawled out of bed—”
“But I did just crawl out of bed!” You snapped.
“Exactly my point.” He said smugly.
You scowled at him, but he was already pulling you to your feet. “Alright,” He said, taking you to your bedroom and spinning you toward the mirror. “Let’s start with posture. Shoulders back, chin up like you want to be here.”
“But I don’t want to be here.” You muttered.
“Fake it till you make it.” Lando quipped.
Reluctantly, you stood up straighter, mimicking his instructions. It looked so weird. You were still in your pyjamas and the blanket now unfortunately lying on the floor.
He moved to stand behind you, gently adjusting your shoulders. His touch was firm but light, and it made your heart do a little flip—not that you’d want to admit it.
“Better,” He said, nodding at your reflection. “Now, confidence isn’t just how you look. It’s how you speak. Give me your best ‘Hi, nice to meet you.’”
You cleared your throat, feeling ridiculous. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
Lando winced dramatically, tilting his head to look at you in your reflection. “Ugh, no. That sounded like you were apologizing for existing. Try again—this time, like you’re happy to meet me.”
You rolled your eyes but tried again, adding a bit more energy to your voice. “Hi, nice to meet you!”
He raised an eyebrow. “Better, but now you sound like a game show host.”
You groaned. “Lando, this is stupid.”
“No, this is important,” He said, laughing. “You’ve got to find the balance—confident but natural.”
You tried again, narrowing your eyes at him as you said, “Hi, nice to meet you.”
Lando smirked. “There it is. See? Not that hard, is it?”
“You’re so lucky I haven’t had my coffee yet, or I’d kill you for this.” You muttered, glaring at him.
“Which brings me to the second part of Lesson One,” He said, ignoring your threat. “Eye contact. If you want someone to feel like they matter, you look them in the eyes.”
You crossed your arms nonchalantly. “That’s easy.”
He stepped closer, spinning you around to face him. “Okay, prove it.”
Your breath was caught in your lungs as his blue-green eyes locked onto yours. He held your gaze steadily, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. Suddenly, eye contact didn’t feel so easy.
“See? Not so simple, huh?” He said, his voice lower now, but still playful.
You scoffed, breaking eye contact and turning away. “Whatever. You’re just distracting.”
Lando chuckled. “That’s the point. A good date is gonna test your confidence. If you can hold your ground with me, then you’re more than ready.”
Despite your initial grumpiness, you found yourself smiling. His teasing felt less like mockery and more like encouragement, and as you practiced a few more scenarios—bantering the entire time—you started to feel a little less self-conscious.
By the time you were both laughing too hard to continue, your stomach growled loudly.
Lando raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Alright, I think we’ve earned a break. Let’s go get breakfast. My treat—since I’m such a generous coach.”
“You? Generous?” You questioned, grabbing your bag. “You’re a menace.”
“A menace who’s gonna make you a dating pro.” He shot back, winking at you as he held the door open for you.
You rolled your eyes but followed him out, feeling oddly lighter than you had in days. Maybe this “lesson” thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
────୨ৎ────
As your second lesson, Lando took you this afternoon to your favourite café.
The café bustled with the quiet hum of chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the clinking of ceramic cups. A group of teenagers laughed at a corner table, while an older couple sat by the window, sharing a croissant.
You sat across from Lando, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the edge of the table, his grin infuriatingly smug.
“This is ridiculous,” You said, glancing around the room. “What am I even supposed to do?”
He smirked, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Easy. Pretend I’m a random guy you’re interested in. Strike up a conversation—charm me.” A smug smile appeared on his lips.
Your eyes narrowed. “You realize you’re not exactly a random guy, right?”
“Exactly my point. If you can charm me, you can charm anyone.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the flicker of a smile. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you’re left speechless.”
“That’s the spirit.” He sat back, crossing his arms, his expression all too amused.
Taking a deep breath, you leaned forward, mimicking what you thought was an effortless smile. “Hi there,” You said sweetly, your voice dripping with mock charm. “I couldn’t help but notice your incredibly obnoxious smirk from across the room. Do you always look this punchable, or is it just today?”
Lando choked on his coffee, holding back his laughter as people around already looked in your direction from his sudden slam of the cup against the coffee plate.
“Okay, okay,” He said, wiping his mouth. “Not bad, but maybe dial it back a bit. Save the insults for date three.”
You groaned, sinking back into your chair. “This is stupid. What’s even the point?”
“The point,” He started, leaning forward, his eyes suddenly serious, “is to get you out of your head. You’re overthinking everything.”
You frowned, his words hitting a little too close to home. “I’m not overthinking. I’m just… bad at this.”
“You’re not bad at this,” He said softly. “You just don’t trust yourself.” The warmth in his voice caught you off guard.
His gaze softened, his blue-green eyes holding yours in a way that made your stomach flip. You looked away, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, the way his knee brushed yours under the tiny table.
“Alright, let’s switch it up,” He said, breaking the tension. “We’ll role-play, but I’ll start this time. Watch and learn.”
He straightened in his chair, his playful smirk returning. “Excuse me, miss,” He said, his voice smoother than you’d ever heard it. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re sitting here all alone, looking like you could use some company.”
You raised an eyebrow, struggling to hide your grin. “That’s your line? Seriously, Norris?”
“Hey, usually it works,” He shot back, chuckling. “Now play along.”
“Fine.” You leaned forward, your lips twitching as you tried to stay in character. “Well, that depends. Are you always this confident, or are you just pretending because you’re at a café?”
He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Only when I meet someone worth talking to.”
Your heart skipped a beat, the playful banter taking on an undercurrent of something deeper. The air between you shifted, the teasing smiles lingering a little too long, your gazes locked a little too intensely.
“See?” He said finally, “You’ve got this.”
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
The moment lingered, the conversation forgotten as silence fell between you. Lando’s fingers tapped against his cup, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second before his eyes were back on yours. He sent you one of the innocent smiles as he took his cup of coffee and took a sip from it.
Gosh, he’s going to be the death of you someday.
────୨ৎ────
The walk back from the café had been a peaceful one, with the sun setting slowly behind the buildings, casting the streets in a warm, golden light.
Lando, always with that easy confidence, walked beside you, humming a tune under his breath while you quietly scrolled through your phone. Every now and then, your shoulders brushed as you walked, and you couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through you every time.
Eventually, though, Lando broke the silence. “I’m starving,” He announced, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “Let’s grab some snacks.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Snack run? You’re not getting chips again, are you?”
He shrugged casually, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, “I could eat chips for days, but no, I was thinking something different this time.”
“Uh-huh. You’re definitely getting chips.”
He grinned, pulling you toward the nearby grocery store. “You’ll see.”
The store filled a quiet hum of its own, the soft overhead lights buzzing faintly as you both entered with a bell ringing above you. A few late-night shoppers wandered the aisles, their footsteps quick and quiet. You two, however, were a whirlwind of chaos.
You immediately lined in for the snack aisle, while Lando—naturally—dashed off to the drink section, presumably for his endless supply of energy drinks.
You grabbed a bag of chips and stared at the labels, debating between your usual choice or something more adventurous. Suddenly, Lando appeared next to you, his basket full of neon-colored cans.
“Seriously?” You asked, eyeing his choice of drinks—five different kinds of energy drinks, none of which were remotely good for a person.
“What?” He shrugged, grinning. “I need my fuel. I don’t know how you live without these.”
“I’m more concerned about how your insides haven’t exploded yet.” You glanced at his cart again and shook your head. “You’re going to rot your teeth with this crap.”
Lando laughed, tossing a can of the brightest energy drink into his cart. “I’m fine. This stuff keeps me going. It’s your snacks that I’m worried about.” He grabbed your bag of chips and held it up, his face twisted in mock disgust. “See, this is why no one dates you.”
You snatched the chips back, pointing at his basket with a dramatic sigh. “And this is why you’re single, you muppet. Candy and caffeine? Really?”
He looked at the kinder chocolates in his cart and then back at you, eyes narrowing. “Hey, I can’t help it if I like a little sugar rush now and then.”
“Sure, because we all know sugar rushes are the key to true love.” You replied sarcastically.
You both continued down the aisles, and before you knew it, you had found yourselves near the instant food section, where an impromptu race had begun.
Lando, looked at you with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Race me to the candy aisle.” He challenged, grinning brightly.
“You’re on.” You replied with a smug smile on your face.
A blur of movement and laughter followed as you both sped down the aisles, dodging random items and barely avoiding a collision with a display of cereal boxes. You both nearly lost control a few times, but you managed to get into the candy aisle. You could hear Lando laughing behind you, the sound louder than your own heart pounding in your chest.
“Too slow!” You yelled, looking over your shoulder and laughing, feeling a rush of freedom you hadn’t expected.
But just as you were about to win, you swerved too sharply, bumping into a shelf with your arm. Packs of gum and chocolate bars cascaded onto the floor in a loud crash. You let out a loud gasp as your hand flew to your mouth in shock.
“Nice one.” Lando teased, stopping beside you. He was giggling and you stood there, caught between wanting to be mad and laughing with him. “I’m blaming you for this.” You said.
“Of course you are.” He teased you.
“But you know I won, right?” You added, raising your eyebrow at him, “I don’t think that counts when you caused a mini disaster.”
You both spent the next few minutes putting everything back in place, much to the amusement of the other customers in the store.
Finally, you made your way to the checkout counter, where the middle-aged, woman cashier gave you both a disbelieving look as she scanned your wildly mismatched purchases.
“Is this your dinner?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not sure what we’re having yet, but we’ll figure it out.” Lando replied smoothly, grinning at you. You rolled your eyes at him. “At least we’ll have fun while we starve.” He added.
After the chaotic trip to the store, you were both exhausted, but the laughter still lingered. The cool evening air was refreshing as you walked home, each of you carrying a bag full of questionable snack choices. Every now and then, your hands brushed, but neither of you said anything about it.
“See?” Lando started, glancing at you. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He sent you a bright grin.
You smiled, a little breathless from the adrenaline. “It was a disaster, but I’ll admit, it was fun.”
He glanced at you sideways, his grin softening. “Well, next time, I’ll win the race.”
“Oh, please. You cheated.”
“Can’t blame me for taking advantage of your terrible operating skills.” Lando said with a wink.
You laughed, playfully nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“But you like it.” He added, nudging you back.
And suddenly, the air between you shifted. The easy banter was still there, but now it felt heavier, like something unspoken was hanging in the silence. You both stopped walking, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
It was Lando who broke the quiet, his voice softer than usual. “You’re the best part of my day, you know that?”
You blinked, your heart giving an unexpected leap in your chest. “I— what?”
“Just saying.” He chirped, smiling brightly but there was something vulnerable in his eyes now.
You swallowed, unsure of how to respond. It felt like everything had changed, but you didn’t know how.
Before you could say anything, he nudged you with his shoulder again, snapping you back to reality. “Anyway, time for our questionable snacks.”
You laughed again, trying to push down the rising feelings inside you. “Yeah, yeah. Lead the way.” You said as you both strolled to your apartment.
────୨ৎ────
Lando kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket onto the couch, walking into his apartment, but it didn’t feel like home tonight. The place was too quiet, too still. His thoughts were loud, buzzing like an electric current through his mind, and he couldn’t seem to shut them off.
He plopped down on the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. His mind kept wandering back to the day with you, your lesson at the cafe, the grocery store, the spontaneous shopping race, and hanging out at your place while eating the snacks you bought.
The way you laughed at him, how easy it was to be around you, and how, for some reason, he found himself feeling… more than just amused.
The smile on your face earlier that day—genuine and warm—kept replaying in his mind, over and over. And he hated it. It was ridiculous how a simple smile, something so normal, could make his stomach twist in a way that left him more confused than he’d ever been.
He glanced at his phone. No messages. But then a notification popped up from no one other than you. You’d sent him a message after he’d dropped you off.
You:
thanks for today, Lan
i had fun
even though you’re a cheating dickhead :p
Lando smiled at the screen like a teenager in love, but quickly slapped his face, trying to stabilize his facial expression. Even though he was alone, it felt a little absurd to smile over a text. But that was from you. You always knew how to make him feel something, even in the smallest moments.
His fingers hovered over the screen. He had a million things he could say—some sarcastic, some teasing, some that maybe he really wanted to say. But he chose the simplest one, the kind of response that still had a little bit of that playful energy between the two of you.
Lando:
you’re welcome, sweetheart
glad i could teach you another lesson today
let me know when you’re ready to graduate to full-on grocery shopping ;)
It was light, harmless, but he felt a small jolt in his chest after sending it, like he was waiting for something. For what? He wasn’t sure.
He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The silence of the room almost felt suffocating. He didn’t know what to make of this… whatever it was that was happening between you two.
He liked you—he knew that, and it wasn’t just because you’ve known each other since primary school, made him laugh or challenged him. It was deeper than that, wasn’t it?
He didn’t want to admit it, but it felt like you’d somehow slipped into the space in his life where no one else had been allowed.
It was annoying, really. Why was it so hard to admit? Why was he so afraid of what it meant?
Just as he thought about getting up and going to freshen up, his phone buzzed again.
You:
i’ll keep that in mind lol
btw, thanks for another lesson
He laughed softly to himself, biting back a smile. You were always so quick with your words, so playful. It made everything seem… easier.
For a moment, he let the conversation sit there, letting the words linger in his mind. He felt something stirring—something different—but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Something that maybe had been there for a while, but that he hadn’t noticed until now. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d been choosing not to notice it.
And then, as though his brain couldn’t stop itself, his mind wandered back to those stupid moments from today—your laugh, the way your eyes lit up when you’d teased him during the lesson. The way his chest tightened when he caught your hand brushing against his while cleaning up the shelf, even if it was just for a second. The way he couldn’t stop thinking about how natural it all felt, how right it felt to be with you.
But you were still just his friend, right?
He sighed, glancing at his phone again, watching the screen go dark as the conversation faded. It was nothing. Nothing more than a friendship. Nothing more than today, anyway.
Lando stood up abruptly and walked over to his kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water. But the second he opened the fridge, he froze.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel about all of this. And it was driving him mad. Maybe it was just because you were such a huge part of his life—maybe it was just that. Maybe the little jokes, the constant teasing, the weird way he found himself thinking about you all the time. It was all just normal to him.
But the more he tried to convince himself of that, the more the doubt crept in. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you.
“Fuck.” He muttered to himself, leaning against the door of the fridge, gripping the bottle tightly in his hand.
He’d been so determined not to let anything change, to keep this whole thing casual, lighthearted. But now? Now he wasn’t sure what it was anymore.
Lando took a long drink from the bottle and shook his head. He needed to stop. He needed to focus on something else—anything else. He needed to stop thi.
Oh, but it didn’t stop. The question lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch. What was this?
He grabbed his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen, and then deleted the text he was about to send you. What could he even say? The words wouldn’t be enough. Maybe he just needed to sleep on it. Maybe tomorrow would make everything clearer.
Or maybe, deep down, he knew exactly what this was, but he wasn’t ready to face it yet.
────୨ৎ────
After a few weeks of playful lessons, things had been going surprisingly well. Lando’s tips—however smugly delivered—seemed to make sense, and you’d actually started to feel more confident. So, when a cute guy from a bookshop asked you out, you decided to test the waters without telling Lando.
Now, standing in front of him as he stared at you with narrowed eyes, you regretted not mentioning it.
“Wait— you what?” He asked, his voice sharp.
You winced at him. “I went on a date. Just to see if your advice was actually working.”
Lando leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His usual teasing grin was gone, replaced by something tense and unreadable. “So, let me get this straight—you didn’t trust the lessons, and you went behind my back to… fact-check me?”
You frowned. “No, Lando. I wasn’t questioning you or your advice. I just wanted to— I don’t know, see if I could actually do this.”
His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped slightly. “And? Did it work?” He asked nonchalantly.
You hesitated, suddenly unsure why you felt guilty. “Well… yeah, actually. He said I seemed confident and easy to talk to.”
Lando let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Glad I could help you land another date.”
You blinked, confused by his sudden bitterness. “Why are you being so weird about this? Isn’t this exactly what we were doing? You teach me, I try it out. What’s the big deal?”
He sighed deeply while looking away to the side. His jaw was tight, his arms still crossed.
“The big deal,” He said, his voice low, “Is that I thought this was about us working on something together, not you taking what I gave you and— ...and running off with it like it doesn’t matter.”
Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms. “But it does matter! I wouldn’t have done half as well without you and your help. I just didn’t think I needed to check in with you before trying it out. ”
Lando scoffed, looking away as if to gather his thoughts. Then, almost too quietly, he muttered, “It’s not about the lessons.”
You froze. “What?”
He ran a hand over his face, frustrated. “Nah, never mind.”
“No, Lando. What do you mean it’s not about the lessons?” You pressed, stepping closer.
He hesitated, his eyes meeting yours for a moment before darting away. “It’s just… I didn’t think you’d actually go out with someone else, alright? Not after—” He cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek.
Your heart thudded loudly in your chest. “Not after what?”
He let out a long breath, finally looking at you with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and something softer. “Not after this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you.
You stared at him, confused and a little breathless. But then it struck you. “You’re jealous.”
“No, I’m not jealous.” He shot back quickly, but his tone betrayed him.
Your lips twitched into a smirk. “You’re totally jealous, Lando.”
“You’re missing the point!” He snapped, getting up from the chair, his frustration rising. But then he paused, realizing how close he was to you, and his voice softened. “I just— I thought maybe…” He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, and suddenly the air between you felt impossibly heavy.
“Thought what?” You whispered, your heart racing.
Lando hesitated for a moment too long, then shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
But you knew it did matter. And now, for the first time, you were starting to understand why.
────୨ৎ────
You were standing in front of Lando’s apartment door, feeling strangely nervous for a reason you couldn’t quite place. Sure, you were used to the lessons by now—playful banter, lighthearted mockery, the usual. But today felt different.
It had been weeks since that conversation where Lando seemed to hint at something deeper, and even though neither of you had addressed it directly, you felt the weight of it every time you saw him.
Your hand hovered over the doorbell, and just before you could press it, the door swung open, revealing Lando standing there, a small, knowing smirk on his face.
“Look who’s here early.” He teased, but there was something almost warm in his tone.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t ignore the way your heart fluttered at the sight of him. “Let’s just get this over with.” You muttered, trying to dismiss the uneasy feeling in your stomach.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You seem tense. That’s new. I thought we were past the awkward stage by now.”
You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, keeping the mood light. “Maybe it’s because your lessons are starting to feel like a bad rom-com.”
Lando chuckled, leading you to the living room. “I told you I was a genius. Just wait. You’ll thank me when you’re out there with some hot guy and you’re getting all the attention.”
You rolled your eyes again, but your stomach fluttered, imagining what it would feel like to actually be seen like that. Confident, poised, able to captivate someone’s attention.
“Alright,” Lando said, suddenly more serious. He turned to face you, his posture shifting as he adopted a more intense, focused air. “Today’s lesson is about vulnerability.”
“Vulnerability?” You blinked as you repeated, trying to sound nonchalant, but you could already feel the walls in your chest start to rise. “Isn’t that a bit heavy for a lesson about dating?”
Lando nodded, his eyes serious now. “It’s important, though. People can sense when you’re holding back, when you’re not being real with them. If you want something deeper than just a casual fling, you need to be willing to be vulnerable. Not just with them—but with yourself.”
You stood still, his words sinking in slowly. This felt like it was crossing a line into something deeper, something far more personal. You weren’t sure if you were ready for it, and yet, a part of you knew that you had to be.
“Fine.” You said, trying to sound confident even as you felt the already said vulnerability creeping up inside you. “What do we do? Cry in a circle? Share our deepest fears?” You asked as you said on the floor, in front of the couch.
He sat down beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat from his body. It made the air between you crackle with tension, and you suddenly became hyper-aware of everything. His scent. His proximity. The way his eyes lingered just a little too long on you.
“Simple,” Lando replied, his voice dropping a little lower. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and this time—no dodging, no deflecting. Just be honest, okay?” He questioned to which you replied with a soft nod.
Lando was silent for a moment, as if picking his words carefully. “What’s something about yourself you don’t let other people see? Something you’ve been hiding because you’re scared to show it?”
You froze. You hadn’t expected a question like that. There were so many things you kept buried deep—things you didn’t even like to think about, let alone talk about with anyone.
“I—” You faltered, not sure how to answer. “I don’t know. Maybe… I guess I keep everyone at arm’s length. I don’t let anyone get too close.”
Lando’s eyes softened, his gaze intense, as if he was trying to read you in a way no one else ever had. “Why do you do that?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “Because… I don’t want to get hurt. If I let someone in too far, I know they could leave. I’ve seen it happen before.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just nodded, as if taking in everything you had just said.
Then, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “I get that. But you know, if you don’t let anyone close, you’ll never know what it’s like to have someone who truly cares. To experience something real.”
The weight of his words settled heavily between you, and you felt your heart race, your pulse pounding in your ears. It was almost like you could hear your own fear in the way he spoke, and the vulnerability you had tried to guard so carefully was slowly cracking open.
You looked at him, your eyes locking, and for the first time in weeks, there was no joking, no playful teasing. Just raw, unspoken understanding.
Lando’s gaze softened, “Alright, second question. What’s your biggest relationship fear?”
The question hit you like a punch to the gut. You weren’t ready for this. You thought the first question was hard, but this actually hit too close to home. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Guess he really wanted to make you feel vulnerable.
Lando’s gaze softened as he leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. His casual demeanor was a stark contrast to the tension that seemed to have settled between you two.
You shifted uncomfortably under his stare, feeling the weight of his question hanging in the air.
He raised an eyebrow, his voice coaxing but still playful. “Trust me,” He teased, leaning a bit too close. “You’ve learned enough already to get by, now I want to know, what’s your biggest relationship fear?”
You hesitated, your mind spinning with the potential answers. Could you really tell him? Could you really let him see this side of you?
The weight of his gaze made your stomach tighten, and you instinctively looked away. Your throat tightened as the words got stuck. But Lando was persistent, his tone softening as he urged you on.
“C’mon, don’t hold back on me, alright?” He smiled, though there was an edge of concern beneath the teasing.
You sighed, feeling the vulnerability slip through your defenses like a crack in a dam. The question was simple, but it dug deeper than you expected.
Your biggest fear? It wasn’t the fear of being alone, or of having bad dates, or of not being good enough. It was something much more raw.
You turned your gaze to the window, as if the quiet night outside could offer you some comfort.“I’m afraid of being too much,” You said softly, barely above a whisper. “Too loud, too emotional, too difficult to handle. I think that sometimes people get overwhelmed by me, and I always end up pushing them away without meaning to.”
The confession hung in the air, a weight you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying. You nervously fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding Lando’s gaze. You didn’t want to see his judgment, didn’t want to see pity.
But then, you heard him move. His presence shifted beside you, and you blinked in surprise when you felt the light pressure of his hand on your thigh, where he gave you a small squeeze.
“Hey,” His voice was quieter, almost tender. “That’s not something to be ashamed of. Being a lot, or feeling deeply, doesn’t make you any less worthy of love. It makes you real.”
You swallowed hard, and finally dared to meet his eyes. There was no judgment there, no pity—just a quiet understanding that you weren’t sure you deserved.
“And I can assure you, you’re not the only one.” He said softly, his hand still resting on your arm, the warmth of it grounding you. “Tell me something I don’t know. I’m usually too much for some people. And I’ve got my own stuff I keep hidden too. Things I’m scared of showing because they might make people leave.”
You frowned, glancing at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Lando smirked but there was something in his eyes—a vulnerability that he rarely showed. “Guess we’re both pretty good at pretending everything’s fine, huh?”
His honesty was a jarring contrast to his usual banter. You felt a flutter in your chest, your emotions swirling, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was saying more than he was letting on. But the moment was fragile, so you held onto it—this quiet, raw connection that seemed to be growing between you two..
But then, before either of you could say anything more, there was a loud knock at the door, and the moment shattered. You both pulled back almost instinctively, like the world had shifted around you, leaving you both caught in the silence that followed.
“Right on cue.” He muttered, standing quickly and walking to the door.
You took a few moments to compose yourself, trying to shake off the rawness of the conversation, but it lingered like a storm cloud between you both.
As the door opened, Max stepped in, cans of beer in his hands while grinning. He glanced between you and Lando, his eyes flickered in curiosity, sensing the tension in the air but not quite understanding it.
“Did I interrupt something?” Max asked, his tone playful but a little teasing.
You gave him a tight smile, shaking your head. “No, you’re good. I was just heading out.”
Max raised an eyebrow, obviously skeptical, but he didn’t press the matter further. He nodded and flashed a quick smile at you. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you two to it. Catch you later.”
You nodded, muttering a quick goodbye to both of them before walking toward the door. Lando stood by the entrance, watching you go with a guarded expression, but something in his eyes—something soft, something unspoken—made your heart flutter, and you almost felt like turning back. But you didn’t.
You left his apartment, stepping out into the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. As you walked, your thoughts raced.
What had just happened?
Your heart still thudded loudly in your chest, your mind replaying the vulnerable words you’d both shared.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Lando—how close he had been, how it felt like you were on the verge of something monumental, but then it all had been pulled away so abruptly.
You wanted to understand it, but it was like trying to grasp smoke with your bare hands. You were certain you had just glimpsed something real between you—something that you both hadn’t acknowledged yet—but what was it?
Your steps slowed as you walked, the cool air biting at your skin, the questions swirling in your head. Why did it feel like something had shifted between you two? You weren’t sure, but you couldn’t deny the feeling that there was something more there. Something that was suddenly too real to ignore.
Was it the way his voice softened when he talked about his struggles? Or maybe it was the way his eyes had stayed on you for just a moment too long before the interruption of Max? You shook your head. It wasn’t that simple. But what if it was?
You reached your apartment building, your feet carrying you without much thought as you tried to put the evening into perspective. It wasn’t just the lessons anymore. It was about him. Lando.
You walked into your building and up the stairs, but all you could think about was that moment, when everything had nearly cracked open between you two.
What now?
────୨ৎ────
It had already been three months since Lando started these “dating lessons.” At first, you hated every moment of it. The early mornings, the awkward tips on what to say, the forced banter that seemed like it was straight out of some romance movie. You had thought the whole thing was ridiculous, a waste of time.
You never signed up to learn how to date—it was just supposed to be you figuring it out. But now? Well, now it was different. You found yourself looking forward to it. The lessons didn’t feel like lessons anymore, they felt like moments spent with him.
Lando’s sarcasm was easier to swallow, his teasing was less annoying, and you found yourself actually learning—not just about dating, but about the person you were becoming with each interaction.
The lessons had evolved from mere exercises in how to behave on a date to something more. There was the grocery store adventure where you both raced around the aisles, the heated debates about the best snack brands, the quiet nights spent in his apartment watching movies where you’d catch yourself laughing too hard at his jokes.
And then there was the way he had started to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—the moments when his hand brushed against yours, the small smiles that lingered longer than usual. You weren’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere between his casual insults and your joking comebacks, something had shifted.
You found yourself wanting him more and more. Wanting to be around him, laugh with him, touch him. But you couldn’t tell him that, could you? You were supposed to be learning, not falling for him.
The night before, you’d spent hours talking in his kitchen over a takeout, sharing a bottle of wine. The banter was still there, but it was different. There was an electricity in the air, a tension that neither of you seemed to want to acknowledge. You laughed, but there was something softer about the way you looked at each other now.
Tonight, your group of friends decided to hit the club and chill out together.
The night was electric as you entered the club with your friends. The music thumped in your chest, the bright lights flashing in time with the beat, and the laughter of your group filled the air as you made your way to the VIP section.
Alex was by your side, pulling you along, while Lando and Charles were chatting up with the staff, trying to get the best spot. Carlos and Rebecca were already ahead, eagerly chatting with the bartender about the best drinks of the night.
You were dressed up to the nines—a bold, black dress that hugged your figure just right, makeup that added to your confidence, and heels that made you feel like you were walking on air.
Every movement was self-assured, purposeful, but underneath it all, you felt the familiar flutter of nerves. It was a big night—your first real night out since those dating lessons with Lando, and small practice blind dates after deciding later with Lando that it was, indeed, practical.
You caught a glimpse of Lando in the crowd, looking effortlessly cool in a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his signature smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. But as you locked eyes for a moment, something shifted between you. He stared for just a beat too long, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too. His gaze darkened with something unreadable, something that made your heart skip.
The club was alive with energy, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Lando was watching you—really watching you. Every time you moved through the crowd, you felt his eyes follow your every step, and you knew it wasn’t just about the way you looked. His gaze was intense, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry or just… interested.
As the night wore on, Alex and you had mingled with the others, having fun, drinking, laughing, and meeting new people. You felt the buzz of alcohol loosening your usual inhibitions, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but still feel Lando’s presence, like an electric current running through the air. Every now and then, you’d catch him looking your way—his jaw tight, lips pressed together, as if he was holding something back.
One guy, a charming stranger with a cocky grin, approached you while you were chatting with Alex. He made some casual comment about your dress, a compliment that felt a little too insistent for your liking. You tried to brush him off politely, but he was persistent. And that’s when you saw it. Lando’s posture stiffened from across the room. His jaw clenched as he observed the whole exchange. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was a raw, protective energy that you couldn’t ignore.
Your heart raced in your chest. Why was this affecting you so much? Lando was just a friend, and the alcohol in your veins was making you feel about this differently. That’s all. But the way he was looking at you— no, the way he was staring, it made you feel things you weren’t prepared for.
“Hey, are you alright?” Alex asked, breaking through your thoughts.
“Yeah, just… a little tired,” You said quickly, waving it off. “Let’s just get another round, yeah?” You suggested, trying to shake away the thoughts of a certain, aquamarine eyed man.
The night continued, the drinks flowed freely, and you eventually found yourself standing in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by the heat of the crowd. Lando had suddenly joined you, and as if it was all part of some unspoken plan, he pulled you closer, hand at the small of your back. Your breath hitched as he led you into the rhythm, the music pulsing around you like the beating of a shared heart.
The chemistry between you was undeniable, and on the dance floor, it felt like everything fell away. All you could feel was him. His movements were fluid, confident, and his hands—oh, his hands. They were occupying your waist, guiding you, but also holding you in a way that felt almost intimate.
Your body swayed against his with the music, each movement a little more daring than the last, a little more intimate. The space between you two closed, and suddenly, it wasn’t just dancing anymore—it was something much, much more. Every subtle shift of his body, every moment when he pressed a little closer, felt like a promise. Your chest brushed against his with every step, the air between you electric.
Lando’s lips were close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re really good at this, sweetheart,” He murmured, his voice rough, as though he was struggling to keep himself composed. “I don’t remember teaching you this.”
You tilted your head back, catching his gaze, and you were met with something that made your stomach flutter. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and you could see the flicker of something unsaid in them.
Your pulse quickened as his hand slid lower down your back, pulling you even closer. The music swirled around you, but in that moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own heart racing.
“I’m just following your lead.” You whispered back, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. But your voice betrayed you, breaking just a little as you felt a rush of heat flood through you.
Lando’s grip tightened, his hand now resting against the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the soft skin just below your ribcage. He was so close. Your lips were inches apart, your breath mingling in the small gap between you. You could feel the heat of his body, the tension that was growing, pulling you in. It felt like an inevitable pull, like everything had been leading to this moment.
But just as you leaned in, as your lips were just about to meet, a loud voice cut through the noise of the club.
“Hey! Another round of shots, guys!” Carlos yelled from across the dance floor, completely oblivious to the burning tension that had just built between you and Lando.
Both of you froze, stepping back slightly, your heart thundering in your chest. Lando cleared his throat awkwardly, giving you a half-smile, but his eyes couldn’t hide the frustration, the want that had been building just moments ago.
“Yeah— shots. Right.” He muttered, still catching his breath.
You felt the cold air hit your face as the space between you widened. The magic of the moment shattered, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air.
As you both made your way back to the group, there was an unspoken tension between you, thick and unresolved. Your thoughts were a mess, and it felt like your body was still alive with the electricity of that almost-kiss. But now, as you rejoined the others, it was as though nothing had happened.
You both put on your masks—smiles, laughter, easy banter. But underneath, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what was left unsaid and undone.
────୨ৎ────
The late afternoon sun streamed into the cozy living room of Alex and Charles’ apartment, casting warm hues over the array of half-empty snack bowls and scattered magazines.
You sat cross-legged on the couch, a fuzzy blanket draped over your lap, while Alex leaned against the armrest, gently stroking Leo who slept next to her.
Charles was out for work related things, and Lando was thank God busy hanging out with his friends from Quadrant. That left a perfect opportunity for both of you to finally meet and for you to escape from him.
Hanging out with Alex was so comfortable and effortless for you. She was a great friend, and you always felt like you didn’t have to pretend to be someone you weren’t when you were with her. Laughter filled the room as the two of you gossiped about everything and nothing.
“I’m telling you, the barista at that café definitely has a thing for Charles,” Alex said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “She’s been giving him extra foam hearts in his coffee for weeks now. As if she doesn’t know he’s already taken.” She added chuckling at the end.
You laughed, holding a cup of tea. “Please, and he probably thinks it’s just good customer service.”
Alex snorted. “God, you’re so right. That man’s clueless unless it’s about racing, Leo or what tie matches his suit.”
The conversation flowed easily, as it always did with Alex. It wasn’t until there was a lull that she glanced at you with a curious tilt of her head.
“So… how are things going with Lando?”
Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you froze. Did she know about what happened in the club? Or what have you two been doing recently?
Memories of the lessons, the banter, and the night at the club with almost kissing each other flashed through your mind. You had to stop yourself from blurting it all out then and there. Instead, you swallowed hard, forcing a casual smile.
“Oh, you know,” You said, waving a hand dismissively. “Same as always. He’s still… Lando.”
You skipped the detail that since the night out, you two haven’t hung out or had your lesson yet. You barely texted each other, the unspoken words and tension from that memorable night still vivid in your minds.
Alex raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “And the dates? How’s the whole ‘finding the one’ thing going?”
You scrambled for an answer, laughing nervously as you tried to keep your cool. “Oh, still terrible. Absolute disasters every time. Honestly, it’s like a bad rom-com at this point.”
Alex laughed, thankfully buying your excuse. She reached for a piece of chocolate from the coffee table and popped it into her mouth. “Well, maybe that’s about to change.” She suggested, a sly smile spreading across her face.
You furrowed your brow, tilting your head. “What do you mean?” You asked, taking a sip of your tea.
“Joshua,” She said, leaning closer as though she was letting you in on a secret. “He’s coming to Monaco in a month.”
“Joshua?” You asked, the name unfamiliar.
“My lifelong friend,” Alex explained, her excitement bubbling over. “He’s absolutely lovely. Smart, funny, sweet, and charming. Basically, the perfect guy you could’ve thought of. I’ve always thought he and you might hit it off.”
Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at her words, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “Oh,” You blurted out, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s— nice.”
“Nice? Are you kidding me?” Alex said, sitting up straighter while also watching out not to wake up Leo. “He’s perfect for you. And he’s single. I’ll introduce you when he gets here.”
You hesitated, feeling a strange heaviness settle over you. “I don’t know, Alex…”
“Come on!” She urged, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “What’s the worst that could happen? One date, just one. And if it’s a disaster, I’ll never bring it up again. But I really think you’ll like him.”
After a moment of silence, you sighed, relenting under her hopeful gaze. “Alright, fine. One date.”
Alex clapped her hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Yes! You won’t regret this, I promise. Joshua is amazing.”
You laughed lightly, but as the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, a nagging feeling lingered in your chest. The thought of going on a date with someone new felt… strange. Unsettling. You told yourself it was just nerves, but deep down, you couldn’t shake the image of a certain someone’s lopsided grin and teasing eyes.
As Alex continued to talk, you found yourself half-listening, your thoughts drifting elsewhere.
What would Lando think about this? Would he even care?
The uneasy feeling in your stomach didn’t fade, and as Alex’s laughter filled the room, you couldn’t help but wonder if agreeing to the date was a mistake.
────୨ৎ────
The warm night air was thick with tension as you leaned against the hood of Lando’s McLaren, the Monaco skyline stretching out behind you in a sea of glittering lights.
This was supposed to be just another lesson, but something had shifted between you. Every touch, every lingering look—it all felt heavier, like you were teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t name.
Lando stood a few feet away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching you with a strange mix of curiosity and hesitation. He was always so confident, so sure of himself, but tonight there was an unspoken weight in the way his gaze lingered on you.
“Alright,” He finally said, breaking the silence. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper. “Tonight’s lesson is about the end of date scenarios. The big moment—to kiss or not to kiss.”
You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way your heart fluttered at his words. “Haven’t we already covered this? Or are you just using this as an excuse to make me feel awkward again?”
He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Awkwardness is part of the process. Trust me, it builds character.”
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. Teach me, Norris.”
Lando stepped closer, leaning against the car next to you. The air between you grew charged, the familiar push-and-pull of your dynamic shifting into something more.
“Okay,” He said, his voice dropping slightly. “Picture this—the end of a date. You’ve had a good time, he’s dropping you off, and you’re standing there wondering if he’s going to make a move. What do you do?”
“I don’t know,” You replied honestly, feeling the weight of his gaze. “Wait for him to do something, I guess.”
Lando made a sound of a wrong buzzer with his mouth, “Wrong,” He said, shaking his head. “You don’t wait. You take control, muppet. If you want to kiss him, you make it happen.”
You hesitated, the memory of the club flashing through your mind. The way his hands had gripped your waist as you danced together, the heat of his breath against your ear, the way his eyes had burned into yours like there was no one else in the room.
You’d been so close—too close—and yet, something had pulled you apart before it could happen.
Lando must have noticed the way your expression shifted because his tone softened. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning in slightly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing,” You lied, forcing a smile. “Just trying to keep up with your endless wisdom.”
He studied your face for a moment, then tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Alright, let’s see if you’ve actually been paying attention. Lean in like you mean it. Show me that you’re not afraid to go for what you want.”
Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, his body just inches from yours. He raised a hand, lightly brushing a strand of hair away from your face, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you.
“Eye contact,” He reminded you softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t break it.”
You swallowed hard, your heart racing as your eyes locked with his. The memory of the club resurfaced again—how close you’d been to kissing him, how much you’d wanted it. And now, standing here under the Monaco sky, it felt like history was repeating itself.
“Lan...” You uttered, your voice trembling slightly.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. The air between you was electric, every inch of your skin buzzing with anticipation.
“I need to tell you something.” You mumbled, trying to steady your voice. Lando hummed in question, his eyes still locked on yours.
And then, like a splash of cold water, you blurted out, “Alex is setting me up with her friend. Apparently, he’s perfect and coming to Monaco in a month.”
Lando froze, his hand dropping back to his side. He stepped back a little. The tension between you shattered, replaced by a strange, almost palpable stillness.
“Perfect?” He repeated, his tone sharp. “That’s a strong word. What makes him so perfect?”
You shrugged, trying to keep your tone casual, though you felt the weight of the conversation pressing down on you. “I don’t know, but Alex seems convinced. She’s been hyping him up.”
Lando’s eyes darkened, and he let out a mocking laugh. “Oh... great. Another guy with a glowing resume. Does he like long walks on the beach, too?”
You couldn’t help but laugh, though the sound felt more nervous than amused. “Why are you being so weird about this? It’s not just any date, Lan,” You continued, your voice a little quieter now. “Alex practically thinks he’s my soulmate.”
Lando forced a laugh, but it didn’t sound genuine. “Sounds like your soulmate’s got a packed calendar if you had to book him a month out.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to keep it light. “He’s flying in from New York, okay? It’s not like I picked this date on purpose.”
Lando’s expression darkened even further, and his gaze flickered toward the ground. He shifted on his feet, a frown tugging at his lips. “You really think this guy’s perfect, huh?”
You nodded, though you couldn’t quite explain why you weren’t sure about it yourself. “I mean— I guess we’ll see.” You fiddled with your hands, stress creeping in.
His voice was low, almost bitter. “Whatever. Hope Alex’s golden boy doesn’t disappoint.”
You blinked, shocked by the sudden shift in his tone. His words stung, more than you expected. Before you could respond, he turned toward the car, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.
“Lesson’s over.” He muttered, not looking back as he opened the car door and got inside.
You stood there, still by the hood of the McLaren, staring after him. Your chest felt tight, your mind spinning with confusion and something else you couldn’t quite identify.
Something had shifted between you tonight—something that felt like it couldn’t be undone. You had no idea where this was heading, but for the first time, you were afraid that the lessons weren’t just about dating anymore
They were about something more.
And you didn’t know if you were ready to face it.
With a sigh, you came up to the car door and got in the car. Lando didn’t even bat an eye at you, driving away with a screech of the tires.
────୨ৎ────
You were curled up on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through your phone when it buzzed with a call. Alex’s name lit up on the screen, and you hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Hi Alex.” You said, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjusted your blanket.
“Hi girl, what’s up?” Alex’s cheery voice greeted you, the familiar sound instantly making you smile.
“Not much. Just a quiet night in.” You replied, settling back into the cushions.
“Perfect timing then,” Alex said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Guess who asked about you again?”
You already knew who she was talking about, but you feigned ignorance. “Umm, Leo?”
Alex laughed. “Not even close. Joshua! I showed him your Instagram, by the way.”
“You what?” You asked, sitting up slightly, startled.
“Relax,” Alex reassured you. “He said you’re even prettier than I described. Which, by the way, is saying a lot because I hyped you up a lot.” Her warm laugh echoed in your phone.
Your stomach did a small flip, but you forced a faint smile, even though Alex couldn’t see it. “That’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” Alex teased. “That’s all you’ve got to say? This guy is a total catch, you know. And he’s so excited to meet you. I’m telling you, he’s perfect for you.”
You let out a small laugh, hoping it masked the unease creeping in. “You’ve got your matchmaking hat on full-time now, huh?”
“I’m just saying,” Alex replied, her tone softening. “You’re not freaking out, are you? He’s seriously a great guy.”
“No, I’m fine,” You lied, trying to sound more certain than you felt. “Just… a lot going on, you know?”
There was a pause on Alex’s end, then a softer tone. “Hey, if you’re nervous, that’s okay. But trust me, Josh is worth it. You don’t have to rush into anything, but I think you’ll really like him.”
You exhaled, leaning your head back against the couch. “Thanks, Alex. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” Alex said, and you could practically hear her smile. “We’ll talk more soon, okay? Just wanted to check in.”
“Alright. Thanks for calling.” You replied.
As the call ended, you placed your phone down and stared at the ceiling. Alex’s words hung heavy in the air. Joshua was great—you had no reason to doubt that. But as much as you wanted to feel excited, all you felt was… unsettled.
Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, to someone else entirely. Someone who wasn’t always perfect in the ways Alex described but who somehow felt more real, more right.
And that thought only made your chest tighten as you sat there, wondering why everything felt so much more complicated than it needed to be.
────୨ৎ────
Your date was almost knocking at your door, as another weeks went by.
You hadn’t heard from Lando all day, and that alone was enough to have your mind racing. It wasn’t like him to go silent without a reason, especially after a night out in a club. He'd usually send you a “i'm home” text, yet this time—nothing.
You had tried texting and calling, but there had been no reply. You could feel your concern growing, a gnawing feeling settling in your stomach. So, without a second thought, you grabbed your jacket and headed to his place.
You knew where he kept the spare key. He had told you once when you’d been joking about breaking in if he ever locked himself out. You hadn’t expected to actually use it, but tonight, something in you told you that you needed to check on him.
When you arrived at his apartment, you grabbed the key from its usual hiding spot under the small flower pot near the door. It was a small moment of normalcy, but it made your heart beat a little faster.
The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, immediately sensing the quiet. “Lan?” You called softly, your voice echoing through the empty hallway. No answer.
You moved through the apartment, calling his name again, but it was only when you reached the living room that you found him. He was laying on the couch, eyes closed. His face was flushed, and the faint smell of alcohol hung in the air. It was clear that he’d had more than a few drinks.
“Lando?” You asked again, this time more urgently as you stepped closer.
He didn’t respond, and for a moment, panic flickered in your chest. You rushed to his side, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake.
“Mhm?” His voice was barely a whisper, and he opened his eyes slowly, blinking as though the light bothered him. His gaze focused on you, a weak, hazy smile tugging at his lips.
“Hi,” He mumbled, his words slurring a little. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried. You haven’t replied to any of my texts for the whole day,” You answered, kneeling down in front of him to get a better look at his face. “How much did you drink?”
Lando waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” He replied to your question, but the way he swayed slightly as he sat made it clear he wasn’t.
“Right,” You said with a forced smile, trying not to sound too concerned. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You moved to help him, but Lando suddenly swatted your hands away, blinking up at you in frustration. “I don’t need your help.” He grumbled. His words were hard to understand as his speech slurred, but you could tell he was stubborn even in his drunken state.
“You can barely stand, you muppet,” You said, trying to hide the irritation in your voice. “Let me help.”
But he shook his head, his voice bitter. “Why does it even matter? You don’t care, not like that.”
His words took you by surprise. “What are you talking about?” You asked, trying to steady him.
He looked at you, eyes unfocused, and let out a bitter laugh. “You’re just here to check on me because you have to. You don’t really care. You’ve got a date coming up, right?”
You paused, taken aback by his words. “Lando, you’re drunk. This isn’t—”
“Sure,” He interrupted, his tone harsh. “I’m drunk, so it doesn’t matter, right? It’s fine. But I don’t want you to go.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you just stayed quiet, your mind racing. This wasn’t like him—he was normally so teasing, so sarcastic. But right now, there was something raw and vulnerable in his voice. It was like the alcohol had loosened something inside him that he kept hidden.
You helped him stand, gently guiding him to his bedroom. He didn’t resist this time, but as you helped him onto the bed, his gaze stayed locked on you.
“Why are you doing this?” Lando asked suddenly, his voice weak and tired. He wasn’t fully coherent, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten.
You hesitated for a second. The question threw you off guard. You were just trying to make sure he was okay, weren’t you?
“Because you’re my best friend,” You said after a beat, hoping the answer would be enough. “And I care about you.”
Lando studied your face for a moment, as if trying to understand your answer, before giving you a tired, half-smiling nod. His eyes started to flutter closed, but not before he muttered, “Thanks for always looking out for me.”
You couldn’t help but smile faintly, feeling a strange warmth in your chest. But then, just before he drifted off, his voice came again, quieter, almost like a whisper.
“You’re always looking out for me but... I just don’t want to lose you.”
You froze.
His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you stood there, staring at him as his breath evened out and he fell asleep. Your heart raced in your chest, confusion swirling in your mind. What did he mean by that?
You quietly turned to leave, but as you closed the door behind you, you felt a strange heaviness in your chest. You couldn’t stop thinking about Lando’s words, but you quickly shook your head.
No, it didn’t mean anything. He was drunk. It was just a slip of the tongue.
You pulled out your phone, glancing at the message from Joshua about your date. You couldn’t let yourself get distracted. You had a date. A very good date. And you had a plan.
But even as you walked back to your own apartment, the words from Lando lingered in your mind.
“I just don’t want to lose you.”
You tried to push the thought away, but it wouldn’t leave.
────୨ৎ────
The morning light pierced through the blinds, casting an almost painful brightness across Lando’s apartment.
His head throbbed in protest as he slowly opened his eyes, the remnants of last night’s alcohol still lingering in his system. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow, trying to drown out the faint, nagging voice in his head. The bed felt colder than it had before, and there was an emptiness in his chest that he couldn’t shake.
He dragged himself up, rubbing his temples and trying to piece together the fragmented memories of the night. The drinks, the loud music, the laughter with his friends and other unknown girls. And then you. You had shown up, of course. You were always there when he needed you. But… something had happened.
His breath hitched as a flash of the night’s conversation resurfaced—your voice, soft and distant, asking why he was being like this. His own words echoed in his mind, although they sounded different now, like a stranger had said them.
I just don’t want to lose you.
He couldn’t remember exactly what else he’d said, but he could feel the weight of it, like it had been too much to bear. Why had he said that?
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the memory of your shocked expression. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but now, sober and humiliated, he wanted to crawl under the blankets and disappear.
Lando took a deep breath and stood up, pacing around his apartment, trying to get his bearings. He couldn’t let that mess be the thing that defined him. He’d always been in control, and now was no different. Besides, you were probably already over it.
There was no point in worrying about it. Not when he had other things to focus on. Like the fact that you were going on a date soon. With Joshua.
The name felt like a punch in the gut. His stomach twisted, and he quickly pushed the thought away. Focus, Lando. He needed to act normal. He was always calm, collected. He wasn’t going to let his feelings mess things up.
When he texted you, it was simple, his usual teasing tone, though underneath it, there was a tension that only he could feel.
Lando:
you still alive after last night or did police arrest you for breaking into someone’s apartment?
The reply came quickly, as expected.
You:
haha, you wish.
still alive after taking care of someone’s stupid ass who was being an emotional mess
guess that’s what friends are for lmao
His thumb hovered over the phone screen for a moment. Emotional mess. He hated how true that was. He was an emotional mess, especially when it came to you. But you had a date with Joshua coming up, and he couldn’t let it show. He couldn’t let it ruin the dynamic between you two. Not when things had been going so well between you.
Lando pushed his phone aside and took a quick shower to clear his head. When he was done, he put on his usual grin and got to work, focusing on anything that would take his mind off what was coming. He needed to get back to his usual self. The confident, carefree guy who never let anything get to him.
But then you sent him a message about meeting up for your next lesson, and his stomach sank again. The timing couldn’t have been worse. He was already wound tight, and now, the pressure was building even more.
When you arrived at his place, there was a brief but noticeable pause before you greeted him. It was subtle, but Lando caught it. He tried to push the lingering anxiety aside—keep it cool.
You gave him a quick smile, but there was something else in your eyes. A certain hesitance that hadn’t been there before. The lessons had been going well, so why the change in energy?
“You alright?” He asked, trying to sound casual as he leaned against the counter.
You nodded but didn’t look at him fully. “Yeah. Just… a lot going on.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. A lot going on? The words struck a nerve. Of course, you were thinking about Joshua.
He swallowed hard, not letting it show. “You’re still planning on going on that date, right?” The words escaped before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, he regretted it.
You glanced at him, surprised by the sharpness in his tone. “Yeah, I am. Why?”
He shrugged, pretending to be unaffected. “No reason. Just wondering if you were still sticking to it.”
You gave him a look, like you knew something was off. But you didn’t push. Instead, you cleared your throat and moved to the couch, sitting down as if to signal that the lesson was about to begin. Lando tried to focus, but all he could think about was the date.
What if Joshua was the guy you were supposed to be with? What if he was the one who could give you everything Lando couldn’t?
The thought gnawed at him, and he couldn’t shake it. You had told him that you weren’t sure about Joshua, but deep down, Lando knew that if you were really unsure, you wouldn’t be going at all.
“Alright, today’s lesson is all about instincts,” He started, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. “I want you to stop thinking so much. Trust yourself. Sometimes, you just need to listen to your gut.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been trying to do that. But sometimes my gut says the wrong thing.”
Lando chuckled softly, his gaze briefly softening. “I get that. But on a date? You can’t overthink everything. You need to trust what feels right in the moment. You are capable of doing that, you know?”
You bit your lip, a little uncertain. “I don’t know. Sometimes I just freeze, or I say the wrong thing and everything feels awkward.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes intense. “That’s the thing. Everyone feels that way. The best thing you can do is not let that fear control you. You can’t let your mind take over. Focus on how you feel in the moment and act on it.”
You swallowed, feeling a knot form in your stomach. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or something else. “But what if— what if it’s the wrong feeling?” You asked, hesitating.
Lando’s gaze softened as he took a step closer to you, his voice quieter. “There’s no such thing as the ‘wrong’ feeling, not in the beginning. You just have to go with it. Be in the moment.”
The air between you seemed to thicken, and you suddenly realized how close he was. You could feel his warmth, his breath even, and it made your heart race.
Lando’s eyes flickered down to your lips for a moment before quickly meeting your gaze. “You’ve been so careful with everything. But sometimes, you have to stop being careful and just… feel.”
You looked down at your hands, unsure of what to say. The lesson was starting to feel different—more personal, more intense than usual.
“Tell me,” Lando started, his voice now lower, “When you’re on a date with... Joshua, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”
You took a deep breath, feeling a little nervous. “I— I don’t know. Maybe just let myself relax? Be myself?”
Lando nodded slowly, almost as if thinking about something, before meeting your gaze again. “That’s a good start. Trust yourself, and don’t second guess yourself. You’ve got everything you need.”
His words were grounding, but they also felt like a weight on your chest. For a second, you could almost imagine being with someone else, letting go of all the doubts you’d held onto for so long.
You stood up suddenly, feeling antsy. “I— I think I get it. Thanks, Lan.”
Lando watched you, but something flickered behind his eyes. “You’re welcome,” He replied quietly, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment too long. “But remember, it’s more about trusting yourself than anything else.”
Before you could respond, Lando’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed, like he was already distracted by whatever it was.
You couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest, a feeling that you weren’t sure you understood. Why did the thought of him not being there for you—for this—suddenly feel so heavy?
“Alright,” You said, forcing a smile, “I think that’s enough for today.” You turned to leave, but as you reached the door, Lando’s voice stopped you.
“Hey,” He said, standing up. “One last thing. If you get nervous, or if things start to feel like they’re going wrong, just take a moment and breathe. Don’t let anyone rush you. You’ll know what’s right when you feel it.”
You smiled faintly, nodding. “Got it. Thanks again, Lan.”
As you left his apartment, you couldn’t help but replay his words in your head. Trust yourself. Was it really that simple?
But then, a thought flashed through your mind. What if you trusted him instead?
And just like that, the confusion was back. But you pushed it down.
After all, you were preparing for that date with Joshua, and that was what mattered, right?
────୨ৎ────
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection as a wave of panic rolled over you. Your dress was.. perfect. It hugged your curves perfectly, fitting you like a glove. Your makeup was flawless, the jewelry you picked was immaculate, and yet you felt completely and utterly wrong.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, constantly reminding you about how close you were from the time where you had to leave for your date with Joshua. Each passing second made your breathing feel more shallow.
You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, notifications, anything to distract yourself. But the one notification you were hoping for—a message from Lando—was nowhere to be found.
“Stop it,” You muttered under your breath. “You’re fine. You’re fine.”
Okay, the pep talk didn’t help. You weren’t, indeed, fine.
Without thinking, you opened your chat with him and fired off a quick message.
You:
omfg
i’m freaking the fuck out
can you call me?
please
Your phone buzzed almost immediately. Of course.
You swiped the incoming call from Lando to answer, and put the phone to your ear. “I can’t do this.” You didn’t even bother to greet him.
“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” He said, his voice teasing but warm. “Now, let’s take a deep breath and tell me— what’s going on?”
“Lan, I feel sick,” You said, emphasizing the last word as you were pacing around the room. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. This is so stupid. I’m stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” He replied, his tone softening. “You’re just nervous. It’s normal before a date you’re looking forward to.”
“But it doesn’t feel normal,” You muttered, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Well, don’t,” He chuckled lightly. “That’d be a bad first impression, and as far as I remember I didn’t teach you to do that.”
You groaned, throwing yourself on the bed. “Lando, this isn’t funny.”
“Okay, okay,” He snickered, and you could hear the slight shuffle of movement on his end. “Look, it’s just a date. You’re not marrying the guy tonight, are you?”
“That’s not helping!” You snapped, straightening quickly on the bed.
“Alright, let’s try this,” He said, his voice taking on the calm, steady tone he always used when you were on the verge of losing it. “You’ve been on the practice dates before, yeah?”
“Yeah, because of you!”
Even when you couldn’t see him now, you knew he rolled his eyes humorously at you. “And how did those go?” You hesitated, before finally answering, “Fine.”
“Exactly. “You’re a pro now, sweetheart.” He laughed on the other side of the call.
“Lan,” You mumbled, your voice dropping into something almost pleading. “What if I mess this up? What if he hates me?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to make you wonder if he was still there. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “He’s not going to hate you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” He said, his tone firm. “Because you’re funny, you’re smart, and beautiful. If this guy can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
You blinked, his words settling over you like a soft blanket. Your heart twisted in your chest, a pang of something unnameable making it hard to breathe.
“You really think that?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, I know that,” He replied, and for a moment, his usual teasing edge was gone.
The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten, and you had to turn away from the mirror to keep from crying.
“Okay,” You said, exhaling shakily. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“That’s my girl,” He giggled, his tone lighter now. “And hey, think of it as a test. See if all those lessons I gave you paid off.” Lando added.
“Right,” You said, though your chest felt heavier at his words. “The lessons.”
“Well, this might be the last one.” He added softly, and something about the way he said it made your stomach drop.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” He replied quickly. “Just… you know, if it goes well with Joshua, you won’t need me anymore, right?”
Your heart clenched painfully, but you forced a laugh. “Yeah... no pressure, then.”
“Exactly,” He said, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Now go knock his socks off, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, though your voice wavered. “Thanks, Lan.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” He replied, and you hung up before you could change your mind.
As you stared at your reflection again, you felt a pang of guilt twisting in your chest. His words were supposed to calm you, and they did—sort of. But the idea of this being the last “lesson” you’d ever have with Lando felt like a loss you weren’t ready to face.
────୨ৎ────
You stepped out of the cab in front of the restaurant you both decided to meet at, your heart pounding heavily in your chest. The air was crispy against your bare legs, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the cobblestone street, and the faint sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air.
Joshua was already waiting by the entrance, looking effortlessly put-together in a black, unbuttoned shirt with black pants. He spotted you almost immediately and waved with a bright smile, his easy charm already on display.
“Hey!” He said as you approached, his warm, inviting tone doing little to calm your nerves.
“Hi.” You replied, forcing a smile as you adjusted the strap of your bag.
Your name rolled out of his mouth smoothly, “You look amazing.” He said, his eyes flicking over your outfit appreciatively.
“Thanks.” You murmured, heat already rising to your cheeks.
He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses filling the cozy, upscale restaurant. The hostess led you to a small table by the window, where the view of theMonaco’s harbor sparkled under the moonlight.
It was romantic, picturesque—the kind of setting that should have made your heart flutter.
But it didn’t.
Joshua was polite, funny, and attentive, just as Alex had promised. He asked you about your work, your favorite travel destinations, even your guilty-pleasure movies. He laughed at your jokes, nodded along to your stories, and seemed genuinely interested in everything you had to say.
And yet, your mind kept drifting.
As he talked about his plans to sail around the Greek islands next summer, you found yourself thinking about how Lando always teased you about your terrible sense of direction. When Joshua laughed at a joke you made, you couldn’t help but compare it to Lando’s laugh—the one that was louder, freer, and always made you laugh harder. And when Joshua leaned in slightly, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for his glass, your stomach twisted, not in excitement, but in unease.
You excused yourself to the restroom, needing a moment to breathe. The second you stepped inside, you leaned against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror.
“What is wrong with me?” You whispered to yourself.
Joshua was perfect. Objectively, undeniably perfect. So why did you feel so… empty?
You closed your eyes, gripping the edge of the sink as memories of Lando flooded your mind. His voice, his smile, the way he always knew how to pull you out of your head and make you laugh. The way he’d given so much of himself to help you. The way he looked at you sometimes—like you were the only person in the room.
Your eyes stung, tears threatening to spill. It wasn’t Joshua. It wasn’t the date. It was you, and Lando had been right all along. It was always about you. But it wasn’t the way you’d thought. The problem wasn’t that you were bad at dating or incapable of having normal dates with someone. The problem was that you’d been blind to what you really wanted.
And what you wanted wasn’t here. It was him.
You washed your hands in cold water, trying to push the irritating thoughts away and compose yourself before heading back to the table.
“Everything okay?” Joshua asked, his expression kind but concerned.
“Yeah.” You said, forcing a smile as you sat back down.
Joshua quickly launched into another story—something about a hilarious misunderstanding during a work trip—but you barely heard him. Every word he said was drowned out by the realization that had taken root in your chest, growing stronger with every passing second.
When the bill came, Joshua insisted on paying, and you didn’t argue. As he walked you outside, the cool night air hit you like a wake-up call.
“I had a really great time tonight,” He said, his smile genuine. “You’re incredible.”
“Thank you,” You replied, and you meant it. “You’re really great too.”
He hesitated, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe we could do this again sometime?”
Your heart sank, but you wanted to say yes. You wanted to want to say yes. But the words just wouldn’t come for you.
Instead, you smiled sadly. “I— I’ll think about it.”
Joshua seemed to understand, his smile dimming slightly but still warm. “Now let me give you a ride back home. Shall we?” He insisted, leading the way to his car.
As Joshua opened the door for you, you got into the car quickly, sinking in the passenger seat. Your eyes wandered outside the window, observing the couples that still sat in the restaurant. They looked so happy together, and someone might have thought the same while staring at Joshua and you a few moments ago. But deep down you knew that you were far from being happy now.
────୨ৎ────
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his monitor and the bright neon sign behind him. Max’s voice came through the headset, lighthearted and teasing as always, but Lando could barely hear him. His hand gripped the computer mouse, and the other hand was focused on the keyboard, yet his movements were sluggish, half-hearted.
“Lando, mate, what are you doing?” Max’s exasperated tone broke through the haze. “You’re playing like a grandpa. Are you even trying?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lando muttered, forcing himself to focus on the screen. But the truth was, he wasn’t trying. He couldn’t concentrate.
Because all he could think about was you.
You on that date. With him.
The thought made his stomach churn, a bitter taste settling at the back of his throat. He hadn’t been able to stop picturing it since the moment you’d left. You, in that dress, looking absolutely stunning. You laughing at some joke that wasn’t his. You leaning in, your attention fully on someone else.
“Lando?” Max’s voice came again, a mix of confusion and concern now.
“Yeah, sorry,” Lando said quickly, clearing his throat. “I’m just tired, man. Think I’m gonna call it a day.”
“Already?” Max sounded genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I’m knackered,” Lando lied, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Catch you later.”
“Alright,” Max said after a pause. “But get some sleep, okay? You’ve been weird all night.”
“Yeah, yeah. Bye chat.” Lando mumbled, saying goodbye to Max’s chat. He has never shut down the game and logged off so quickly in his entire life.
The silence that followed was deafening. He leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall against the headrest as he stared at the ceiling.
You were still out. On the date. And he had no idea how it was going.
Was he good enough for you? The question gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. Was he making you laugh? Was he listening to you the way he always did? Did you feel comfortable with him, safe? Did you feel… happy?
Lando squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against them as if that could stop the flood of thoughts.
He’d seen your nervous smile as you managed to send him videos of the outfit you chose before you left. He noticed how excited you were before the date, how your eyes sparkled with nervous anticipation. You’d been so worried, so unsure, but he’d reassured you. Told you it would be fine. Told you that Joshua would be lucky to have you.
What you didn’t know was that those words now tasted like ash in his mouth. Because he didn’t want Joshua to have you. He wanted you to stay. With him.
Lando let out a shaky breath. He dragged a hand through his curls, tugging at the roots in frustration. The memory of the night he’d gotten drunk hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d tried to bury it, pretend it didn’t matter, but the truth was, it had been eating him alive.
“I don’t want you to go.” He’d said, the words slurred but raw, his heart on his sleeve for once.
You’d stayed quiet, brushing it aside as drunken nonsense. But it hadn’t been nonsense. It had been the truth, stripped bare and vulnerable in a way he’d never been before. However, he let you believe that, because admitting it outright, while sober, was terrifying.
But it was true. Lando didn’t want you to go. He didn’t want you to meet someone else, fall for someone else, leave him behind. Because the thought of you choosing someone else when he loved you—truly loved you—was unbearable.
His chest ached, the pain sharp and suffocating. It might already be too late.
Maybe you’d come back tonight, smiling and giddy, and tell him how great Joshua was. How perfect the date had been. The thought made him want to throw something. Instead, he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, as if he could push the feelings away, but it didn’t work. It never worked.
Because the truth was, he’d been falling for you for months. Years even.
He remembered every laugh, every smile, every quiet moment you shared as kids, as teenagers at school, and now between lessons where the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you. He remembered the way your nose scrunched up when you were concentrating, the way you teased him when he got flustered, the way you always seemed to bring light into every room you entered.
You were perfect for him.
But you didn’t know. And maybe you never would.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping him out of his spiral. His heart leapt, hope surging through him. “Maybe it’s her,” He thought. “Maybe she’s texting to say the date didn’t go well. Maybe—”
He grabbed the phone, the screen lighting up.
It wasn’t you.
The breath he’d been holding escaped in a rush, his shoulders sagging as disappointment washed over him. He tossed the phone back onto the bed, raking a hand through his hair again.
The silence of the room felt suffocating now. He thought about calling Max back, telling him he felt better now and distracting himself with another game, but he knew it wouldn’t help. His mind was a storm, and you were at the center of it.
He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his chest heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled hopes.
He was losing you. And he had no one to blame but himself.
────୨ৎ────
The door of Joshua’s car clicked shut as he drove away, leaving you standing alone in the dim glow of the streetlights outside your house. You watched his car until it disappeared around the corner, your mind buzzing but your heart strangely still.
He’d been sweet, funny, and attentive, just as Alex had promised. Everything about the date had gone smoothly—on paper, it was perfect. So why did you feel so… hollow?
The thought of stepping into your empty house felt unbearable, the silence inside too heavy for the chaos in your chest. Your feet moved before your mind caught up, leading you down the familiar streets of Monaco. Stumbling a few times, you took your heels off, cursing them under your nose. The brisk night air bit at your skin, but you hardly noticed.
You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself standing in the small park near the water. A bench beneath an old tree caught your eye—the same bench where one of your first “lessons” with Lando had taken place. You sank down onto it, the memory washing over you with startling clarity.
You could almost hear his voice, teasing and full of life. “See, you can’t just talk about yourself on a date. Ask questions, keep it balanced, like a tennis match.”
You’d laughed so hard that day, mostly at how earnestly he mimed playing tennis in front of you. The image played in your mind now, vivid and bright, and before you could stop yourself, your chest tightened, and tears welled up in your eyes.
Why did thinking about him hurt so much?
Your hands clenched in your lap as the memories kept coming, unstoppable and relentless. The way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he spoke to you with that stupid nickname–sweetheart. The way he always had just the right thing to say when you doubted yourself. His endless patience, his unwavering presence.
And his laugh—God, his laugh. The one that echoed in your mind now, making your tears spill over as you realized with horrifying clarity that you’d heard it more times than you could count, but never enough.
You pressed your hand to your chest, as if it could steady the ache inside. How had you been so blind?
All this time, you’d been searching for someone who made you feel seen, heard, and valued. Someone who challenged you but still made you feel safe. Someone who gave a damn about you in ways you hadn’t even noticed until now. It had been right in front of you all along.
Lando. Your Lan.
The tears came harder now, unstoppable and unrelenting, as your mind replayed every moment with him like a cruel, beautiful montage. Every smile, every lingering glance, every sarcastic comment that hid something deeper. He’d been there for you, every step of the way, sacrificing his time and energy to teach you how to love—how to date—without once showing how much it must have hurt him.
You wiped at your eyes, but it was useless. Your heart felt like it was breaking open and healing all at once.
You had to tell him.
The thought hit you like a jolt of electricity. Sitting here, drowning in memories, wasn’t going to change anything. You couldn’t keep pretending, couldn’t keep lying to yourself.
Lando deserved to know the truth. You deserved the truth.
You stood abruptly, the sudden movement making your head spin. Your legs carried you out of the park and back toward the streets, your pace quickening with every step.
What were you going to say? You didn’t know yet. All you knew was that you couldn’t keep this inside any longer.
────୨ৎ────
The night was unnervingly quiet as you stood at Lando’s door, the hum of the distant city muffled by your pounding heartbeat. Your fingers hovered over the wood before you finally knocked, your stomach churning with anxiety.
It took a moment, but when the door opened, Lando stood there, his expression unreadable, his eyes flickering with a hint of surprise and something else—something guarded.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice rough.
“I needed to talk to you.” You replied, your voice trembling despite your best effort to sound confident. You stepped inside, your heels, that you wore on before knocking on his door, clicking softly against the floor as you passed him.
He shut the door behind you, leaning against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s late,” He said flatly. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating with Joshua? What, did the date end early?”
You flinched at his tone, biting back the sharp retort bubbling at the tip of your tongue. “Lando, please—”
“No, go ahead,” He interrupted, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me everything. All about how perfect he was. I’m dying to hear it.”
Your patience snapped. “Why do you do this?” You demanded, looking him deeply in the eyes.
“Do what?” He shot back, his jaw tightening.
“This!” You exclaimed, throwing your arms in the air. “You get all moody and sarcastic and— ugh, you don’t even listen to me, Lando!”
“Oh, I am listening,” He countered, his voice rising slightly. “You’re the one who barged in here looking all… flustered, expecting me to what? Clap and cheer because your perfect little date didn’t work out the way you wanted?”
“God, you’re impossible!” You said, taking a step closer. “Do you really think I’m here to talk about him? Do you really think I’d come here, in the middle of the night, just to—”
“Well, then why are you here?” He demanded, his voice cutting through the room.
“Because it wasn’t perfect, okay?” You shouted, your voice cracking. “Because it didn’t feel right! Because the entire time, all I could think about was… you.” The hesitation before saying the last word made you want to cry again.
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, reverberating between you. His sharp expression softened, his mouth parting slightly as he stared at you, completely stunned.”
“What?” Lando whispered, his voice barely audible. He couldn’t believe his own ears. You felt your chest tighten, a mix of anger, heartbreak, and longing overwhelming you.
“It wasn’t about Joshua—it never was. It was always about you, Lando. Your stupid ass. Your lessons, your dumb pep talks, your stupid jokes, the way you acted so fine with me going out with someone else when you clearly weren’t.” Your words caught in your throat, but you pushed forward, the weight of it all crashing down on you.
“It’s you, Lando. It’s always been you. Ever since we were little.”
His face softened in an instant, the tension in his jaw melting away, replaced by a vulnerability you rarely saw in him. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched yours, as though he was afraid to trust what he was hearing.
“Are you serious?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion.
His hands hung at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“God, yes,” You blurted out, stepping closer to him. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. “I’m serious, muppet. And I know it’s a mess, and I know I probably ruined everything, but—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on you, his fingers trembling as they cupped your face. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could take another breath, he closed the distance between you and kissed you.
His lips pressed against yours with a fervor that made your knees go weak. It was desperate and raw, filled with all the tension, emotions, and unspoken words that had been simmering between you for weeks. His lips moved against yours with urgency, as though he’d been holding back for far too long, and now that the floodgates were open, there was no stopping it.
Lando’s thumbs brushed over your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling, and you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Your hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie as if letting go wasn’t an option. You could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms, matching the wild rhythm of your own. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and you melted into him, losing yourself in the moment.
When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, Lando’s forehead rested against yours. His hands still gently cradled your face as though he was afraid you might disappear. Lando’s breath was ragged, his lips red and swollen from the kiss, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears, looking at you as you were the most precious thing in the world.
“I’m so sorry,” He whispered, his voice cracking. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve said something before... before all of this. But I was terrified—of losing you, and of screwing everything up.”
You shook your head, your hands sliding up to cup his face in return. “No, Lan. I should’ve seen it, I should’ve known.”
His lips quirked into a small, trembling smile, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, a mixture of relief and disbelief shining in them.
“And you didn’t ruin anything, sweetheart,” He murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “You never could. You’re— you’re my everything.” He uttered softly.
A tear slipped down your cheek, and he leaned in to kiss it away, his lips lingering on your skin as though trying to memorize the moment.
“Are you really crying?” He teased softly, his voice shaky but warm.
You let out a choked laugh, rolling your eyes even as your cheeks flushed. “No, I’m not. Shut up.”
“Liar,” He murmured, his smile widening as he kissed you again but softer this time. “But you must’ve cried before since your eyes and nose are red.”
You smacked his chest lightly, heat rising to your cheeks. “Shut up.”
“Hey, it’s cute.” He said with a grin, though his voice was still thick with emotion.
You tried to glare at him, but the look on his face—the mix of relief, affection, and something deeper—made it impossible to stay mad. Instead, you found yourself laughing softly, leaning into him as the tension finally began to disappear.
“You’re such an idiot.”
His lips curled into a small smile. “Takes one to know one.” He teased, his voice soft but warm.
You both stayed there, wrapped up in each other, the weight of weeks of tension and unspoken feelings finally lifting.
It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t neat, but it was yours. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. For the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.
────୨ৎ────
The soft glow of early morning sunlight poured through the blinds, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. The light touched everything—the sleek lines of Lando’s apartment, the scattered clothes on the floor from last night, and most notably, the two of you tangled in the bed.
You blinked awake, the slow pull of consciousness drawing you from sleep. For a moment, you couldn’t quite remember where you were, but then the warmth next to you, the familiar scent of his cologne, and the steady rhythm of his breath made everything clear.
Lando was lying beside you, his face relaxed in sleep, his curls framing his features in the softest, most endearing way. Sunlight rested over his face, kissing his skin, highlighting the sharpness of his jawline and the curve of his lips.
It was unreal—this scene, this moment, the peacefulness of it all.
You couldn’t help but smile, your heart swelling in your chest. You were finally here. Finally with him.
You didn’t know how long you lay there, just watching him, savoring the moment, drinking in the fact that you were in this space with him. This was what you’d always wanted. And now that you were here, you didn’t want it to end.
The way his eyelids fluttered as he stirred slowly, bringing him out of his dreams, sent a jolt through your heart. His eyes slowly blinked open, adjusting to the light. His expression softened, and when his gaze met yours, his lips quirked into that familiar, lazy grin.
“Morning, sweetheart.” He muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You just smiled, leaning in closer, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. “Hi.” You replied, voice barely a whisper, as if you were afraid speaking too loudly would ruin this moment.
His eyes sparkled with the slightest hint of mischief, and he stretched, rolling his shoulder. “I think I could stay here forever,” He said, his voice a little husky. “But we’re supposed to be at Charles’ in a couple of hours for lunch, remember?”
You frowned, suddenly feeling the pressure of the real world creeping in. “Ugh, yeah. Charles and the whole group. It’s like I can already hear the chatter about how we’ve been hiding this whole thing.”
He smirked, looking at you with a mixture of fondness and amusement. “I don’t mind.” He said casually, rubbing your shoulder. “But we should get up soon, don’t you think?”
But as soon as the words left his lips, something inside you shifted. You weren’t ready to leave this bed, not yet. Not when everything between you felt so new, so fragile, like a dream that could slip away any moment. Without thinking, you moved swiftly, swinging a leg over him, straddling his waist, your hands coming to rest on his bare chest as you looked down at him, a teasing smile playing at the corners of your mouth.
His eyes widened in surprise, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. “What are you—?”
“Hi.” You whispered softly, the power of your position making his pulse race.
“Hi.” He whispered back, biting his lower lip.
His eyes scanned your face, the mix of confusion and amusement in his gaze quickly shifting to something more heated. “You’ve lost it, haven’t you?” He murmured, still a bit flustered from the sudden shift.
His hands instinctively went to your bare hips, but he didn’t push you off. Instead, he looked up at you with a raised eyebrow, clearly caught off guard but not entirely unhappy about it.
Before he could say anything else, you leaned in, closing the space between you, and kissed him. It wasn’t slow or gentle—it was a kiss full of heat and desire, reminding you about your last night. The distant memory of your soft gasps, shared moans and hot kisses flooded your both heads.
The world seemed to fall away as you lost yourselves in the kiss. His hands roamed to your bare back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until you were a breathless mess, your heart pounding in your chest.
When you finally pulled away, the quiet of the room seemed almost too loud. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, both of you catching your breath.
“Did you even realize how fucking good you look right now?” You muttered, voice husky with the remnants of sleep.
Your gaze roamed over him—the way his curls caught the golden morning light, the relaxed curve of his lips still faintly swollen from your earlier kisses, and the lazy glint in his half-lidded eyes.
Lando blinked at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he broke into a quiet laugh, low and rough. “You’ve got a way with words, don’t you, sweetheart?” He teased, his voice thick with sleep. “Or are you just trying to kill me first thing in the morning?”
You shook your head, smiling as you trailed your fingers gently along the line of his jaw, tracing every perfect imperfection of his face. “No games,” You whispered, pressing your palm flat against his chest where his heart beat steadily. “You just look… unreal.”
The weight of your words seemed to catch him off guard. His hands found your bare waist under the tangled sheets, thumbs brushing gently along your sides as his gaze locked onto yours.
“Coming from you? That’s rich,” He said, his voice dipping low. “You’re literally glowing right now, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes, unable to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. “Nice try, Norris. But flattery isn’t going to distract me.”
“Oh?” He murmured, the corners of his lips tugging upward in a smirk. “So what’s your plan? Keep staring at me until I melt?”
You grinned, leaning down until your lips were an inch away from his. “Maybe.”
Before he could respond, you kissed him—slow and unhurried, savoring the moment. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer until your bare skin was flushed against his, the sheets pooling around your bodies.
When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, his breathing heavier. “Now who’s playing games?” He muttered, a trace of amusement in his tone.
You laughed softly, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not. I just—” You hesitated, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “I can’t believe this is real. That I’m finally yours, and you’re mine.”
Lando’s expression softened, the teasing edge replaced by something infinitely more tender. “I’ve always been yours, sweetheart,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers trailed up your spine, sending shivers through you. “You just took your sweet time realizing it.”
You laughed, burying your face in the crook of his neck to hide the warmth flooding your cheeks. He smelled like sleep and sunshine mixed with a faint scent of his perfume. You couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to the soft spot beneath his jaw.
“I’m never getting out of this bed, am I?” Lando murmured, his voice teasing but laced with an unmistakable truth.
You smiled against his skin, your hands sliding over his shoulders to rest on his chest. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
His laugh rumbled against your lips, but when you shifted your hips slightly downwards, his breath hitched. “Careful.” He warned, his voice a mix of amusement and something darker.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence as your lips brushed against his ear. “What? Just getting comfortable.”
“Right,” He murmured, his hands gripping your waist more firmly. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You kissed him again, this time deeper, slower, letting the quiet morning dissolve into something entirely different. By the time you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, his eyes were locked onto yours with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine.
“We’re never going to make it to breakfast at this rate.” He chuckled, though there was no trace of complaint in his voice.
You grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Who said I’m hungry for food?”
His groan was soft as you slid down his body, his hands tightening their hold on you as the sunlight continued to bathe the room, turning the morning into a memory you’d never forget.
────୨ৎ────
The morning had been perfect—the lingering warmth of your shared kiss, the quiet laughter over breakfast—but now, reality was tugging at you both.
After the breakfast, Lando quickly freshened up and you both drove to your place as you also needed to get ready. You stood in front of the mirror, applying a final swipe of lipstick, your reflection staring back at you as if in disbelief. How had you gone from nervousness to this moment? How had you gotten here, with Lando, after everything? Lando, on the other hand, had been unusually quiet, his gaze lingering on you as you finished getting ready. When you finally stepped out of the bathroom in the dress you had chosen, the one you knew would turn heads, you saw the way his breath caught in his chest.
“Wow, sweetheart…” He breathed, looking you up and down, his eyes lingering on every part of your body. His expression was a mixture of admiration and something more—something that made your heart beat faster. “You look… absolutely gorgeous.”
You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips at his reaction. It was hard to tell if you were more proud of how stunning you looked or how much he was checking you out.
“Glad you think so.” You replied, your voice teasing as you turned slightly, letting the fabric of the dress swirl around your legs. It wasn’t just any dress. It hugged you in all the right places, the sweetheart neckline drawing attention to your collarbones and the flowy skirt adding an effortless elegance. You knew it would drive him crazy.
Lando stepped forward, walking up behind you and gently brushing your hair away from your neck. He leaned in close, placing a soft kiss just below your ear. The warmth of his lips sent a shiver down your spine.
“You sure we have to go?” He murmured, his voice low and teasing. “I’d rather just stay home and do… other things. With you.”
You chuckled, not able to keep the smile from your lips as you glanced at him in the mirror. “This morning, you were the first one to get ready for that lunch,” You teased, turning to face him. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.”
He looked at you with a soft, almost desperate expression. “I’m not backing out. But I’d much rather stay here… with you. Alone.”
You raised an eyebrow playfully. “Well, if you don’t want to go, I can always text Joshua. I still haven’t messaged him since yesterday.”
The mention of Joshua’s name was enough to make his jaw tighten. “You’re really going to do that?” He asked, his tone suddenly darker, but there was something undeniably possessive in it.
You couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at your lips as you pulled out your phone. “Well, you know, I never replied—”
Before you could even unlock your phone, Lando was kissing you, hard and fast, pulling you into him with a hunger that left you breathless. His hands moved to your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground as he deepened the kiss.
When you pulled away, both of you breathless, you looked at him with a glint of amusement. “Fine,” You muttered, “I guess we’re not texting him.”
Lando gave you a satisfied smile. “That’s what I thought, sweetheart.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag. “Let’s get going then, before you change your mind again.”
The drive to Charles’ place was quiet, the tension between you thick with unspoken feelings. As you sat in the passenger seat, you typed out a quick message to Joshua, your fingers moving with a purpose.
You:
Hey Joshua, I just wanted to thank you for yesterday. I really appreciated it, but I don’t think we’ll be able to meet in the future. I wish you the best of luck, and it was very nice to meet you.
You hit send and immediately felt a weight lift off your chest. It was over, and it was a decision you were glad to have made.
When you two arrived, Lando opened the car door for you, offering you his hand. Before you had time to dwell on the message you sent, you felt his hand gently squeezing yours. You looked over at him, seeing a small, satisfied grin on his face. Lando didn’t say anything, but you could feel his approval.
When you arrived at Charles’ place, the moment the door opened and Rebecca, who was already there, saw you both, her eyes widened. Then, without warning, she screamed, “Oh my God! Finally!”
You and Lando couldn’t help but laugh, sharing a knowing look as you entered the house together, hands still intertwined. As you walked into the living room, everyone was already smiling, congratulating you both with big, happy grins.
Lando leaned in close to your ear as Carlos and Rebecca were busy showering you with congratulations. “I guess this is the part where we’re supposed to pretend we’re not completely obsessed with each other, huh?” He whispered with a teasing grin.
You grinned, squeezing his hand. “If that’s what you think, you’re wrong.”
At some point during the evening, Alex pulled you aside, a sheepish look on her face. Her usual confident energy was replaced with something softer, more apologetic.
“Hey,” She started, shifting awkwardly. “I just wanted to say… I feel kind of bad about the whole Joshua thing. I mean, I was pushing you into that, and now you and Lando—” She gestured vaguely, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to make things more complicated for you.”
You smiled warmly, shaking your head. “Alex, it’s fine. Really. If anything, it was kind of a wake-up call for me and Lando. We were both so stubborn about admitting how we felt. So, honestly, thank you for that little push. Even if it was unintentional.”
Alex let out a laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “Okay, good, because for a second there, I thought I’d ruined everything.”
“Oh— no, you definitely didn’t,” You reassured her, your smile widening. “If anything, you might’ve saved us from circling each other for another six months.”
She laughed again, louder this time, the tension between you dissolving into lightheartedness. “Well, I’ll take credit for that, then. You two are disgustingly cute, by the way. It’s almost unbearable.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” You quipped, giving her a playful nudge before heading back toward Lando.
As you approached, he looked up from his conversation with Carlos, his eyes immediately locking onto yours, shining at your sight.
“What were you two talking about?” He asked, his curiosity evident.
“Girl talk,” You said with a smirk, waving off his question. “It’s a secret.”
“A secret, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, but the smile on his face showed he wasn’t really bothered.
“Yep.” You chuckled, leaning in closer and placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. “And you’re not getting a word out of me.”
Later in the evening, after the buzz of congratulations and teasing from your friends had started to die down, you found yourself standing out on Charles’ balcony. The stars above were faint against the warm glow of Monaco’s city lights, and the air was cool, carrying the faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from inside.
Lando joined you quietly, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. You leaned into him instinctively, your hands resting on his. The weight of his touch felt grounding, comforting.
“You alright, sweetheart?” He asked softly, his voice low in your ear.
“Yeah,” You uttered, tilting your head back to look up at him. “Just needed a minute to catch my breath. It’s been a lot tonight.”
He chuckled, his chin resting against your shoulder, hands warm against your waist. “They’re relentless, aren’t they? I don’t think Carlos and Charles will let this go for months. They’ll always try to tease me about it.”
“Same with Rebecca,” You added with a laugh. “She screamed so loudly, I think half the neighborhood heard it.”
He smiled at that, but his expression softened as his gaze lingered on you. “They’re just happy for us,” He said. “I mean— I get it. I’m happy too.”
Something about the way he said it made your heart swell. You turned in his arms to face him, your arms resting lightly against his shoulders.
“Me too,” You murmured, your eyes searching his. The words were right there on the tip of your tongue, and for the first time, you didn’t feel scared to say them. “I love you, Lan.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, his touch impossibly gentle.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” He said, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I’ve been wanting to tell you that for so long.” He hid his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent that felt like home for him.
You let out a shaky laugh, “Why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you?” He countered, grinning against your skin.
“Touché.” You admitted, burying your hand in his soft curls as both of you laughed softly. The sound was light, effortless, and full of relief.
Then, Lando pulled back to look at you again. After giving you a soft smile, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that felt like a promise.
It wasn’t rushed or heated—it was warm and tender, the kind of kiss that made you feel like you’d finally found home.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he whispered, “You’re my everything, you know that?”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “You’re mine too.” You whispered back.
The rest of the night passed in a happy blur. Your friends teased you endlessly, but their smiles were genuine, their excitement contagious. And when it was time to go, Lando’s hand found yours without hesitation, holding it tightly as you said your goodbyes.
As the two of you drove back through the quiet streets of Monaco, a comfortable silence settled between you. Lando reached over, lacing his fingers with yours as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.
The day had been perfect, and as you rested your head against his chest when you finally laid in your bed, you couldn’t hold a smile anymore.
Looking back, it had been a whirlwind—a rollercoaster of emotions, misunderstandings, laughter, and moments so charged you could hardly breathe.
What started as a series of lessons had turned into something far greater than either of you could have anticipated. It wasn’t perfect, not always smooth, but it was real. Every stolen glance, every near-miss, every argument and heartfelt confession had led you here, to this life you were building together.
And as Lando’s hand rested comfortably over your waist, his warm smile mirroring your own, one thought stood out above the rest.
Lando was right from the beginning—practice makes perfect.
pairing : han x reader. enemies to lovers. slow burn.
summary : you've never gotten along with han, your mutual prejudices ruining any prospect of friendship between you both. but you slowly realize that you are more similar than what you originally thought- your darkness recognizing his, and his light yearning for yours.
"I'll take care of you. It's rotten work. Not to me, not if it's you."
cw : depiction of a panic attack, minor injury, both reader and han say mean shit to each other, cursing, mention of alcohol, reader has she/her pronouns.
word count : 13.2k
a.n: highly recommend listening to "Let the light in" by Lana when Han starts playing it in the fic hehe feedback is highly appreciated as always <3
skz quotes series masterlist.
You remember being seven years old, sitting on the floor of your bedroom, while your mom brushed your hair. It was a late July night, a cold breeze swaying your white curtains, akin to the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing. Your eyes were slightly puffy, delicate red veins protruding the white of them. You had just finished watching a Disney movie- the Lion King; heavy sobs escaping your lips when Mufasa died.
There were still faint hiccups coursing through you, a slight shake in your hands as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt. Your mom brought you to her chest, her chin resting on your small shoulder blade. "You’re sensitive, my sweet girl" she had uttered, rubbing your arms soothingly.
It was the first time someone described you as such. You didn’t know what ‘sensitive’ entailed exactly, but it contained the word ‘sense’, so you assumed it was something good, a quality to be proud of you. You could sense, maybe more than others, maybe too deeply. That’s why you cried when you didn’t get a good grade, or when your friends left you alone in the park.
But you didn't mind back then. What was your heart made for if not to feel?
You should’ve paid more attention to the way your mom spoke, to the bittersweetness lingering in her tone. As if she knew exactly what it entailed to be sensitive- to have your heart overflow with delicate feelings for the rest of your life, with no safe destination to guard them in.
☄༄
You’ve forgotten the last time you cried in.
The tears are lodged inside your throat- you can clearly feel them, an uncomfortable weight sitting on your vocal cords, rendering them impossible to use.
You used to cry, freely, so much that you lost count of how much it happened. But you realized that every tear that escaped your eyes, made you vulnerable, weaker, in the hands of the people around you. Every tear that washed over you, only rendered you more transparent for everyone to peer at how they wounded your soul.
So, you conditioned yourself to stop feeling as deeply, or at least to stop showing it. The sadness, the hurt, the anger were all stored within you; but your face remained placid, not betraying how you truly felt. You were like a pond, tranquil at the surface, raging from within.
But on days like this one, you miss the person you were. When the implications of being sensitive still haven’t weighed down on you. When you could get rid of your feelings in the essence of your tears. When you didn’t yet feel bad for feeling.
Chan's eyes are on you, as you type furiously on your laptop. Your vision is so blurry that you can no longer see your lit screen. But you’re afraid that if you pause then Chan would ask if you were okay, and you hated that question. Because you never truly knew the answer to it. Yes, you were okay. But you haven’t cried in six months and your friend didn’t greet you back this morning and you suddenly feel very small in a very large library.
"Hey," Chan taps your hand with his pen and you suck in a slight breath, before raising your head to meet his eyes. "Are you-" he starts but you’re quick to cut him off, knowing exactly where this was headed. "Did you answer question five? I’m stuck on what formula to use."
Chan raises a brow at you, and you blink repeatedly. His eyes travel to your feet tapping furiously against the floor, and he understands.
"I'm still at number four," he finally says and you nod in relief. You’ve been close friends for a year and Chan has come to know you- he’s dropping the subject.
"Oh, and are you coming to the party tonight?" Chan asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s hosting it and there is hope twinkling in his eyes. You feel bad because you’re about to crush it.
"No, need to revise more for the upcoming test."
"Of course, you’ll still be buried in your books," a sarcastic voice quips up, and you stiffen inwardly. Han- one-third of 3racha, Chan’s self-made producing group, and the bane of your existence. You never liked who you were around Han, he brought out the worst in you. Made all your insecurities roar forward, plastered across your body in neon red.
He was friends with Chan, long before you came into the picture, back into their high school days when Han skipped a class and ended up in the same one as Chan’s. A genius, as everyone around you liked to call him. And they were right- excelling came easily to Han, in everything he ever did. Even tapping into each one of your tender nooks and crannies.
He knew how to expertly push your buttons, how to make his tone sound mocking, and taunting, but only to you. Because you were sensitive, and he knew it, finding it almost amusing to toy with you.
You decide to stay silent because nothing good ever comes out of talking back to him. So, you bite your tongue, turning back to look at your screen. But Han’s elbow grazes your arm, as he leans a bit further into your face. "Come on, live a little, y/n. You’re missing out on the college experience," he makes a big show of opening his arms wide, a single red pen spinning between his fingers. "Quit being stuck up for one night." And it spins, and it spins, and it spins and something ugly inside you crumbles.
"I’m sorry I wasn’t born with a golden spoon shoved down my throat and I actually have to work for my future."
Han’s eyes widen at the raw animosity in your voice, before narrowing down promptly. He’s leaning onto your face again, and his tone is low and cold when he speaks again. "What did you just say to me?"
"Is it so hard to grasp that not everyone is as privileged as you? We can’t all afford to get wasted every fucking night and call it a life."
You’re being mean. This is the rudest you’ve ever been to someone else. You know that your reaction is disproportionate to what he said. But it isn’t just about this instant. It’s an amalgam of every moment Han made you feel small in, because you don’t go out as much as him, because you don’t understand as quickly as him. Taunts thrown your way under the guise of teasing, but you know better.
Still, guilt eats at you as your eyes lock with Chan’s. You should’ve stayed silent, as you’ve been diligently doing for the past year.
"How do you stand being her friend Chan? Is it out of pity?" Han muses, a pout pulling at his lips. You stare ahead as Han tsks lightly, before tapping your cheek with his pen, bringing your face back to him. "I think it is. Because isn’t she so fucking boring?"
Being near Han always makes you hyper-aware of things you never noticed before. Like how a breath has to travel from the depths of your body so you’d be able to release it, and how excruciatingly long it takes for you to draw in a new one. Because Han’s words are never harmless, no, they settle on the confines of your lungs, crushing down any bit of oxygen willing to leave you.
You've had enough.
"When you’re eighty, on your deathbed, and all alone. I hope you know that there is no one around to blame but yourself."
"Don’t cross the line, yn," Chan finally speaks and you scoff, as you get up to grab your things.
"What fucking line, Chan? So, he can insult me all day but as soon as I do it there is a line? Why are you taking his side?"
Chan stays silent and you chuckle dryly. "Of course, you are. You’re only friends with me out of pity after all."
"That’s not true-"
"Well, you didn’t deny it, did you Chan?"
"Yn, I-"
"Save it."
Han’s eyes are glossy as you take one final glance at him. But your heart’s bleeding too much for you to care about his minor cut.
☄༄
For how much time can a conversation haunt someone? Seventeen days, for your case. And you're still counting.
You have nit-picked your fight with Han in the library so much that it's driving you insane. His voice is drilled into your head- the coldness of it as he reeled back from the shock of your words, and then, the pure venom dripping from his tone, as he attacked you where it hurt the most. Chan.
Han chose his words carefully, stitched up the sentence perfectly to hurt you, to stick to your flesh like burnt skin, one that you peeled over and over, each time it threatened to scar.
You haven't talked to Chan in seventeen days. He tried to stop you; on your way out of class, in the line of your campus cafeteria, on the doorsteps of your dorm. But you always fleet away. His eyes were also imprinted into your brain- the disappointment in them when you clapped back at Han.
What about him? You wanted to yell. Why are you only disappointed in me?
But the tears in your pillow have dried. Then fallen again. Then dried once more. And you found the answer to question five. And you miss Chan, terribly so.
That's why you're pacing around his dorm, at 10 pm, when it's also terribly cold outside. Your fingers have gone numb from the ministrations of the wind, but you don't move from your place. You know that the chances of seeing Han- the second person you’ve been avoiding like the plague- would be higher here. But you didn't care anymore.
Your thumb hovers over the call button and you bite your lip harshly. Would Chan pick up? Would he hang up? Was he really your friend out of pity?
"Yn?" a voice calls out, and you startle, turning around to see who it is. Changbin, carrying two bags of groceries in his hand. He's Chan’s friend as well, the final member of 3racha. You like Changbin. He's always being very kind to you. You've grown much closer to him than to Han in the past few months; not that the latter has ever wanted a friendship with you. From the day you met and his eyes narrowed promptly each time you talked. You should’ve known from the start.
"Why are you out here in the cold?" Changbin asks gently, stepping cautiously towards you.
"Chan," you say simply and he nods, understanding what you mean.
"He's not here now, but he'll come home soon. Let's go inside, okay?" he smiles tentatively at you and you hum in reply.
Changbin opens the door and you follow inside. You help him take out the groceries silently, stacking them in their fridge and shelves. Lots of protein powder, and chicken packets. You'd laugh about it if you weren't so sad.
"Chan misses you," Changbin speaks up suddenly, and your heartbeat quickens at his words.
"I miss him too."
"Then you'll be okay."
You try to remember Changbin’s reassuring smile when Chan finally opens the door to the dorm, an hour later. He finds you sitting on the stool in the kitchen. His eyes light up once they settle on you.
And you unravel at the sight.
You're crying, sobs rippling from you as he brings you to his chest. He's patting your head and whispering that it's okay. And you know his shirt is all crumpled from clutching it in your hands. But he doesn't mind. He only hugs you tighter.
"I'm sorry, yn. So, so, sorry. I should've stopped him before, I just... You two are my best friends and I didn't want to add fuel to the fire by talking and-"
"It's okay, it's okay, I'm the one who should apologize for ghosting you."
"I understand why you did it. I fucked up but I missed you so much. Can we please never do this again?”
“Yes please,” you giggle, but the sound withers as the door opens once again.
"What is she doing here?" a cold voice breaks you and Chan apart, as your eyes land on Han. His gaze sucks the breath out of you, and the warmth in your heart fizzles out. Your hold on Chan’s shirt tightens and he takes an unconscious step in front of your body. Han doesn't miss the protective gesture.
"Get out, yn."
"You don't get to kick my friends out of my house," Chan is angry. And you regret ever coming here.
"Last I checked it's my house too." Han doesn't even bother looking at you. He's holding Chan’s gaze as if they're silently communicating. "You know damn well what she said why-" he takes a deep breath, running a hand angrily through his hair. "Fuck this. If she's not leaving then I am."
And with that he storms out, slamming the door behind him. You flinch at the sound.
Chan’s eyebrows are knitted as he stares at where Han stood seconds ago as if trying to conjure him up once again. You never wanted to strain their friendship. You knew how much Han cared for Chan, even if he didn't bear the same sentiment for you.
"Chan, I’ll leave. Call Han and tell him I'm gone."
"You don't have to."
"I know," you reassure, placing your hand on his forearm. "We'll talk more later, okay? It's cold and he has nowhere to go. Just call him, please."
"Fine," Chan concedes. "Call me when you get home, alright?" his eyes finally soften and you squeeze his hand in reply, before heading out as well.
The walk from Chan’s dorm to yours is fairly short, but tonight, it seems like kilometers are separating you from the safety of your bed. There is a heavy weight crushing your bones, most of it being guilt at what just transpired between Chan and Han.
That's what comes with being sensitive- you bear the weight of your feelings and the one of those surrounding you.
Were you out of place with what you said to Han? Yes. Was it eating you inside to see the consequences of your words? Yes. But he was also to blame, you repeated in your head. He was also to blame. Please. You plead, you don't know to whom, maybe to the voice in your head to stop being so mean. 'But none of this would've happened if you weren't so sensitive. So easy to bruise' the voice mocks and you stumble on your feet.
It happens so suddenly it takes you off guard- the way the breath is knocked out of you. You pause, chest heaving as you bend down slightly. Your hand is on your heart as you try to breathe again, but it's shaking so much. Your legs give out under you, and you plop down on the floor, eyes tightly shut. You can't breathe. You can't breathe. You're going to pass out.
"Yn, what-" A hand rests on your shoulder but you shake it off. You don't want to be touched. Not by him.
"Let me help-" Han speaks again, and you scramble away from him, as best as you can anyway. You end up kneeling on the ground once again, your back to him. "Get-get away."
"I know you're mad but you aren't okay and I know how horrib-"
"You aren't helping!" you shout through tears, as your heart threatens to spill out of your throat. "You’ve hurt me e-enough already."
You don't remember how you got home that night, how you managed to open the door or cross the road leading to your dorm. But you remember Han leaving you on the cold ground, just like you wanted. You remember the ache in your bones as you laid on your bed; the burning desire to stop feeling for a night, to cut your chest open and tear off your bleeding heart.
☄༄
One month later
If there's one thing you've always complained to Chan about, it's the fact that his building had an elevator in it, unlike yours.
Today, you’ve come to regret this fact. Tremendously.
You’ve been avoiding going to Chan’s dorm for the past weeks since the last thing you wanted was to see Han. But, he insisted on you coming over, reassuring you that it would only be him and Changbin at home since Han supposedly had other plans.
Well, Chan was wrong. Because Han just walked into the elevator you are in, mere moments before its doors closed.
Your breath catches in your throat as his eyes lock on yours. He looks like he wants to say something but he decides against it, opting for sighing loudly instead, before pressing the button leading to the fourth floor, rather harshly.
Your need to flee has never been this strong.
You watch anxiously as the numbers slowly go up. 1… 2… 3… Then a loud voice startles you and the elevator starts to shake in place. The door is suddenly opened and you are met with a cement wall, blocking your exit.
"What the fuck?" Han groans as you press the emergency button repeatedly, hoping that the elevator will resume its course and this nightmare will be forgotten.
It doesn’t.
"You’re going to break the goddamn button," Han pushes your hand away and you stumble away from him.
"Can you shut up? I’m not in the mood for your bullshit."
"Does it look like I’m happy to be here?" Han scoffs, as a ringtone plays in the elevator, cutting you off before you could respond.
"Hey guys, this happens from time to time, so no need to worry. Is everyone alright?" Someone speaks and you assume it's the worker charged with the maintenance of the elevator.
"Yes," you both reply at the same time.
"Great. We’ve contacted the mechanics but they said there’s a lot of traffic, so it might take a bit longer for them to get here."
"How long?" Han asks the question that’s on your mind as well.
"Two hours, at most, for you to get out."
"Oh, for fuck’s sake," you groan, as hot tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. This is the last thing you needed today- to be stuck in a cramped-up space with the one person who sucks the oxygen out of any room you’re in.
"Thanks, man," Han sighs and you turn your back to him, facing the wall. You’ve had a horrible day, scratch that, a horrible week. Hanging out with Chan and Changbin was the one thing you were looking forward to, only for the worst possible scenario to happen- being stuck in the same place with Han. You feel an urgent need to sob but you can’t cry in front of him. Not when he’s all claws and your skin is tender.
"Wait, are you claustrophobic?" He suddenly asks, seemingly inches away from your body.
"As if you’d fucking care," you scoff, before heading to a corner of the elevator and settling down.
"I'm not a monster, you know," he mutters in an almost sad tone, one that forces you to look up at him. His hands are deep into his pockets, eyebrows knitted as he gazes down at you. "Do you really think I’m that much of an asshole?"
"Yes," you reply instantly, before staring forward again. The hurt that flashes in his eyes shouldn’t tug at your heartstrings, but it does, ever so faintly, like the last wave that grazes your feet as you get out of the ocean. "I’m not claustrophobic," you add after a while and Han finally sits on the opposite side from you.
It’s hot and stuffy in the elevator, and it’s quiet, too quiet for your liking. You’ve never really liked silence for too long, it made the small voice in your head only grow bolder, louder, impossible to ignore.
Thirty-five excruciatingly long minutes go by and the tension only grows more suffocating. It’s simmering, barely beneath the surface, waiting for the person who will finally make it explode.
It’s Han.
“Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
“Come on, we have nothing else to do.”
“Have you tried being silent?”
"Yn," he says sternly and you begrudgingly concede. "Fine. Ask me."
You imagine him smirking slightly, the way he does each time he manages to push you over the edge.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“We’re not doing this right now,” you shake your head, tone adamant.
"When’s a better time for it? We’re literally never in the same place."
“And whose fault that is?” You smile too sarcastically and he frowns. “So, I’m the only one to blame?”
“Can’t you see how full of yourself you are? Fuck, Han, this is exactly what I hate about you.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“You’re so immature, you never sit back to think of how your words might impact someone.”
"What words yn? I was teasing you!" his voice grows louder and so does yours. "You were hurting me!" you yell, chest heaving. There is something utterly terrifying in this confession- to let someone know how easy it was for them to get to you.
"But I didn’t mean to," he drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. "It's not my fault you felt that way."
An ironic chuckle leaves your lips, as you point at him. "See, you're doing it again! You're blaming me for my reaction instead of evaluating how your actions might have caused it."
"Look, yn," he scrambles to you until there are only a few centimeters separating your bodies. "I really wanna fix this, okay? Can we stop screaming?"
"Why are you so hellbent on fixing it?" you question, as you lean further away from him. He notices and takes a step back, giving you space.
"Because although I don't care about you, I care about Chan. And this is hurting him. So, I want to be civil with you."
The mention of Chan feels like a cold bucket of water dousing the fire within you. You know he’s struggling to be in the middle of two people he loves. He doesn’t deserve that.
"Fine," you sigh softly. “You talk. I’ll listen.”
"I didn't... I didn't know that my words would hurt you. In truth, it looked like you weren't affected at all. That's why I kept pushing you because… God Yn you're so perfect it maddens me."
Your eyebrows knit together at his words- the last thing you expected to stumble out of his mouth. "What are you talking about?"
"You never get sad, never get angry. Your emotions are always in check. You're always smiling, always laughing. Have everything figured out from how you want to be now to where you want to be in the future. And you know yourself, you never step out of order. And this is selfish and stupid but it irked me. Because I am the opposite of you. I'm a mess and too human it terrifies me, so I wanted to see if you had a breaking point. But each time I taunted you, you remained placid. So, I kept pushing to see if you'd break one day because, selfishly enough, that would make me feel better about how broken I am."
"Han, you're so stupid. Aren't you a literal genius? You excel in everything you do and you have fun on top of it, every single night. Don't you realize how lucky you are?"
"Do you really believe I find joy in being wasted and not even remembering what happened that night? I do that because I'm in my mind most of the days and it isn't the best place to be in. So, I like to forget."
“Why do you think I always bury myself in my studies? Because it's safe and it makes me forget too. Did you really think I didn’t feel? I feel too much and that’s the problem.”
Han remains silent as you curse under your breath. "Do you even realize how selfish this is? To test a human's breaking point? All because what? I didn't shove my struggles down your nose? Would you go around and do this to everyone who looked fine to you?"
"I know, I know, I was just in a bad place, and this isn't an excuse but I... I felt as if you were just showing me everything that was wrong with me."
"That is how I felt around you," you chuckle bitterly and he hangs his head low. He’s much quieter when he speaks again. “I guess we’re more similar than I thought.”
"Doesn't excuse what you did. You targeted me and made me feel insane because no one was hearing the hostility in your tone like I did."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I really am. I never thought it'd get this bad and I deserve every name you called me."
"You do." You close your eyes, as Han’s words wash over you. There is so much more you want to say, so much you want to spit out in his face because of his selfish coping mechanism. But you also want peace, for Chan’s sake. So, you try to bury your resentment, just like you do with every other feeling. One day it’ll turn into indifference. You’ll make sure of it.
You bite your lip, before clearing your throat. Your tone is softer when you speak again. "I'm sorry for what I told you in the library. About you dying alone and whatnot. That wasn't nice of me."
"You really hit the nail with that one," Han chuckles quietly, and guilt floods your heart at the expression on his face. "And I'm sorry for calling you boring. You aren't. And for everything I said before that."
"Okay. It's okay." You reassure, a tiny smile drawn on your lips.
He nods before a sly grin grows on his face. "Should we hug it out?" he teases, cocking an eyebrow at you and you stare pointedly at him. "Don't push your luck."
"Yes, ma'am."
An hour later, the mechanics finally manage to get the elevator going, which in turn allows you both to get out. Han opens the door to the dorm, and you find Chan lying on the couch, scrolling down his phone.
"Han? I thought you would..." he starts before trailing off as he looks up. "Yn? Where were you, I’ve been calling you for the past two hours."
"I didn't have signal."
"Why where were-" Chan goes to question before stopping once again. He hurriedly stands up and walks toward you.
"You... Are standing next to one another."
"We are," Han replies, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
"And you aren't... Fighting?" his statement comes out more like a question, which makes both you and Han chuckle.
"We aren't."
"We talked it out, in the elevator which we were both just stuck in," you add and Chan’s eyes grow wide, as a breathtaking smile breaks out on his face.
"Oh my god. Finally. We'll talk about the elevator bit later but it's been so hard trying not to be in the same place as the both of you."
"We know. We're sorry," you both pout in sync and Chan shakes his head, before opening his arms wide. You giggle, before walking to him and sinking into his embrace. Han follows you shortly after, and your eyes meet behind Chan’s back. He shoots you a tiny thumbs up.
Is this how a dandelion feels, you wonder, when someone blows on it in the hopes it'll grant their selfish wishes. Only to be tossed away afterward, lifeless.
You drown out the thought before smiling back at Han. It doesn’t reach your eyes.
☄༄
Befriending two-thirds of 3racha holds within it a lot of privileges. The first one is listening to unreleased music, the second is having exclusive insight into their upcoming performances.
Their gigs don't happen as often as they'd like, because they're still students who unfortunately have lots of assignments. But when a window of free time materializes, they unveil their latest productions at vibrant parties, dimly lit bars, or even the occasional club. Which attracts a lot of people, some even coming from neighboring towns to listen to them play.
Everyone can recognize raw talent, even if rap doesn't happen to be their favorite genre.
This is how you know that they'll be performing Heyday, their latest creation, at Seungmin’s party. You've met him in passing, and Chan insisted that you'd come. Not that you needed much convincing anyway, you fell in love with this song the minute you heard it.
There is an exhilarating energy in Seungmin’s mansion, a palpable anticipation preceding 3racha’s performance, as you all gaze at the makeshift stage. The place is packed, bodies pressed tightly to one another. You feel slightly uncomfortable but you swallow it down. You're here to support Chan first and foremost, you can leave if things become too much for you.
The introductory chords materialize abruptly, and 3racha takes the stage. Chan is clad in a white shirt with huge gaps on his sides, revealing glimpses of his chest each time he bends down. Changbin, on the opposite end of the spectrum, is wearing a tightly fitted black shirt, hugging each muscle of his to perfection. Han, the last one to walk in, sports a loose black shirt, with a low neckline. His nails are painted to match the color of his attire, you notice.
The song kicks off with Changbin's incendiary rap as deafening cheers ring all around you. You make sure to scream on top of your lungs too, as Changbin’s loud voice commands the attention of everyone in the room. You’ve always held a penchant for his rap style- how powerful he sounds, and how addicted you quickly become to hearing him on stage. You remember once telling him that any song that starts with his rapping is a successful hit. He playfully nudged your shoulder but his appreciative smile was hard to miss.
Chan’s part is next and you try to rap along, as best as you can anyway due to your fleeting memory. It sounds mostly like gibberish but you don’t mind, especially when your eyes meet Chan’s and he grins at you, before morphing into the mesmerizing stage persona that's peculiar to him. You clearly remember the first time you witnessed him on stage, and how enthralled you were by the sheer power he exuded. His destiny was intertwined with music, no one could deny that.
A bed squeaking sound comes next, followed by the knocking on the door and you giggle against your will. That was Han’s ingenious touch, as Chan had shared when you'd raised a quizzical brow at him while listening. “Is this based on a real-life experience?” You asked, a knowing smirk etched upon your features, and he pretended to zip his mouth, earlobes turning a vibrant shade of crimson.
Han finally starts rapping in his inimitable style, exuding an effortless, laid-back aura. Your gazes meet at the "let's go play" line, and he tilts his head quizzically at you as he utters his confused "huh?". You raise one eyebrow at him prompting a sly smirk from him, before redirecting his attention to the opposite side of the stage. Yet, your eyes remain on him throughout his entire part.
The boys step off the stage, and you watch from the corner of the room with a wide grin as a swarm of people surrounds them. Congratulations and praise fill the air, and you can tell that 3racha thrives on this moment- it's what they live for, what makes their souls rise up from the ashes.
Chan catches your eye, and you applaud enthusiastically, letting out a happy giggle. He blows you a kiss, and you playfully pretend to catch it, eliciting a small shake of his head. Changbin, who's standing near him, catches the exchange and winks at you from a distance, to which you respond with two thumbs up.
Even though you're a bit far from them, you're certain the boys can sense the pride radiating from you in waves. There's something truly magical about humans existing in their element, particularly people you care about.
Your gaze shifts to Han, and your smile falters slightly. He's also glowing, but signs of discomfort are starting to creep onto his face. You recognize them fairly well, as you've felt them too at times when emotions become overwhelming. So, after a brief internal debate, you decide to act and begin making your way toward him, pushing through the crowd despite the rising complaints behind you.
They fall on deaf ears.
You grab Han's forearm, pulling him with you through the sea of bodies toward the bathroom. He doesn't fight, following diligently behind you. You open the door and pull him inside, pausing as you realize you don't have a specific plan for bringing him here. This is also the first time you've been alone together since the elevator conversation.
"Thank you," Han whispers, and you nod, your eyes softening. "I'm okay, I love performing, I just needed a breather," he quickly adds, as if feeling guilty for being overwhelmed.
"That's completely understandable. You are running on a lot of adrenaline, and the room is so crowded," you say with a smile, turning to the mirror to touch up your makeup.
Han remains silent for a while as you powder your face, before reapplying your cherry lip gloss. You can hear him taking in deep breaths, and you avoid looking at him, worried he might feel embarrassed.
"What did you think of the performance?" he finally asks, and you raise your head slightly. You lock eyes with him through the mirror, as he leans against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. His black t-shirt falls a bit, revealing more of his bare skin, and your eyes trail down for a moment.
"It was really good. I think this song might be my favorite of all yours."
"Really?" Han grins, his words filled with an excitement that warms your heart despite yourself. He's just received heaps of compliments from hundreds of people, yet your words still seem to affect him deeply.
"Yes. I loved your rap, how it started in a laid-back manner, and then you cleared your throat and picked up the pace. It added a unique edge to the song."
"Thank you, really," his smile is genuine, and you giggle softly, shaking your head.
"What's funny?" he asks, walking up to you. You're still facing the mirror, and he's now only inches away from you.
"I didn't imagine you'd appreciate my compliment this much."
"It feels sincere," he shrugs and you nod, finally turning around and leaning against the sink.
"It is sincere."
"Good."
You hold his gaze, eyes only trailing down to go across his face. He looks far different from how he did on stage. Shier, more eager for praise.
"You have..." he steps up until the scent of his cologne tickles your nose. His hand raises ever so slowly to your face, and you hold your breath, as he picks up something from your cheek. His hands are warm.
"An eyelash fell. Make a wish."
A surprised chuckle escapes your lips. "You wish on fallen lashes?"
"You wish on everything when you need hope." his voice is low, a timber so foreign to your ears it sends shivers down your spine. So, you close your eyes, wishing for your heart to quit beating so fast.
"Done," you whisper and he blows the single lash away, his gaze still on you.
"Thank you for coming."
"Of course. I had to support Chan and Changbin." It slips from your mouth before you can stop it, and Han slightly recoils from your words.
"Right, them. Yeah. Of course," he finally backs away, and oxygen fills your lungs once again. "I'm good now. Should we go out?"
"After you," you nod tightly and he walks ahead first, his perfume trailing after him and pulling you into a dizzying dance.
☄༄
The party Seungmin hosted was your last time having fun for a while. Your preparation for midterm exams began soon after, and you found yourself swarmed with assignments left and right. Thankfully, you and Chan were going through it at the same time, which meant you met at the library each day, revising silently near one another.
Except this time, you were joined by Han.
Goosebumps ran across your skin as he pulled the chair next to you, not the good kind of shivers. You were reminded of the fight you had right here, three months ago. Which still left a bitter taste in your mouth.
You don't hate Han anymore. He's actually funny, and you enjoy listening to his ramblings when you go over to Chan's dorm. He's also really different in his home, much quieter, and softer. Much more like you.
But you're also human, and there is still a part of your brain sending off warning signals at his presence. Maybe because the hurt was never buried properly. You just brushed it off under the carpet after your elevator conversation. Most of it was spent shouting anyway.
"Hey," he greets and you just nod in reply. You can feel his gaze linger on you a bit after that, and a pang of guilt twists in your heart. "Hi," you finally reply, but you tune out his response. Why is it that you're sensitive to everyone's emotions but your own?
Twenty minutes go by, then forty, and you can no longer take the uncomfortable feeling clinging to your skin. So, you excuse yourself, hurriedly stepping out of the library.
Han follows you; you can tell it’s him because someone's chair scraped loudly against the floor as soon as you stood up, and that couldn't be Chan because he is always careful with the silence in the library. So, you put on your headphones and walk faster.
This is childish, surely it is, but you can't control your emotions. You've apologized and so did he, you talk from time to time and you even held his arm and took him to a quiet bathroom. So where is all this bitterness coming from?
"Dammit, yn, how are you so fast?" Han grabs your arm pausing you. He's panting slightly and you just blankly stare as he takes in a deep breath.
"Are you okay?" he finally asks and you nod, turning around to walk away. He stops you again.
"I made you uncomfortable, didn't I?" he asks quietly, and you sigh, rubbing your forehead wearily.
"You didn't do anything, I just... Being in that library reminded me of certain things."
"I know. Me too. Can we please talk?"
"We are talking," you raise your brows and he stares pointedly at you. "Come on you know what I mean."
"Fine," you giggle, "we can talk."
"I didn't apologize properly to you in the elevator. Truth is, I did it because Chan was mad at me and I couldn't stand it anymore."
The bitterness- you understand where it comes from now.
"But I am sorry. Truly sorry. I was selfish and I hurt you and this will sound like a joke, but I hate hurting people. I really do. I was just too wrapped up in my problems that I didn't realize how it would affect you and I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I also shouldn't have tried to kick you out that day, but dying alone is my biggest fear, and seeing you in my home made me want to lose my mind because I couldn't get what you said out of my head, but it was so cold outside and again I shouldn't have told you to go out and I am so sorry-"
"Han, breathe," you smile, cutting him off and Han sucks in a deep breath, chest slightly heaving from talking uninterrupted for a minute straight.
"I'm sorry I just wanted to apologize, properly this time. I'm doing it because I'm guilty, not because of Chan. Nothing excuses my behavior, I know. And I wish I could turn back in time and actually get to know you because you're really cool and very nice, but I can't. All I can do is apologize. So I'm sorry, Yn. I really am."
"I appreciate it," you smile, and Han exhales a little from relief. "I didn't know that was your biggest fear, but even if it wasn't, that was uncalled for. I shouldn't have said something so mean. So, I'm sorry for it too. But I'm not apologizing for being mad, you deserved that."
"I did, I did, I know." He's quick to agree. "I don't want us to be awkward around one another. I'm not telling you that you have to be my best friend but, we can be friends, right? But you also don't have to. It's enough if you forgive me and... You know what? Never mind forget I said anything, I'm just nervous and-"
"Okay."
"Okay?" he repeats.
"We can be friends. I accept your truthful apology."
"Actually?"
"Yes."
"Like we can start over?" he grins and you chuckle at the excitement in his face. "Yes."
"Can we hug it out?"
"Too soon," you pout and he nods, a faint blush dusting his cheek.
"Right. Should we go back to the library? I saw that you were stuck on a question. I can help you."
"You won't make any comments?"
"No. Pinky promise." he outstretches his pinky towards you and you muse over it for a bit, before wrapping your finger around his. You grin at Han- your first genuine smile since he's known you. His hold on your pinky falters.
"Okay. I'm in."
.☄༄
Five weeks later- 1:13 a.m.
You were still slightly cautious near Han as if you were both threading along an invisible line. You could talk, but not too much, afraid any old animosity would shine through. And you could stay together, but not too long, in case it gets awkward and you wouldn't know what to do. So, you never mixed, just like water and oil, each of you knowing their place, away from the other.
But you still didn't want to miss out on outings with your friends. So, when Chan invites you for a movie night with Han, and Changbin, you don't say no.
The night runs smoothly, the warm beer you had easing your nerves bit by bit. It was also easier to forget that you once hated Han when he brought tears to your eyes from laughing so hard.
2:56 a.m.
An unbearable heat suddenly envelopes you, your very blood boiling from within. You hesitantly look down, to find your entire body bathed in red, as if your skin had melted away, exposing you to the scorching heat embracing your tender flesh.
You are in the heart of a volcano, with lava bubbling dangerously below. Hanging by a frail thread, you dangle over the edge of death.
And then, you plummet.
You startle awake, your heart pounding in your chest, your hand clutching it tightly. Cold sweat clings to your skin, and it takes you a few moments to realize that you're safe, far from the inside of the volcano that had threatened to consume you.
You glance at your phone- 3:43 a.m. You read. It's only been a mere hour since you went to sleep. You don't think you could drift back into slumber.
Dragging a hand tiredly across your face, you walk into the pitch-black kitchen. You pour yourself a glass of water, hoping that the icy drink will cool you down. You are safe.
"What are you-" you startle, dropping the glass and spinning around, hand pressed to your heart.
"Han, fuck, you scared me," you sigh, tugging at your hair slightly and he's quick to your side, a string of hushed apologies tumbling from his lips.
"I'm sorry, here let me clean it up," he kneels and you follow suit, grabbing his hands and gently pushing them away. "No, I dropped it, let me clean," you reassure, but your hands are trembling as you pick up the shards of glass, any bit of logic clouded by your racing thoughts.
Your heartbeat's ringing loudly in your ears, you barely register the glass cutting your skin until an uncharacteristic warmth oozes from your hand. Blood.
"Shit," you curse lowly and Han illuminates the place with his phone flashlight. "Did you cut yourself?" he asks and you shake your head, walking over to the sink.
"It's nothing, don't worry."
"Yn, let me see," he's standing behind you, the ghost of his breath grazing your exposed neck.
"Han, really it's-" he cuts you off, grabbing your forearm and walking you over to the couch. He finally turns on the lights before crouching down in front of you.
"Show me?" he asks gently and you're too tired to fight him. You open your palm tentatively, taking a look at your cut for the first time as well. It's not too deep, it won't require stitches. But it's also not shallow, blood oozing from it at a steady rhythm.
Han simply frowns upon gazing at your wound, before walking over to his room. You don't move from your spot, gaze lost into the space before you. What would happen if you never woke up? Would you feel your flesh burning? Bones melting as the searing lava-
"Here," he gently holds your wrist, as his eyes meet yours. "This will hurt a bit. Hold my arm as tight as you want and tell me if it becomes too much, okay?"
"Okay," you simply nod.
He dabs up your cut with a cotton pad soaked in alcohol. You hiss softly, as the liquid burns your open skin. Han abruptly stops at the sound. "Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry I didn't mean to I just-"
"It's okay," you smile reassuringly, "I can handle it."
Han nods, resuming his treatment. He's even softer this time, if that is even possible. He's careful when he rubs a soothing gel on your cut, before wrapping your palm in a gauze. He can't find a pair of scissors so he cuts it with his teeth, his lips brushing against the back of your hand. You account the warmth you're suddenly feeling to the aftermath of your nightmare.
"Why are you even up?" he finally asks as he settles next to you on the couch, eyes looking up to the ceiling.
"Nightmare."
"You’re okay?" he asks gently and he sounds truly concerned for your well-being. You aren't used to this. To Han acting like a friend to you. But it feels nice to be cared for, so you don't mind him blurring the lines tonight.
"I'm still a little bit scared," you admit sheepishly and Han's eyes soften under the dim moonlight.
"It passed. You're okay now."
"Am I?" you drag a hand tiredly across your face and Han frowns, inching closer to you.
"Is it a recurring dream?"
"Mm. It tires me out."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No, I just want to forget." 'Help me forget' you want to add, but you decide against it. "Why were you up, anyway?"
"I got inspiration for lyrics so I had to write it down."
"Can you share some with me?" you ask, tone a tad too hopeful. Han catches it and smiles warmly at you.
"Sure. This is probably going to be in the chorus..." he pulls out his phone, heading to his notes app. "This is what I have so far... I let my frustrated screams out hoping that they’d be washed away in the rain. I send it off with a smiling face, down to the last drops left on my fingertips." he pauses, scrolling down a bit more. "I also wrote this; I think it'll be nice in a verse... I’m sure it’ll get better... Just like the earth hardens after the rain and flowers bloom again."
"You're such a talented lyricist Han," you whisper in awe, and Han’s cheeks warm up at your words, reminiscent of a setting sun. "But I also wish it was as easy as this. To let out all the emotions you bottle inside and for them to wash away with the rain." You bite your lip, as Han’s words echo in your head. "I think... I think that's why I get this nightmare. I don't free my emotions anymore, and they show up in my dreams to torment me."
You don't know where these bouts of honesty are coming from. Maybe because you're too weary to keep up a happy facade. Or maybe because you know that the person who wrote these lyrics must understand exactly how you feel.
"Well... It's raining." Han whispers after a while and you look at him, confusion plastered across your features.
"And?"
"Should we test it out?"
"Test what?"
"Screaming under the rain," he says as if it's the most evident thing in the world.
"What? That's insane, Han we will get sick and..." You pause, as the words dissolve in your mouth like the seafoam meeting the shore. "You know what? Let's do it!"
"Really?" he asks incredulously, a huge grin on his face.
"Yes!"
"Okay, let's go!"
You both abruptly stand up, still only clad in your pajamas. You quickly slip your shoes on before running outside. The rain envelops you in a cold hug as soon as you step outside, rain droplets trickling down your clothes. You don't mind, you have lots of bottled-up feelings to free.
"This needs music," Han smiles as he takes out his phone, putting his playlist on shuffle. 'Let The Light In' starts playing, and you shoot him a thumbs-up.
"It fits the rainy mood," you grin and he nods, squinting his eyes to be able to look at you.
"I think if we scream here, we'll scare the neighbors."
"I know!" you chuckle, wiping away the rain droplets on your forehead. "Where should we go?"
"The empty parking lot!" Han shouts so you'll hear him over the growing rain and you nod. He takes off running and you chase after him. You're both completely drenched once you're a bit far away from the house. But you don't care. Not when there is pure adrenaline rushing through you.
You finally stop, loud giggles escaping your mouth at the thrill of what you're doing. "You should start!" you yell excitedly and Han nods, taking in deep steadying breaths.
"Okay, I'm ready!"
"On the count of three! One... Two... Three!" and Han shouts at the top of his lungs, his screams getting lost in the rain. An incredulous smile breaks out on his face as you giggle loudly, the sound of it ringing out in the downpour.
"You looked insane!"
"I feel insane!" He yells honestly and a fit of laughter takes over you both. You hold his arm to steady yourself.
"You should try it now!" Han urges and you nod, willing yourself to calm down.
"Okay, will you count down for me?"
"Yes," he assures and you clap excitedly. Han can't help but smile at the excitement on your face.
"One... Two... Three!" And you shout, continuous screams spilling from the depths of your soul. Han wasn't wrong- your pain, your fear, your anger are all dripping along the rain droplets, from your bruised heart to the tip of your fingers.
You've never felt this free before.
The two of you don't notice the passage of time, the rain acting as a cathartic release to all your pent-up emotions. It was as if your pain intertwined with each rain droplet, and you were letting go of everything that had held you down. Each scream acted as a break from the burdens of the past, and the worries of the future.
As you finally stopped, panting and soaked to the bone, you looked at each other with raw exhilaration in your eyes.
"So, how was it?" Han yells over the rain and you break out in a relieved smile. "I don't think I’ve ever been this happy my entire life," you beam at him and the sight makes the rain feel less colder to Han.
He watches, a small smile on his face as you twirl around, face looking up toward the sky, a deluge of rain grazing your cheeks like a lover's tender touch. The smile doesn't leave your face as you spin around, happy chuckles leaving your mouth from time to time.
You look... free. As if there was an invisible weight on your shoulders that the rain washed away. A heavy burden that you carried within you, like a secret secret. He likes the sound of that. Maybe that's what he'll name his song.
Han slightly shakes his head as he watches you skip around, clothes completely soaked. You are now standing a bit far away, right beside a street lamp.
Ooh, let the light in
Its light shines on you alone.
Time seems to slow down, as Han’s steps falter. You're smiling, not at him, but at the universe. A happiness so raw filling you that it needs to come out, even if no one's watching.
You're spinning around, delighted giggles spilling from you like the most mesmerizing chorus. Something is building up inside Han, begging for a release. It refuses to come out in a scream- violently. It's tender and soft. He thinks that if you held his hand right now, you'd be able to free it.
Look at us, you and I back at it again
Is it possible to feel something other than an emotion? Because right now, weirdly, all he feels is you.
Cause I love to love to love to love you
I hate to hate to hate to hate you
Your eyes land on Han and there is pure joy dancing in your pupils. He's glad you no longer despise him. He doesn't think he can stomach it anymore.
Cause I want to want to want to want you
You run to him, holding his hand before twirling him around.
I need to need to need to need you
Han can't believe he ever thought you weren't human enough. You are a mosaic of every feeling that makes one human. There are lyrics writing themselves in his head and they're all about you.
Ooh, let the light in
You clasp both his hands, before crossing them over. And then you're both spinning around until the world around you blurs. All he sees is you, and the light surrounding you alone.
Ooh, turn your light on
He thinks he might, if the light is you.
5:22 a.m
"There is a heater in my room, you should come," Han offers as you dry your hair with the blue towel he just handed you.
"It's okay I’ll stay here," you point to the couch but he shakes his head adamantly. "You'll die from hypothermia. Do you know how mad Chan will be if I let you pass away?" he whispers in fear, a hand clutching his heart.
"So dramatic," you giggle, before following him into his room. He goes on his bed first before tapping the spot beside him. You sigh before lying next to him, snuggling further into the hoodie he gave you to change.
"You're still shivering," he remarks, as your teeth clink together.
"It's okay."
"You shouldn't have gone out with just a t-shirt."
"I didn't exactly plan on this, you know," you smile sarcastically and Han chuckles before tapping your shoulder softly.
"Come closer."
You debate for a second before complying, the cold tuning out all the rational thoughts in your head.
Your arm brushes against his and you can't breathe once again. But it's a different type of deprivation. Han always seems to steal the oxygen from your lungs, but for once, you don't mind. Red embers are burning within you and their flames keep you alive. You press your chest to his back, as your forehead rests on his shoulder. Maybe he'll turn you to ashes. Will you rise from them?
"You're so cold," his hand reaches behind to rub your arms soothingly, an earnest attempt to warm you up.
"I’ll be fine, go to sleep. Don't worry about me."
"I can't control it."
In the dark room, Han can't see you curling your hand into a tight fist at his words.
"If you stay quiet then I’ll sleep," you say after a while and Han giggles softly.
"That's the goal. You need to rest."
"You should sleep too."
"I will."
"Okay. Good night, Han."
"Good night, Yn."
You think he's fallen asleep when you speak up again. "Hey, Han."
"Yes, Yn?" He replies instantly, voice slightly hoarse.
"Can you repeat that lyric to me, about the flowers blooming again?" You ask quietly, and you feel him nodding against your chest.
"I’m sure it’ll get better... Just like the earth hardens after the rain and flowers bloom again."
His warm voice vibrates within your body. "That's a nice lyric."
"I hope you'll dream of it instead."
☄༄
Against Han’s strong belief, he's the one who fell sick after your rain-soaked outing.
You knew of it from Chan, who texted you saying that Han caught a nasty cold, and then got food poisoning, which meant he couldn't be there for their highly anticipated meeting—after their electrifying Heyday performance, a record label expressed strong interest in signing them.
"Can you come over and stay with Han?" Chan implores as soon as he answers your call.
“That bad?” You ask, a pout pulling at your lips.
"I don't want to leave him alone. He's been really sick for the past week now, and… it's partly your fault"
"I can’t believe you’re guilt-tripping me into coming," you chuckle even though you know he is right. Han wouldn’t have gotten out in the rain if it wasn’t for you.
"I'm sorry it’s just I don't think he's been good, apart from the illness. And I’m worried, and I don’t know I thought maybe you could talk to him. He reminds me of you, in his sadness, so you might understand what's wrong more than me."
You think it over for a second before rising up from your bed.
"I'm coming"
As soon as you step inside their dorm, Chan pulls you for a side hug, placing a quick kiss on your forehead. “Thank you so much,” he whispers, clearly grateful that you agreed to come. It worries you even more for Han.
“No problem. You can go, I’ll be with him.”
“Thank you, Yn” Changbin smiles before hastily pulling Chan outside the door. You wave them both goodbye.
You cautiously crack open the door to Han’s room, to find it completely engulfed in darkness. The stream of light from the door falls upon Han, who squints his eyes, trying to see who disrupted his fragile peace.
"Hi," you speak softly, finding it a bit odd to raise your voice in such a still room. Han attempts to sit up, before doubling over, hand tightly clutched around his stomach.
You rush to his side, kneeling beside his bed. It's the only lit-up part of the room.
"Still hurts?" you ask, your hand moving in soothing circles on his back. He nods, eyes squeezed shut, and you feel your heart crack at the sight.
"Have you taken any medicine?"
"A few hours ago. I need to eat something before I can take more, but I can't get up to the kitchen."
"Why didn't you tell the boys?"
"Didn't want to be a burden."
"You aren't. I'll make you something to eat. Okay? Try to sleep meanwhile."
"You don't have to," Han shakes his head, his eyes finally meeting yours.
"I know," you smile softly, before exiting the room.
Minutes later, you're back in the room, a bowl of sliced fruit in your hands.
"Do you guys live off protein powder and frozen chicken?" you ask, earning a quiet laugh from Han as he lays his back against the headboard.
"We do. Please save me," he jokes and you laugh, shaking your head. "Good thing I grabbed some fruit before leaving."
"Thank you," he grins, eyes slightly squinting closed.
"Here," you grab a strawberry, bringing it to his lips. His eyebrows raise up in surprise, a sheen layer of sweat coating them. "What? Look at how tightly you're clutching the comforter," you point to his hands and Han sighs, before parting his lips slightly.
His mouth brushes against your fingertips, igniting a cascade of emotions in you. You'll think about what it means later.
You grab a green grape next, feeding it to him gently. A drop of water trickles down the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your finger.
"I can- I can do it," Han mumbles, voice wavering like an unpredictable storm. His trembling hands reach for the bowl, but they struggle to hold it right.
"Han, it's okay, I don't mind," you try to keep your voice gentle, sensing that there is an impending doom awaiting just below the surface.
"No, I- I need to do it. Just let me-" A tear falls into the fruit bowl. "Let me do it, please. I can- I can do it, I’m not useless, I…"
The floodgate opens.
A stream of tears escapes Han's eyes as he looks down at the bowl between his hands. He's crying, eyes tightly shut and the small whimpers escaping his lips feel like a dagger piercing your heart.
"You're sick. Let me take care of you."
"It's horrible horrible work." His voice cracks as his eyes finally lock on yours, and you can tell that his anguish isn't about his illness. These are the words of the shadows threatening to swallow him whole. You have to fight them off with the light.
"I will do it."
As Han lays on his bed, the sound of you washing the dishes resonating from the kitchen, your voice bounces off the dark walls in his head. You didn't try to convince him that it was easy work, you told him you'll do it, even if it's horrible. You'll do it because you want to, not because you can, not because it's accessible. The thought sends a warmth in his chest. It's faint, like a flickering candle trying its best to withstand the wind. But it's there. He holds on to it. He'll shield it with his cupped hands so it wouldn't fizzle out.
"Hannie, you’re okay?" you peer into the room. Hannie- the candle's flame grows higher.
"Mm," he hums, too weak to turn and look at you.
"You're shivering," you remark, and he tightens the blanket around his body. "It'll pass."
You stay silent, and he thinks you've left the room. But then he feels the left side of the bed dip, with you climbing tentatively on it.
"This worked last time when I was cold," you smile softly at him, before bringing his head to your chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He feels frail and fragile in your embrace. You hug him tighter to you.
"Warming up?" you ask and he nods against your chest. He's burning.
"Try to sleep," you urge quietly, your hand moving to pat his back. "It will pass."
"What if it doesn't?" Han asks faintly. Please don't let the candle die, he wants to plead.
"There is always light at the end of the tunnel."
"What if the tunnel is closed?"
"Then you go back to the start and find a new one," you respond.
"Can I find it later? I'm so tired tonight." His voice is drowsy, sleep already clinging to his achy bones.
"Just rest for now. You did well," you scratch his back lightly, as he nuzzles further into the crook of your neck.
There was never a candle to begin with- you were the light.
☄༄
Had someone told you five months ago that you'd be lying on Han's bed, watching "Howl's Moving Castle" at 2 a.m., you would've thought they were utterly delusional.
Yet, here you are now.
A lot of things had changed since your rainy outing with Han, as if the universe had shifted into alignment, two stars in the sky finally colliding and making way for something new. You saw him under a different light, understanding that no one picks up a dandelion unless they desperately need the solace it provides.
You've grown to care for him, in the course of the past two months. And funnily enough, you've started to like who you were next to him- just yourself, with no pressure of making conversation, or catering to his expectations of you.
He saw you at your worst anyway, and so did you, there was no use in filtering things anymore.
You've been there through the entire process of writing, composing, and producing Secret Secret- the song whose lyrics had captured your heart. You didn't expect him to ask you to be there with him, he just shot you a text, three days after you came over to his house. 'Wanna be there while I work on the song? I know you liked the lyrics.' It was an offer you couldn't pass up on.
You weren't, in your opinion, much help. Han was gifted in the music realm and song-making flowed naturally from him. But he noticed how interested you were in music, so he called you over each time he worked on the song, even asking for your input at times.
That's why, when the song was finally done and released on 3racha's Spotify account, you decided to celebrate by baking him a cake. You may have dropped an eggshell in the batter (you recovered it later on), and the icing's color turned out less vibrant than what you hoped for. But you managed to adorn it with a garden of little flowers, and with store-bought icing, you wrote the words "after the rain flowers will bloom again."
You showed up to the dorm and Changbin pointed you to Han's room, where he had apparently been holed up all day. You shot him a grateful smile, before pushing the door open with your foot.
"What are you doing here?" Han asked, an incredulous smile drawn on his lips.
"Surprise!" you grinned, pushing the cake his way. "Congrats on making Secret Secret."
"Are you serious?" he chuckled, jumping out of his bed. He peered at the cake, eyes softening as he gazed down at the design.
"You drew a little garden..." he whispered in awe and you nodded, a faint blush creeping up your face.
"I'm glad you recognized what it was. I'm not the best baker," you admit a bit shyly but he shook his head. "It's perfect. I can't believe you did this to celebrate our baby!"
"Your baby," you corrected, although the use of 'our' warmed up your chest, weirdly enough.
"You were here with me every step of the way. She's ours."
"It's a she?" you giggled, and he smiled proudly.
"Mm. Do you accept being her mother?" he mused; hands clasped in front of his heart like he was praying you'd say yes.
"It would be my greatest honor," you nodded solemnly, and he let out a breathy chuckle, grabbing the cake from your hands and setting it on his bed.
"Should we hug it out?" he teased, arms stretched wide but you merely stared at him, unimpressed.
"Come on," he whined, "you can't reject me for the third time. And, in front of our child. On her birthday!" his tone grew louder and you couldn't help but giggle at his mock outrage.
"Try harder."
"Our child won't know what a loving parent relationship is and then she'll seek out unhealthy love from the ones around her and-" you cut him off by finally wrapping your arms around him.
You've always known that being near Han left you breathless, but this time, it felt as though he was breathing life into you. You close your eyes instinctively, as his hold tightens on you. He smells immensely nice, like pinewood and soap. You should've hugged him sooner.
"Thank you," he said quietly, forehead pressed against your shoulder blade.
"You did well," you whisper back.
"We did. She's our child, remember?" he reprimanded and you laughed faintly.
"Yeah, ours."
Hours later, the movie's credits finally roll down, and the finished cake sits idly by Han's desk.
"I should go," you rub your eyes tiredly, and Han stares at you as if you are out of your mind.
"At this hour? Do you want our kid to lose her mom?"
"Han," you drawl, hitting his head with the pillow next to you. "You can't hold me hostage."
"I can, as your husband."
"Since when are we married?"
"Since you agreed to be Secret's mother." Another playful hit to his face.
"Stop attacking my face, how will I get laid then?"
"So, you are cheating on me?" you ask, feigning outrage.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry baby you're the only one I want." You falter at the nickname before hitting him even harder, matching the tempo of your quickening heartbeat.
"You're crazy," he laughs, grabbing your wrists and pinning you onto the bed. He's hovering over you, eyes hooded with a tender intensity as he gazes down at you.
"Will you stay, please?"
"The couch is uncomfortable," you reply, avoiding his eyes. He lets go of one wrist before holding your chin gently, urging you to look at him.
"You can sleep here. We've done it before."
"You were freezing both times. That's why I did it."
"I'm very cold tonight," he pouts, eliciting a surprised chuckle from you.
"Are you now?"
"Very much so."
"Fine. Only because I don't want you to die from hypothermia."
"Thank you!" he grins excitedly, finally letting go of your wrist. You bring a hand to your flushed cheeks, as he tosses a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in your direction.
"Get changed! There is a spare toothbrush in the cabinet."
You make sure to groan theatrically, before heading into the bathroom, where you splash your face repeatedly with water. You aren't used to this- being a blushy mess, because of Han, nonetheless. It was dizzying you, how things took the complete opposite turn between you and him.
At least, back then you weren't alone in your hate, you couldn't stand being alone in your affection.
So, you'd stop this, whatever feeling that's coursing through you. Tomorrow, you will firmly close the door on the blooming feelings within you. But tonight, you’d both lay on the same bed, arms brushing against one another. It's completely dark and quiet, but there is an entire symphony playing within you.
"Thank you for today," he whispers, turning around and tucking his arm under his head, this way he's facing you.
You mirror his actions, and your fingertips brush against one another. You can't see him but you can feel him. He's everywhere, wrapping around all your senses.
"Thank you for making this song. It's very comforting to me."
"Why is that?" he questions, inching closer to you, you can feel his minty breath fan all over your face.
"I’ve always felt like I carried too many emotions within me. Like a volcano, bubbling over until the day I explode. I never liked feeling this way, so I tried to hide it," you confess softly.
"Like a secret secret."
"Like a secret secret," you repeat, glad that he understands.
"You don't have to hide with me," he says after a few silent beats, and you swallow nervously.
"I know." you lick your lips as the music inside you grows louder. "Still cold?"
"A little."
"Come closer," you beckon, and he complies instantly, wrapping his arm behind your back and drawing your chest close to his. Your legs entangle with one another, as your face lays on the crook of his neck. It's intimate, far more than any time you've done it before. You don't want to sink in his hold in fear of never resurfacing again.
"Good?" he asks, voice tinged with a newfound raspiness.
"Mm," you hum, and he releases a relieved sigh.
You've once read that everything in this universe sings. Every atom's vibration creates a sound, contributing to a grand celestial chorus. It's an unscientific, but lovely thought, to wonder who our hearts sing for.
Right now, it's for Han.
☄༄
The music echoes through your being, an ever-present melody that refuses to fade into silence. Even with no audience to enjoy it.
Han always found his way back to your side, no matter how many times you've tried to distance yourself from him. And you couldn't bring yourself to refuse him, because you were friends, first and foremost. And friends don't abandon one another just because a mere glance at them sprouts a blush across your cheeks.
That's how you find yourself on your way to Han's dorm, for the third time that week. Watching movies together has become your little tradition, for the past few months, and sometimes even Chan joins in. Although he mostly enjoys shooting you a knowing smile, to which you flip him off.
Your phone rings and Han's name illuminates your screen. You smile against your will.
"Can't wait to see me this much?" you singsong and Han's chuckle rings through the phone. It's rich and deep, causing you to tighten your hold on the device.
"Yes. And can you please go to the store? I'm out of snacks."
"What do I get out of it?" you muse, changing directions to the nearest convenience store.
"Snacks."
"Asshole," you giggle on your way to cross the road.
"And my eternal gratitude of course."
"Right, because I can't-" Loud tires screech right beside you and you startle, letting out a loud yelp as you drop your phone.
A hand on top of your heart, you bend down to pick up your fallen device, as the driver gets out of the car that grazed your body, mere inches away from hitting you.
"Are you okay, miss? I'm sorry I didn't see you." The middle-aged man is quick to your side, and you glance at the small kid in his car, willing yourself to calm down for their sake.
"I'm fine. Just a bit startled. Drive more slowly, there is a kid with you."
"I know, I'm sorry," he drags a hand through his stressed features and you couldn't help but feel sympathy for him. "It's okay, don't worry about it. Just pay more attention to the road, okay?"
"Thank you so much. Thank you," he clasps his hand in gratitude before getting back to his car and you wave him off, your heart still wildly beating in your chest.
You head into the convenience store, picking up the snacks you know Han loves before paying for them. But as soon as you step back outside, you spot a disheveled Han crossing the road, sprinting toward the store. His pace quickens upon spotting you.
"What are you..." your question is cut short as his arms wrap around you, pulling you to his chest instantly. You can feel the frantic rhythm of his heart, and you're confused as he pulls away, hands cradling your cheeks and turning your face left and right.
"You're alright, nothing happened to you, right? You’re okay?" he inquires urgently and you let out a confused giggle, as you grab his arm to steady him.
"What are you talking about?"
"I heard the tires screech and you yelled and then you didn't pick up when I called and I thought-" his voice cracks. "I thought something happened to you."
"No, no. I'm okay. Nothing happened, I promise." you reassure, as he brings you to his chest once again, his hand smoothing the top of your hair.
"I was so scared," he kisses your temple, as his thumping heart resounds within your chest. "So terrified that something would happen to you. I thought I'd lose my mind."
"You don't mean that," you shake your head slowly, peeling yourself away from him.
"Can you really not see how much I care about you? How I crave being near you?" his voice raises a slight octave. The music in you picks up.
"How long do I have to pretend to be cold to have you nearby? For god's sake, I'm never cold around you, yn. When I see you, I ignite." He takes in a deep breath, pressing his forehead onto your shoulder. "And I... I couldn't have lived with myself if something happened to you. I... You drive me crazy, Yn. When we became friends it felt like I was stepping inside a home for the first time, and yet I already knew each turn in it."
He grabs your arms, shaking you slightly as his chest heaves up and down. "My darkness recognizes yours and my light is you and you- you think I wouldn't care if anything happened to you?"
He shakes his head as tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. Has his music always been this loud, were you just not listening properly?
"I'm scared because we didn't start well and I understand if a part of your heart still resents me, I do. But I don't think I can pretend anymore. Not with you," his voice softens as his gaze locks on yours.
"Were you pretending too?" He asks, hope dripping from his tone. "Do you feel it too?"
A split second goes by. A candle flickering somewhere. A dandelion plucked from the ground. The shadow of a cloud passing over the sun- and you pick.
"I feel it too. So much that my heart feels like it’s singing for you, Han."
"I'll sing for it in return," he whispers, before crashing his lips onto yours. His hand slides up the back of your neck, drawing you closer. You drop the bags of groceries as you cradle his cheeks, feeling them warm up beneath your touch. You can't believe you've ever disliked your heart for feeling too much, not when the lovely emotions flowing in your heart threaten to burst it at the seams, submerging you in a warmth you've never known before- Han.
Two months later
You have 3 new messages from: hannie
"kept this song a secret from you baby but i wrote it for you so you can't be mad"
"i don't know if you remember but you’ve once told me that you are a volcano. as if that’s something that’s supposed to put me off. well, some people dedicate their lives to studying volcanos. and i would dedicate mine to learning you."
Summary: As a lead detective in the police department, you've been assigned to solve a serial killer case, but you've hit a point where you can no longer work on the case by yourself. Hwang Hyunjin, the golden child of the police department and your sworn rival, is assigned as your partner.
---------------------------------------
You have officially run out of red string.
The cork board in the conference room doesn’t have any more open spaces for new leads or clues. You can’t even see the brown of the board anymore.
Instead of whittling information down, you’ve only come up with more suspects for the case.
It’s better than the case going cold, sure, but it feels like you’re getting further and further from actually solving the damn thing.
It also doesn’t help that you not only have Chief Bang breathing down your neck, but the entire city as well. You understand, really, everyone wants a killer to be caught.
But these sort of things take time.
And they usually don’t have a million and thirty leads. Typically, you were lucky to have one.
Everyone in the city has a tip. And you have to check each and every single one.
Three sharp knocks draw your exhausted attention away from the board.
“Come in!” You call out.
The door clicks open and dress shoes click on the floor.
“I think you’re going to need another cork board soon, Detective.”
Your mood curdles like milk.
“What do you want, Hwang?”
Hwang Hyunjin, the department’s top detective and your least favorite person in the world.
Every case he touches is solved. Every last one of them. But maybe— just maybe— it’s because he gets to pick and choose which ones he’s assigned to.
The golden child of the police department. The biggest, cockiest pain in the ass you’ve ever met.
He clicks his tongue and walks up to the conference table you’re leaning against.
“I have a whole new stack of tips for you.”
The sound of a thick stack of papers hits the table, you cringe.
You haven’t even finished going through the last stack.
“And I am once again humbly offering my assistance on this case.”
You look over at him for the first time tonight. His long black hair is pulled back with a few strands dangling in front of his face.
He wears a pressed dress shirt, black tie, black vest, and slacks.
Truly, it looks like he popped off a magazine cover and you hate it.
“And I am humbly declining. I can handle this on my own, thank you.”
Your own heels click along the floor as you come around the conference table to sit down in front of the first stack of papers.
Hyunjin shoves his hands in his pockets and meanders closer to the cork board.
He looks up and down all the different leads, the ever expanding list of suspects, murder weapons, locations. He’s silent for a long moment.
The only sound in the room is the clock ticking on the wall.
What time is it anyway? You’ve been here since 4 AM when a call came in about another victim. The bags under your eyes surely look like bruises at this point.
Since you started on this case two months ago there hasn’t been a single night where you’ve gotten more than five hours of sleep.
Words are blending together on the paper. Is the sun up?
Warily, you turn and eye Hyunjin, who’s still staring at the cork board. His head cocks to the side as he studies all the different clues littering the surface.
He takes a deep breath and turns to look at you. You point an accusatory finger at him.
“No! No, no. You’re not coming in here and solving my case that I’ve been working on for months!”
His mouth shuts, a smirk appears.
Oh, you want to smack it off his face.
“I was only going to say—“
“No! Nothing! I do not need your help! Get out of here!” You shoo him away.
“L/N—“ he tries again.
“Shut it!”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth while making his way to the door.
You glare daggers into the back of his head, praying that a ceiling tile will miraculously fall and crush him.
He grabs the door handle and walks into the hallway. Right before the door closes, he peeks his head in through the crack.
“The killer is ambidextrous,” he says in a sing-songy voice.
A frustrated, muted scream tears from your throat and you hurl the nearest object— which happens to be a metal cup full of pens and pencils— at the door.
It shuts before the cup makes contact.
Hyunjin’s laugh comes through the closed door and it only makes your blood boil more.
You slam your head down onto the wood desk.
“Of course he’s ambidextrous.”
---------------------------------------
“Detective L/N,” Chief Bang’s head pokes into the conference room. “Can I see you in my office please?”
You haven’t gone home yet. You’re in the same clothes as yesterday except now they’re more wrinkled.
Nodding, you put down your pen and tell your chief you’ll be there in a minute.
He hums and leaves the room.
You rub the heels of your palms into your eyes to try and get the exhaustion out of them.
About 100 ounces of coffee is flowing through your body but it’s doing nothing to wake you up, all it’s doing is increasing your heart rate.
To anyone else who wanders through your police department, they might think you’ve escaped the morgue.
The walk to Chief Bang’s office was short.
As soon as you step inside, your heart sinks.
The chief sits behind his desk, but that’s not why your stomach turns.
Hyunjin takes up one of the chairs, another freshly pressed suit on his body.
The man is flawless and it makes you want to become a suspect for one of your cases.
“Take a seat, detective.” Chief Bang motions to the other empty chair.
Hyunjin looks up at you, arms crossed over his chest. A smug smirk pulls on his lips as he takes in your disheveled appearance.
You tongue your cheek for a moment and flip your hair over your shoulder before sitting down. Your fingers iron out deep wrinkles in your pencil skirt.
You try to maintain some level of pride. It’s comical, really.
“Now, I’ll cut right to the chase here, Y/N, it’s not that I don’t trust your abilities as a detective, I do.”
You deflate.
“But this case is becoming too much for one person.”
Your jaw clenches.
So badly you want to refute that claim, to tell Chief Bang that you have it handled, it’s no big deal. But that’s a lie and you both know it.
And the smug asshole next to you definitely knows it.
“Detective Hwang has kindly offered his assistance on the case, so I’m assigning him as your partner on this.”
You think for a moment. “Can I get a different partner? I think Detective Kim just closed his last case, meaning he’s available to help.”
“Detective Kim started a new case this morning.”
“Detective Lee?”
“Busy.”
“Officer Yang?”
“He’s not even a detective.”
“What about Detective Seo?”
Chief Bang stays silent, deadpan eyes watch you. He cocks his head to the side.
You sink back in the chair.
“I specialize in homicide cases, L/N.” Hyunjin pipes up from next to you. “I’m the best one for the case and you know it.”
“Zip it, Hwang.”
Hyunjin scoffs.
Chief Bang rolls his eyes, his patience obviously wearing thin. “Y/N, I’m going to need you to swallow your pride for the sake of the city. There’s a murderer on the loose, remember? You’re my top detectives, it would be stupid not to partner you together.”
You can’t meet his eyes, you look off to the side, crossing your arms over your chest. Anxiously, your leg begins to bounce.
“Put your personal feelings aside, Y/N.”
Silence falls over the room. Both of the men wait for you.
It really doesn’t feel like you have a choice, here. Obviously, you don’t.
“Fine.”
“Great!” Hyunjin taps his hands on the arms of the chair and then pops up. “I’m going to need access to all the files you’ve been looking at these past two months as well as the extra key to the conference room.”
He grabs his trench coat off the back of the chair.
“I’ll also need you to catch me up to speed on the latest tips from civilians; you did have time to read those last night, right? Additionally, I think we should rearrange our hours so that we’re on duty together until this is solved.”
He makes his way towards the door.
“Come on, L/N! We’ll discuss over coffee.”
You stare at Chief Bang. He offers you a slightly amused, slightly sympathetic smile.
“Best of luck, detectives.”
---------------------------------------
The hot mug rests between both of your shaky hands. Hyunjin sat across from you in a large diner booth.
Files littered the entirety of the top of the table. It’s all things you’ve seen before and practically have memorized by now.
You explained everything you knew to him from the beginning, sparing no detail.
College girls were all found murdered in their dorms. No security footage of anyone going in or out of the building that doesn’t belong there.
Each victim is about two weeks apart.
A half eaten fruit cup sits next to your coffee. ‘Fruit cup’ is a loose term since more than half of it was honeydew melon.
Why can’t they just throw a few strawberries in there? Slice up a banana or toss a few blueberries in? They already have the fruit in the back for the pancakes, it would be so easy to—
“I don’t think this victim is from the same killer.”
Your head snaps up and you glare at Hyunjin. “Who?”
He slides the file across the table to you. “Andrea Bowman. She doesn’t fit the same profile as the other victims. All the others were blonde, Andrea has brown hair.”
You sip at your coffee, glazed eyes scanning the file. You’re simply too tired to keep up the anger.
“I had thought the same thing at first. But according to the coroner, her time of death would put her as the first victim of the killer, first victims of serial killers tend to not fit the profile of the rest since it’s the first taste.”
Her autopsy stares up at you.
“Plus, everything else is consistent with the rest, bruised wrists and ankles and a slit throat. They’re all college aged girls who went to the local community college.”
You slide the crime scene photos around, taking in all the details.
“Maybe she wasn’t his victim.” One of her school photos peeks out from the bottom of the stack, you pick it up and look at it solemnly. “But something tells me she was his first.”
Hyunjin watches you closely, any rebuttal he had died on the tip of his tongue.
Plates clatter in the kitchen.
Your nose scrunches and you pack away Andrea’s file.
“You said they all go to the same school?”
“Yeah, the community college.”
“Did they all study the same thing?”
You shake your head, taking another sip of coffee. “Nope, all different fields of study, all different extracurriculars. They didn’t even live in the same dorm building.”
Hyunjin leans back against the booth and picks up his iced coffee, taking a long sip while staring out the window.
Your fingers run through your hair. “I requested their transcripts and class schedules from every year but I’m waiting on all those requests to process. With how slow the registrar’s office is taking you would swear they didn’t want this case solved.”
“Red tape always gets in the way.” Hyunjin reaches down in his pocket and takes his phone out, tapping a few buttons and then holding it up to his ear.
You cock an eyebrow at him, he only holds up a finger at you. You scoff.
“Dianne? Hi, it’s Hyunjin!… I’m doing so well, and you? … That’s great to hear! … Yes, yes those homemade cookies were to die for.”
Your mouth falls open a bit. Who in the hell was he talking to? Homemade cookies?
Throwing your hands up in front of your face, you give him a flabbergasted look.
He narrows his eyes at you and gives you a look that says ‘be quiet’.
“Listen, I was actually calling to cash in a favor, I have a list of students I need transcripts and schedules of for a case. … I can email it over to you, it’s for the— … yes, yes that one.”
You slow blink at him. Does he have a contact at the registrar’s office? Of course he does, why wouldn’t he have one?
The golden child strikes again.
“You’re a darling, Dianne, thank you. I’ll send it to you asap. … of course, say hello to Rob for me. Bye!”
He hangs up and puts his phone back on the table.
Hyunjin takes one look at your face and shrugs. “What? I helped her with a personal matter when I was a P.I.”
If you roll your eyes anymore, they’ll go into the back of your head.
“So do you have a list—“
You interrupt him. “Yeah.”
“Can you—“
“Mhmm.”
You finish your coffee and reach into your purse, digging out a ten dollar bill and tossing it onto the table.
“Where are you going?” He asks you.
“Home,” you respond simply while shuffling out of the booth. “I haven’t slept since Monday.”
Hyunjin looks down at the various files on the table. “What about the list?”
You move the files around and pull out one of the papers and place it in front of him.
“It’s right here. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hwang.”
“Tomorrow? But what about—“
“If Dianne gets the list back to you, just forward it to me. I’ll look at it when I wake up.” Your voice is full of venom.
“I really think we should look at it together.” His eyes narrow. “We’re partners on this, remember?”
“As if you would even need my help,” you spit out. “By the time I come in tomorrow, you’ll probably have the entire case solved, the perp arrested, and all the paperwork done before I even pour my coffee.”
The more you talk, the more your anger levels rise. You lean over him in the booth, one of your hands on the back of the seat to keep you balanced.
Hyunjin’s eyes widen and he leans back as you go forward.
“The golden boy will strike again, solving a case that I’ve been working on for months and getting all the credit. Because that’s just how good you are. Mr. Perfect. Everything about you is just amazing.”
He gulps and shifts around. A red tint creeps up on his face.
And for the first time since you met him, Hwang Hyunjin is speechless. His mouth opens to say something several times but no sound comes out.
“Now. If you’ll excuse me.” You stand back up and turn on a heel, leaving the diner and a very flustered detective behind.
---------------------------------------
Knock after knock after knock after knock bangs on your apartment door.
You’re not sure of how long whoever’s been knocking has been at it, but it takes you a solid thirty seconds to wake up fully. You had peacefully drifted into a very deep sleep the moment your head hit the pillow.
The entire bedroom is pitch black, the sun no longer in the sky. The clock on your nightstand displays that it’s around 1 AM.
“What the fuck?” You slur out. It’s so hard to open your eyes right now.
The knocking persists.
With all the grace of a drunken newborn deer, you slither out of bed and make your way to your front door.
You flip on a light on your way there.
Staring through the peephole, a frown pulls at your face as soon as you see who’s banging on your door at this ungodly hour.
You rip the door open, startling Hyunjin. His hand still hangs in the air when you open it.
“Finally!” He shoves past you and into your apartment.
“No, please, come on in.” You growl and shut the door, securing all the locks in place again.
Behind you, you hear him slam a stack of papers onto your kitchen island.
“I forwarded you the transcripts hours ago but you didn’t answer.”
“I told you I would look at them when I woke up.”
He takes in your disheveled appearance with judging eyes. Your hair was all frizzy and out of place, a loose t-shirt hung off one shoulder and was so big you couldn’t see the shorts underneath.
His Adam’s Apple bobs with a swallow.
It was obvious he wasn’t used to seeing you in such a relaxed state. He was still wearing his dress pants from earlier, but he only had a dress shirt on with his trench coat over the top.
“You’re awake now, aren’t you?” He looks back down at the stack of files and opens them up, spreading papers everywhere.
You come up to the table and look down at everything.
Semesters of different class schedules stare back at you. Some have highlighted portions, others are still blank. He seems to have given up in the middle of doing it himself, opting to bring it here.
You tongue your cheek, looking over what you can see so far.
It’s going to be a long night.
“I’ll make coffee.”
---------------------------------------
Hours have passed, the sleepiness and weariness of being woken up has been replaced by the delightful thrum of caffeine in your veins.
After about a half an hour of going through the transcripts, you quietly asked Hyunjin if he was alright with you playing music softly.
He stared at you with wide eyes, “Ah, yeah, of course, that’s fine.”
You cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m just… not used to you asking for permission before doing something.”
Grumbling, you rolled your eyes and picked your phone up to scroll through playlists. You settled on a calmer one full of music from artists like Lord Huron and Tom Rosenthal.
Since then the two of you have been silently going through each schedule.
Biting the end of the highlighter absentmindedly, you study the class schedule.
“I’m only seeing one similarity.” You say out loud. Hyunjin looks up. “This one class, it’s a gen ed Physics class. But each of these girls took it, all at different times though.”
“Which class?”
“PHYS 100. Same Professor– Dr. Furon.”
“Do you think we should bring the professor in for questioning?” he asks.
“Couldn’t hurt. Right now he’s the only common denominator. Is it anywhere on your transcript?”
Hyunjin flips through the pages. “Yep, right here, her freshman spring semester back in 2020.”
You pull out a sticky note and write down that info.
“Can you go through each one and tell me when they took the course?”
Hyunjin gathers all the stapled packets of papers up. “Yeah.”
---------------------------------------
You and Hyunjin stood shoulder to shoulder looking through the one way glass.
A near ninety year old man sat on the other side.
“So,” Hyunjin says to break the silence.
“So.”
“It can’t be him.”
“Obviously.”
Another long moment of silence.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Do you want to question him or should I?”
You sigh, watching as the professor fidgets with a loose string on his sweater sleeve. The officers had completely forgone the handcuffs, allowing him to sit at the table freely.
They also rolled in a comfier chair and gave him a cup of coffee.
“My case. I’ll do it.”
“ Our case.”
“Shut it, Hwang.”
You make your way into the interrogation room with a notepad tucked under your arm.
The professor looks up as soon as you open the door. He shakily stands up from his seat with proper manners.
You smile gently. “Dr. Furon, thank you so much for taking the time to come down.”
Both of you shake hands before sitting down. His grip is not firm whatsoever.
Arthritis.
“Oh, it’s no matter. Happy to be of help.”
You place the notepad down and scoot your chair in. “I’ll get right to it since I can see you’ll be our best help here. When analyzing the list of victims, we saw that each of them had taken your class before. It’s a small lead, I know, but it’s too much to sweep under the rug.”
He nods, listening carefully. He blanches and leans back. “I didn’t realize I had each of them. There are so many students in each section, there’s not enough time to learn names.”
He shakes his head.
“I had recognized a few in the paper, but I try not to do too much digging, it hurts too much to look into. I don’t know how you detectives do it.”
You reach across the table and grab his hands warmly. “I feel the same way about physics, I don’t know how you do it. All those equations.”
Dr. Furon cracks a smile. “Someone has to. But I do have help with all my courses. Each student has a specific discussion section once a week with a smaller class size, but they’re all taught by graduate students.”
You jot that down on your notebook and lean your chair back. You knock once on the window.
“On it.” Hyunjin’s muffled voice comes through the glass.
“Just one more question, Dr. Furon, I won’t take up any more of your time, this has been very valuable. Are there any students or people that you come in contact with that maybe trigger some alarm bells or a gut instinct?”
He shifts around, he really thinks about it.
“I really can’t think of anything, detective, I’m sorry. The girls’ names that I recognize were normal students too, granted they weren’t the best, but I do know they were doing their very best. Breaks my heart.”
You scribble that down and stand up.
“Thank you very much for your time, Dr. Furon. We greatly appreciate your help.”
He nods and stands up as well. “Of course, if I can do anything else, please give me a call.”
“If you think of anything else, here’s my card.” You reach across the table and hand him a small business card.
You showed the professor out of the room, asking if he needed anything. He patted your arm sweetly before leaving.
When you turn around, Hyunjin is standing there, waving a file around.
You roll your eyes. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
---------------------------------------
Your apartment has become the unofficial meeting place for both you and Hyunjin once your shifts are over. The department wasn’t great for concentration.
They say not to take work home with you, but your home is so much cozier.
It’s only about 8 PM. Takeout containers take up a small portion of the kitchen island.
Another pot of coffee is brewing.
“So, between the victims, there are five different graduate students that taught their discussion sections. And one of them graduated last year.” Hyunjin flips through his notes.
You run your hands through your hair.
“So, four graduate students.”
“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’.
“Do we have any information on the four students?”
“No, but we have enough cause to bring them down to the station for questioning.”
You sigh and pick up your phone. “Let’s do that, then.”
A message is sent off to Chief Bang, he replies immediately saying he’ll contact them immediately and have them brought in and that he’ll call you when you can come in.
“I just don’t think it was any of the graduate students.” Hyunjin adds, sliding papers around to grab a victim’s file.
“I agree.”
He doesn’t seem to hear you. “Two of the graduate students are women— women don’t commit murders like this, the other two are masters in their field with promising careers.”
“I know, I agree with you, Hwang.”
“And I just don’t think that— wait, you agree?”
You stare at him with a blank expression. “Yes, I agree with you.”
He shifts around on the seat. His mouth opens and closes a few times before actually speaking. “You agree?”
Rolling your eyes, you place the papers down on the table. “Hwang, you know I would rather die than agree with you, but in this case, yes, I agree, I think you’re right.”
“Oh.”
Looking back down at the papers, you absentmindedly read a sentence in one of the witness statements. “I know you get the job done, I’m not going to put personal feelings before a case.”
Hyunjin fidgets more. “So, you think I’m a good detective?”
Is he serious?
You roll your eyes, still not looking up. “Yes, Hwang. Chief Bang has proclaimed you as one of the greatest detectives— everyone at the station knows that.”
“I just didn’t think you thought that way.”
“I’m not here to stroke your ego, Hwang.”
He clears his throat and shifts forward on his chair. “But do you , Y/L L/N, think I’m a good detective?”
Putting the paper down on the counter, you look up at him with a cocked eyebrow and a frown. “Really? Do your work.”
“Not until you say it.” He smirks and crosses his arms over his chest.
Rolling your eyes, you look down once more. What was on this page again?
“Choke.”
Hyunjin takes a breath to say something, but your phone lights up with a call at the same time. Expecting it to be Chief Bang, you answer quickly.
“Detective L/N.”
“Detective!” An old voice comes from the other line. You pull your phone back to look at the unknown number and then bring it back to your ear.
Hyunjin’s attention peaks at your confusion.
“It’s Dr. Furon, I apologize for calling so suddenly.”
“Oh, hi Doctor, it’s no trouble at all.” You look around for your notepad.
“Put it on speaker,” Hyunjin hisses while leaning forward. You shoo him off. He reaches forward to grab the phone from you, you smack his hand.
“I remembered something I didn’t get a chance to say earlier, I’m so sorry I didn’t think of it,” Dr. Furon continues.
“That’s quite alright, it’s the reason I gave you my number. Now, what is it?” You grab a pen and a random piece of paper.
Hyunjin reaches again, you smack his hand once more. “Speaker!” He grumbles again.
Dr. Furon talks, unaware of the petty brawl happening on the other line. “All of the students that are struggling in my class, I point them to the tutoring center in the library. As far as I remember, the names that were in the paper, the ones I recognize at least, they were going to the tutoring center.”
Your eyes widen and you write it down quickly.
Hyunjin’s patience wears out, he stands up from the counter and comes around to your side, his face dipping down to press his ear to the other side of the phone.
“Is there only one tutor available for your class?” you ask, jotting down notes.
“I’m not sure, I’m sorry. You know, now that I think of it, on their final exams, I give extra credit if they write down that they went to tutoring and name their tutor.”
“Do you have those exams?” Hyunjin asks into the phone. You reach over and flick his forehead. He swats your hand away.
“Oh, Detective Hwang, how are you?” Dr. Furon says politely.
“I’m doing very well, thank you.”
You go to smack him again, he once more swats your hand away.
The professor comes back to the conversation. “I have them but they’re in my office. Would you two mind coming to campus to get them tomorrow?”
“Of course,” both you and Hyunjin say at the same time.
You sneer and push his face away.
“Great!” Dr. Furon gives you all the details for tomorrow and the two of you hang up.
Placing your phone on the counter, you stand up to get away from Hyunjin.
“You could've put it on speaker.”
“You could’ve been patient!” Grabbing the nearest object— a tissue box— you hurl it at him.
Hyunjin only laughs and catches it.
“Putting more coffee on?”
“Obviously.”
---------------------------------------
“It’s the same one,” you say incredulously, flipping through the exams that Dr. Furon had given the two of you.
While you got the papers from the professor’s office, Hyunjin had gone to the tutoring center for a list of tutors. Apparently he had a connection there as well.
The two of you now sat in the conference room with your original cork board to the side. New leads and pictures right smack in the middle.
You had spent the day questioning the graduate students, but as you suspected, it was a dead end. No one knew anything.
The exams spread over the table were the best lead.
“It is,” he mutters in agreement and disbelief.
“Eric Rowan.”
“Do you think…?” Hyunjin trails off.
“I do,” you state clearly. “I really do.”
Shaking your head, you flip through the exams over and over to make sure you’re right, to make sure you’re not looking past something.
You’re not jumping to conclusions, are you?
Hyunjin suddenly stands up from the table and makes his way to the door. “I’ll have the chief get someone to bring him down to the station.”
He didn’t even give a second thought to your decision.
The door clicks after him. The silence inside the room is deafening.
It would be perfect if you could play music like you do at home.
“Eric Rowan,” you whisper solemnly.
One tutor from the library at the university.
It would make sense.
Hyunjin had managed to get Eric’s entire tutoring log, every student he’s ever tutored had been included.
You were able to highlight each and every one of the girls’ names that were victims of these heinous crimes. There were about two weeks of time between their last tutoring session and when they were found dead.
One name stuck out, one name brought you an endless sigh of relief: Andrea Bowman.
It made your skin crawl, but you instantly noticed she was the first female he tutored during his time.
Slowly, the pieces started clicking. Your throat got a bit tight, it was difficult to swallow the emotions.
You look around and grab her file underneath a huge stack. Her school picture is the top photo paper clipped on the inside.
Andrea’s smiling face will haunt you for a long time.
Hyunjin came back into the room, you didn’t look up.
“Chief just sent someone out to get him, we’re getting interrogation room two ready for him, I think that— L/N?”
Your head snaps up and you sniffle.
“Sorry,” your voice is hoarse.
He shifts his weight in the doorway. “Everything finally hitting?”
You bite your lip and look back at Andrea’s picture. “Yeah.”
Standing up from the table, you close the file and tuck it underneath a few more.
“The guy hasn’t even confessed yet, I’m getting ahead of myself here. It just makes too much sense. These girls stopped going to see him two weeks before he killed— supposedly killed them.
“It just reads so clearly. He probably made a move, they felt uncomfortable so they stopped seeing him for tutoring, he couldn’t face rejection, so he killed them. It’s fucking sick.”
You roll your shoulders and look up at the ceiling. “Am I being too hasty? It just feels right, like … like these girls are cheering for me and telling me I’m right.”
The door shuts behind Hyunjin. He weighs his words carefully and walks up to his jacket, grabbing it off the back of the chair he sat in before.
Those perfectly polished dress shoes click on the floor. It echoes off of each wall.
“There’s one thing I’ve always lacked as a detective.” He folds the trench coat over his arm and walks up to you. “It makes me so mad that I don’t have this, it would help with so many of my cases.”
You watch him warily. There’s a sad smile on his face as he takes in your frazzled mood.
You’ve never worn your heart this freely on your sleeve before.
With a sigh, he reaches up and taps on your forehead. “Women’s intuition.”
For the first time, you have no response for him.
As far as Hwang Hyunjin goes, this is the closest you’ve ever gotten to a compliment from him, or even an acknowledgment of your skill.
Your lips stay sealed.
“I’ve never not trusted your judgment. Ever. If your gut is saying this is the guy, then this is him. When have you ever been wrong?”
Your mind is reeling.
Did he just compliment you again?
Heat rises to your cheeks. Your stomach flips.
“I’ve always been so jealous of that. You just… know.” He shrugs and looks around, a small tinge of pink on his cheeks. “When the pieces finally fit into place you’re fucking brilliant at solving everything so fast. What’s that about?”
A sad laugh tumbles from his lips.
“This case would’ve taken any other team months to solve, but you and I did it in two weeks. Maybe we should work together more often, Y/N.”
There’s no way he said that.
He’s jealous of you?
And did he just call you by your first name?
He stares down at you for a couple of seconds. Maybe you were imagining it, but you could swear that his eyes flickered to your lips more than once.
“Come on then, we have an interrogation to do.”
Hyunjin turns on a heel and makes his way to the door.
“Thank you,” you call after him. Hyunjin’s hand pauses on the door handle. “Thank you, Hyunjin.”
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t acknowledge what you did— the favor you just returned.
He doesn’t speak on the new level that your relationship just crossed nor the mutual respect that you two just shared.
Nothing.
You don’t even get to see his face when you call him by his name for the first time.
But, by the way his shoulders square and his head twitches, you know it affected him.
Wordlessly, he nods and opens the door, leaving it open for you as he walks into the hallway and towards the interrogation rooms.
Hwang Hyunjin, the golden child of the police department, considers you to be on the same level as him. Who would’ve thought?
Maybe he’s right, maybe you should work together more often.
---------------------------------------
Hours and hours and hours have gone by.
Hyunjin as well as other officers have been grilling Eric for what seems like days. But it’s only been about 18 hours.
The bags under your eyes feel like bruises.
Three empty coffee cups and one full one sit next to you as you stare through the one way glass.
Hyunjin’s pacing around the room with his hands in his pockets.
His tie is loose around his neck, the sleeves of his button up are rolled up, his hair is tied up out of his eyes.
He’s been trying to go the good cop route for the last 3 hours. Slowly, that act has been dropping; Eric is getting on his last nerve.
You both let Eric sit in the interrogation room by himself for 4 hours leading up to this to get to his head. It didn’t seem to work. You can only legally keep him here for forty-eight hours.
If anything, he’s only gotten more agitated.
Hyunjin walks up behind Eric, he reaches one arm down to the table.
“You’ve never seen any of these girls before?” Hyunjin slides a few photos towards them on the table.
“No.” Eric answers quickly. “I’ve already told you that.”
“I just think it’s interesting you’ve never seen any of them, Mr. Rowan. You tutored them. All of them.”
“Do you realize how many students I tutor on a daily basis?”
Hyunjin barks a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn't realize you were that popular.” He comes around the table and opens a file.
Hyunjin pulls out one specific page, and reads off the top. “Actually, here we go, I know exactly how many students you tutor. Let’s see here: ‘Eric Rowan works two days a week in the tutoring center, Tuesdays and Thursdays.’ Last week you tutored 3 students total, and they were all returning students— how interesting!”
He slams the paper down onto the metal table. Eric jumps.
“Only three returning faces to your tutoring session, Mr. Popular. And here’s the funniest thing; I’ve noticed that there’s no women on this list. Weird.”
Eric’s eye twitches.
Hyunjin takes a seat across the table, folding his hands on top of a notebook.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend before, Mr. Rowan?”
Eric scoffs and shifts around in his seat.
Your interest is piqued, you sit up straight in your chair and lean forward.
Why did he get so nervous all of a sudden?
Eric picks up the cup of water that he requested and takes a long sip from it. Hyunjin waits patiently.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant to anything, Detective.”
Hyunjin laughs and opens the file. “See, I thought you would say that. My chief also asked the same question.”
Said Chief, who has been standing behind you for the better part of 5 hours, most certainly did not ask that. Chief Bang snorts quietly at the lie.
“But you know what, we detectives have to do our due diligence.” Hyunjin opens a file and slides a large printed photo out across the table. “Recognize her?”
So many different emotions fly across Eric’s face: anger, loss, betrayal, depression, rage, hurt. The muscles in his face dance as they try to settle on an expression.
“No,” he grits out.
An obvious lie.
“Interesting.” Hyunjin pulls out another photo and slides it across. “Because just by taking a quick look at your social media profile, I can see how this girl was your girlfriend . Look, here you are together! Leah Miller. Pretty girl.”
Eric says nothing. He can’t look away from the picture.
“Most interesting part I noticed was that you haven’t posted anything with her in about a year. What happened? Breakup? They suck, hm? Sorry, should I have said ‘ex-girlfriend’ before? My bad.”
You can’t help but smile. Hyunjin’s always been brilliant in interrogations, you can’t deny that. You’ve only ever heard rumors about how he is on the other side of the one-way mirror.
Sneaking a peek at the picture of Leah Miller, your eyes widen. She fit the profile: long, blonde hair and sweet, light eyes.
More pieces fall into place.
“It’s none of your business,” Eric grits out between clenched teeth.
Chief Bang shifts behind you and grabs the back of your chair. Obviously he senses it too, a confession, a slip up, anything. It’s showing its head.
“What? What are you saying?” Hyunjin laughs. “It’s exactly my business. That’s quite literally what my job is, you know, to know your business. It’s the same reason I know that you asked out Andrea Bowman during one of your tutoring sessions and she rejected you.”
“That’s not—“
“Oh, sorry, is that not how it happened? Did you maybe try and make a move on her and she rejected you that way? Maybe you put an arm around the back of her chair? Classic.”
“I-I didn’t—“
“Not that one? Understood.” Hyunjin nods and flips through the pictures on the table. “Oh, did you use the old ‘give me your number just in case you need more help’ trick? Used that on a girl in college, myself. Of course, it worked for me.” He winks at Eric.
Eric is fuming, his face is turning redder and redder, the vein in his forehead is popping.
“Here we go,” Chief Bang whispers under his breath.
Your mouth is agape, you’ve heard about Hyunjin in interrogation rooms before but you’ve never actually seen it.
It’s like he’s dancing with fire so beautifully. He’s twirling a flaming sword with a silver tongue.
“I think Andrea rejected you and then when she never came back for more tutoring, you lost it. You looked up her campus address in the internal systems, because guess what, you have access to that as a tutor, and you went to her dorm room, and you killed her.”
“Wh-What? You’re way off base here, Detective.” Eric stutters, his eye twitches again, his leg starts bouncing under the table.
He pulls on the cuffs keeping him to the table.
Hyunjin you’re so close, come on, come on.
“Funny!” Hyunjin exclaims and slides another piece of paper across the table. “Here’s the search history in the library computer with your login credentials!”
Eric gapes, his mouth opens and closes several times.
“You know what, maybe you didn’t go to Andrea’s dorm with the idea of killing her. Maybe it was a grand romantic gesture, yeah, that seems more like it— flowers and everything.” He slams another picture on the table.
A bouquet of flowers was found at Andrea’s crime scene.
“You presented her with the flowers. And she rejected you. Again. ” Hyunjin’s voice is getting louder and louder, crescendoing with Eric’s anger and heart rate.
Your breathing picks up. Both you and Chief Bang stop moving.
“Stop,” Eric suddenly pleads. His hands shoot up to cover his ears but they’re stopped by the cuffs.
The metal clinks and pulls, they dig into his wrists.
“She rejected you twice! To your face! But you couldn’t take that for an answer. God, why did she do that? Why did she turn you down when you were just trying to be nice? ”
Hyunjin stands up slowly from the table, towering over Eric.
“She was just like her, she was just like that bitch that broke up with you? She tore your heart out and spit on it! She was no better than Leah! So, you knocked her out and you tied her down to her own fucking bed in hopes that she would just hear you out!”
“Stop, stop!”
“Because maybe if she just listened she would understand that you’re just a genuine guy trying to be a good boyfriend to someone! You’re so nice, you’re such a good guy, no one likes good guys anymore, huh? And, of course Leah didn’t see that either!”
“ Stop! ”
“She tried to scream for help, so you killed her. You slit her throat without a second fucking thought for anything! And it felt so fucking good, didnt it? It felt so good to finally take power back from her? So, you didn’t stop.”
Tears spring from Eric’s eyes as he squints them shut, his body physically curling in on itself. He writhes around, unable to get far because of the handcuffs.
“So you kept going, and you went after women who looked just like Leah. And it felt amazing because every single time you could picture her face as you slit their throats. Each and every one of them babbling for mercy, crying out for their mothers, to only choke on their own blood—“
“ FINE! ” Eric screams, slamming his fists on the table. “I killed them. I killed each and every one of the fucking bitches. And I fucking wish I could have killed her too!”
The sudden seemingly endless torrent of sentences comes to a screaming halt.
Hyunjin sits down on his chair once more with a huff.
And just like you did yesterday, he leans back on his chair and knocks once on the window.
It takes you a second to find your voice after witnessing the most amazing, jaw dropping interrogation you’ve ever seen.
“G-Got it!” You say loudly through the glass. “We got it. Oh my god!” You stand up quickly from the chair and turn around to Chief Bang, who has an equally surprised expression. “We got it! ”
He stutters for a moment and shakes his head to clear his mind before speed walking out of the side room to get officers to arrest Eric.
Eric Rowan, who is now pathetically sobbing in his chair.
Eric Rowan who signed his confession with the opposite hand that he’d been using to drink his water.
Eric Rowan who is ambidextrous.
---------------------------------------
It’s so weird to see your kitchen island devoid of files and endless stacks of papers after the last few weeks.
Eric was taken in for booking. Your job was over.
Well, it was over for now. Chief Bang gave you and Hyunjin a week off and then you’re due back in the office for the next case.
Plus, you’ll have to be at Eric Rowan’s trial since you were the lead detective on the case.
So maybe ‘over’ isn’t the best way to describe it.
More soft music plays from your speaker as you clean up the rest of the files. A large t-shirt draped over your body, it practically covers the shorts you have underneath.
There’s a couple knocks on your door. His knocks are so distinct. You’ve gotten so used to them over the past two weeks.
“Come in, Hwang!” you call out.
The door opens and shuts.
“I think I left a few things here,” he says kicking his shoes off in your entryway.
You hum in response, gathering up files to stack them neatly.
His soft footsteps pad up behind you.
“I don’t think I ever saw your countertop, is this granite?” he teases over your shoulder.
You snort a laugh. “Yeah, it is. Came with the place, so don’t ask any more questions.”
Putting the stack down, you turn around and come nose to nose with Hyunjin. He is so much closer than you thought he was.
You jump slightly and back up a bit, your hips hitting the countertop.
Hyunjin doesn’t move.
“I didn’t get to see you after the interrogation,” he says with a quieter voice.
Not able to hold his searing gaze, you look off to the side and cross your arms over your chest.
“Yeah, well, you know how the hustle and bustle can wrap someone up after a case closes. Next thing I knew, Bang was sending me home.”
Hyunjin takes a half step closer to you. “What did you think?”
“Hm?”
“What did you think of the interrogation?”
So many sarcastic, sharp retorts die on your tongue when you remember the conversation that the two of you had earlier.
But still, complimenting him was about as easy as petting a cactus.
“I told you I’m not going to stroke your ego, Hwang.”
He takes another step towards you, both of his arms come up to cage you to the counter.
Heat rises on your cheeks more and more with each passing second. You refuse to meet his eyeline.
“Humor me, L/N. How was my performance today?”
Tonguing your cheek, you roll your eyes. Your heart rate picks up at his proximity. Why does he smell so good?
The last time the both of you had an opportunity to shower was two days ago.
He still smells like aftershave and expensive cologne.
“It was good, okay? You got the guy.”
“ We got the guy, L/N.”
“Yeah, yeah, golden boy, we got him.”
He knows your sarcasm is empty. Just by looking at your flushed face he can tell you don’t mean it.
“Come on now, L/N.” Long, lithe fingers grip your chin and turn your head towards him. “You can do better than that.”
Your jaw clenches. Arousal shoots down your spine like an electric shock.
Fuck.
Closer and closer his alarmingly handsome face inches closer to yours. The beauty mark under his eye seems more prominent than ever.
His mind is one of a brilliant detective, but god, that face. He should’ve been a model.
You bite the inside of your cheek and when you try to look away from his deep eyes, the grin on your jaw tightens.
“Come on, L/N.” He smirks. “Tell me how good I did today. Say it.”
The brat inside you decides to surface. So, he wants to go this route, hm? “Why do you need me to say it so badly, Hwang? Everyone else in the department is so far up your ass, they can wear you like a hat.”
He rolls his eyes, his body pressing against you entirely. Your arms uncross and you reach back to grip the countertop next to his hands.
It shouldn’t feel as good as it does. You should be shoving him away, slapping him across the face, spitting on his shoes. But instead you relish in the feeling.
“Yes. But they’re not you. ”
Your eyes widen and the corner of his mouth twitches. He knows he has you in the palm of his hand. He just needs to break you more.
But does he really?
Finally, he brings his lips closer and closer to yours. He pauses right before he makes contact, giving you a chance to say no.
Nothing of the sort tumbles out.
The first kiss he presses to your lips is nothing short of devouring.
His soft, plush lips consume yours like he’s a starving man at a feast. You meet his enthusiasm with fervor.
Hyunjin’s head tilts to get better access to your mouth. His eyebrows pull together in concentration, he almost looks like he’s in pain.
The fingers on your chin move down to your neck, he wraps his hand around it, thumbs on top of your pulse point, but he doesn’t squeeze.
Your hands tentatively reach for him, grabbing at his dress shirt and tie, pulling him even closer to you.
A small moan comes from the base of his throat and through his nose. Hyunjin’s other hand grabs your hip possessively.
“Say it, L/N,” he hushes between kisses, completely out of breath. “Tell me how good I am.”
How is it that he has this sort of possessive grip on you and yet he’s putting the ball in your court?
A small boost of confidence courses through your veins.
“Can’t you just admit it already?” he adds.
Smirking, you say nothing. One of your hands threads into his long hair and yanks his face back to yours for another bruising kiss.
He huffs through his nose once more, but kisses you nonetheless.
Twirl after twirl of his tie around your hand tightens your grip. With the last tug, Hyunjin moans once more into your mouth. The hand on your throat squeezes a bit.
“L/N,” he pleads again against your lips.
You tug hard on his tie. Hyunjin loses his balance slightly, his knuckles turning white from grabbing your countertop so tight.
Bringing your lips to his ear, you blow hot air on the sensitive skin first. He shivers against your hot body.
At the same time, your bare foot travels up the back of his clothed calf, your thigh brushing against his hip.
“If you want my approval that badly, you’re going to have to earn it.”
Hyunjin makes a choked moan, “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. The hand on your hip tightens. The fingers wrapped around your throat twitch.
“How does that sound, Hwang? You be good to me and I’ll let you know how well you’re doing.” You roll your hips against his.
Your words have an obvious effect on him, the hardness that presses to your leg says it all.
Hyunjins lips drop down to your neck, he bites the soft skin where it meets your shoulder. “Fucking hell, L/N, don’t play hard to get.”
Humming, you roll your head back, enjoying the sensation of his mouth on your skin. “I’m not playing anything, I already told you how to get what you want.”
Licking and sucking his way down your neck, his teeth nip at your exposed collarbone. The hand on your throat slides backwards and into the hair on the back of your head.
Your bottom lip pulls between your teeth to stop a moan from leaking out. You pull Hyunjin’s tie to keep his face there.
“Just like that, golden boy, your mouth feels so good.”
His hips involuntarily buck into yours at the praise, he whimpers against your skin. “ Shit, ” he curses into your neck with a hot exhale.
You wrap your entire leg around his waist and roll against him more. His mouth stutters, but afterwards he sucks hard . A bright purple hickey already surfaces when he detaches.
“L/N,” he murmurs into your neck. You hum in response. “Can I take this off?” He tugs at your shirt.
You smirk. “You can.”
When your hand unwinds from his tie, Hyunjin backs off of you. His face is already so fucked out; eyes are half-lidded and hazy, his lips are so puffy and swollen, spit glistening off them in the soft kitchen light.
From all your pulling, Hyunjin’s hair is all askew and coming out of its usual ponytail.
He wastes no time, grabbing the hem of your t-shirt and yanking it over your head, he throws it behind him carelessly. His eyes light up at the sight of your bare chest, tongue poking out to lick his already slick lips.
You chuckle.
“You gunna touch me or what?” you tease. “Or maybe you don’t want it that badly.”
Hyunjin’s jaw clenches and he meets your eyes. The look he’s giving you is dangerous.
He huffs once and grabs your waist tightly, lifting you up off the ground and sitting you on the cold granite. The sharp temperature change against your flushed skin makes you shiver.
Hyunjin parts your legs and stands between your thighs, his head dips down and envelopes one nipple in his mouth.
“Fuck!” you cry out, grabbing a fist full of his hair.
One of Hyunjin’s hands trails up your leg to grab at your exposed thigh while the other comes up to play with your other perky bud.
His eyes shut in his own pleasure. That tongue is absolutely relentless, licking circles around your nipple to flick over it a few times and then sucking.
Your toes are already curling, legs wrapping around his waist to get him closer to you.
“How about now, L/N?” his hoarse voice whines against your spit covered chest. “Is this good for you? Does it feel good?”
The more he talks, the more you can’t tell if he’s teasing you or genuinely asking for his own sanity.
Hyunjin takes in a shaky breath and switches sides, your fingers yank on his hair and he whines again around your nipple.
You let him continue for a while, relishing in the feeling of his spit dripping down your chest and onto your navel. The wet licks and sucks bouncing off the walls combined with his own small whines and your loud moans.
Roll after roll of your hips grinds against his hard tent in his dress pants. After a few minutes, your hips seem to have a mind of their own, your soaking wet cunt seeking friction against anything to satiate the need for contact.
The more he licks at your chest, the more Hwang Hyunjin continues to drive you insane.
“H-Hwang,” you pull his attention. His eyebrows furrow as you yank him away from your purple marked chest.
When he finally detaches, he looks up at you, panting.
“Touch me, touch me, please . I can’t fucking take it.”
His shoulders curl forward like you knocked the air out of him.
With more strength than you thought he had, he scoops you up and wraps your legs around his waist while smashing your lips together again.
You cling onto him for dear life while letting your tongues slide over one another.
“Hah,” you pant out in between kisses. “You’re doing so fucking well.”
He whines.
“Could’ve made me cum with just that tongue on my tits. Such a shame.”
Hyunjin drops your body onto the couch without a warning. You squeal and bounce on the soft cushions.
“Hwang–” your voice dies in your throat when you catch the sight of him standing on the other side of the sofa arm.
The change in his demeanor gives you whiplash.
His eyes are dark, almost black. His chest is heaving with heavy pants. Those long fingers are tugging at his tie, until it's loose enough for him to rip off his neck.
Your knees tuck up a bit towards your chest as you watch him with wide eyes like prey.
Hyunjin reaches down and snatches your ankle, he tugs on it harshly. You yelp as you’re dragged forward into a lying position.
Coming around the sofa, he swings one knee over you to straddle your hips. One by one he begins to unbutton his dress shirt, never once breaking eye contact.
Each sliver of skin that is revealed is devoured by your eyes greedily. Never once has he so much as undone the top button on his collar at work.
Shamelessly, you rake in his athletic build.
“You want to cum with just my tongue? Okay, L/N, I can do that.”
Your heart thuds in your chest.
He shrugs his shirt off and drops it to the floor. Hands grab at the waistband of your shorts and yank them off with your panties in one swoop. Another article of clothing to hit the floor.
The cold air against your soaking wet folds makes you hiss slightly.
Hyunjin stares down at your arousal, biting his bottom lip. Lower and lower he descends until you can feel his heavy exhales against your cunt.
He pushes your thighs apart, putting one over his shoulder, your heel settles into the dip of his spine. He’s smirking the entire time.
Finally, he tears his eyes away from your folds to look you right in the eye.
Your jaw clenches and you watch as he licks all the way from your entrance, up to your clit, circles around it to go back down to your entrance again.
An immediate shockwave of pleasure shoots through your body down to your toes. You toss your head back with your mouth agape, a silent scream stretching your lips.
Hyunjin keens at your reaction, doing the same maneuver again before focusing his attention on creating the most sinful figure eights with his tongue.
Your hand flies down to grab at his hair, shoulders arching off the couch. “Shit, shit, H-Hwang, feels so– hah – s-so good.”
He moans into you, the vibrations go right through you.
With your heel on his back, you can feel how his back curves as his hips rut into the couch underneath him to relieve some pressure off his aching cock.
Praises fall from your lips like water falling over rock. Each one makes Hyunjin whine and kick it up a notch.
“That fu- uh -cking silver tongue, holy shit .”
Hyunjin moans loudly, he grabs both of your hips, nails digging into your skin with deep scratches. It only makes you cry out louder, pulling on his hair even harder.
The tie in his hair comes out completely. You toss it away from you and gather up his hair in between your fingers to keep it out of his eyes. It feels like silk.
A coil within you begins winding tighter and tighter. The more he licks and sucks, the higher your cries get and the tighter your abdomen feels.
“Feels so good, it feels fucking amazing ! S-So close! Shit, please make me cum, please, shit!”
Each word makes Hyunjin sutter and moan into your folds, his eyebrows pulled like he’s in pain. Harder and harder he ruts into your sofa, his nails digging into you so much you think he might draw blood.
It’s taking every ounce of his will not to spill out in his pants at your praise. At your begging .
One of his hands comes up and kneads at your chest. His thumb rubs over your nipple a few times and that’s all it takes for the band within you to finally snap.
Your orgasm washes over you so hard it’s like being hit by a bus.
With a silent cry, your entire body tenses up. Hyunjin’s movements slow down, but he still coaxes you through your climax with that skilled tongue of his.
He hums into your folds, licking up every last drop of your juices.
You come down from your high slowly, chest heaving up and down, every exhale is paired with a moan. Shockwaves still ripple through your thighs.
Hyunjin’s eyes open and he stares at you, his mouth going over to bite your inner thigh. You squeal and squirm.
Slowly, like a lion, he gets up and crawls over your form, keeping eye contact. Once he’s close enough, he captures your lips greedily. Your arousal is still all over his tongue. It’s swapped between the two of you with your spit.
Your hands reach down and fumble with his belt buckle. Hyunjin makes no move to stop you, instead, he pushes you further.
“Look at that,” he pants, looking down at your fumbling hands. “So desperate for my cock, huh, L/N?”
Your eyebrow twitches. You undo the buckle and reach down to grab his rock hard erection through his pants.
Hyunjin’s elbows buckle at your touch and he grunts, squinting his eyes shut.
“All talk, aren’t you? Once I touch you, you crumble .”
“Shit!” His eyes snap open and he bucks into your hand. “Because– ugh –, like I said, it’s you . Fuck ,” he moans when you squeeze him again over his pants.
“Keep going,” you tease. “Keep going and I’ll keep stroking this fucking monster cock you keep tucked in these pressed dress pants of yours.”
He exhales shakily while you unbutton his trousers.
“When were you ever going to fucking– agh – realize that you drive me fucking insane, L/N?” His eyes start to unfocus when you push down the waistband of his pants and boxers down his thighs.
Fucking hell . Has he always been packing this?
“God damn, Hwang.” Your hand runs up his length. Hyunjin shudders and closes his eyes. Your touch is so featherlight he thinks he’s going insane.
His eyebrows twitch and hips buck forward to try and reach your touch.
“I’m not hearing a lot of talking.” You lean up and attach your lips to his neck, continuing to only trail the gentlest of touches up and down his throbbing cock.
The head is red and angry and weeping precum.
His body trembles. “ Shit – I wanted you for so long, L/N. You drive me– fuck – insane. Every single fucking day I did whatever it fucking took to get your attention.”
Finally, your hand wraps around his length tightly and you start pumping very slowly. The long, pathetic moan that tumbles from Hyunjin’s lips is something of sin.
He sounds so relieved yet even more aroused at the same time.
You continue to suck your own marks onto his perfect skin. Sweat drips down the side of his face and down his now slick back.
“ Ughhh – L-L/N…” He buries his face in the crook of your neck.
Your hand stops moving when he stops talking.
He cries out into your neck, hips frantically bucking into your touch to chase it. You only chuckle in response.
“ Please! ” He whimpers.
“Keep going then, golden boy.” You suck a sensitive spot underneath his ear.
Another stutter of his hips.
“I begged the chief to put me on your case!”
Your pumping picks up speed again, his entire body rolls into yours. You grip him tighter and jerk him faster.
“I said– ah – I would do whatever case he wanted next if he– ffuuck – let me work with you on this one– oh my god! And I still would, I would do whatever– mmmph – case I need to to fucking work with you every day. Agh! ”
Despite your outwards nonchalant expression, on the inside, his words are fucking killing you. The throb in your cunt that was satiated moments ago comes back with a vengeance.
To hear Hwang Hyunjin at your mercy is going straight to your core. Each noise he makes goes straight to your pussy.
“God, fuck , L/N, I-I’m close. Please, god , shit.”
After a few more pumps, you stop, taking your hand away completely. Hyunjin cries into the crook of your neck again, his body rolling and rutting the air at the loss of contact.
“Please, why, fucking hell , I was so close!”
You grab the hair on the back of his head and yank his head up to look down at you. His eyes are cloudy, ears and cheeks bright red. Sweat drips down the side of his face and over his sharp cheekbones and jawline.
“Wouldn’t you rather fuck me?”
His face twists up with another moan.
Hyunjin dives down and captures your lips in the sloppiest kiss of the night. He’s messy and desperate the longer he kisses you.
While trying to stay attached to your lips, Hyunjin fumbles around to kick off his pants and boxers.
Both of you finally naked together, he grabs his cock in his fist.
“I-I’m not going to last–”
You cut him off with a sharp tug to his hair. “Fuck me, golden boy, don’t you think you deserve it after today?”
His eyes practically roll back in his head.
As soon as he’s lined up with your entrance, Hyunjin slides into you slowly. Inch by inch you’re stretched open,
He might not be thick but god, he is long .
With his mouth on yours, he swallows each moan and cry of pleasure. Without wasting any amount of time, he pulls out to slam back into you.
Both of you moan out together.
Your arm wraps around his neck. He rests his weight on one elbow and the other wraps around your shoulders to hug you close to him. His hand splays out between your shoulder blades to keep you anchored against his sweat slicked chest.
The skin to skin contact sends both of you wild.
Over and over again his hips undulate to thrust into you in the most delicious way. The angle of his hips brushes his pelvic bone against your clit with each slam against you.
“You feel so fucking good,” you whine into his ear.
Hyunjin’s next thrust hits a bit harder. If praise makes him fuck you harder, then so be it.
“God, your cock is amazing.” Harder. “Hitting me just right.” Harder. “Never knew you would feel this fucking good.”
With his mouth on your neck, he leaves sloppy hickeys wherever he can reach. His pants fill the room and mix with your whines.
His head suddenly dips down to take your nipple into his mouth once more. You keen and toss your head back, hips canting up. The new angle has his cock slam right into your g-spot.
A loud scream tears from your lips. Hyunjin immediately picks up on this and picks up the pace, making sure he hits that spot every time.
If you thought your first orgasm had a sudden build up, it’s nothing compared to this one. There’s a sudden pressure increasing in your lower stomach.
“Fuck!” Thrust . “So good!” Thrust. “Oh my god!”
Praises and noises fall from you, you don’t even realize what you’re saying anymore. The pleasure has your mind in the clouds.
“Y/N,” the sudden use of your name grabs your attention. Hyunjin comes up over your face with a pleasure twisted face.
“Say it, please, please , I’m fucking begging you , please, say it.”
Your eyebrows pull together, mouth still hanging open. What does he want you to say that you haven’t said already?
“ My name. Say it, please, please, please, please–”
Oh, fuck.
You smirk and watch as the desperation drives him wild. Even in the deepest throes of pleasure, you string him along for a few more seconds as you approach the edge.
Closer and closer you come to the edge.
He whines, begging louder and louder as his own climax creeps up on him, the muscles in his body tightening more and more.
He needs it so bad.
“Y/N! Please! ”
Just as you’re about to tumble over, your mouth stretches open.
“Fuck, Hyunjin! ”
The loudest moan you’ve ever heard from a man comes falling out of his mouth as he buries his face into your neck. Hot, sticky warmth shoots within you in long, drawn out spurts that match with Hyunjin’s whines and groans.
His hips stutter for another twenty seconds before his moans finally calm down.
Both of you hold onto each other tightly, heaving heavy inhales and exhales to catch your breath.
Absent-mindedly, your hand begins to rub up and down Hyunjin’s clammy back, drawing small circles and lines onto his skin.
He hums into your neck and holds you closer for a moment before collapsing onto the couch on top of you.
Surprisingly, his weight on top of you doesn’t seem to phase you; instead it brings the same comfort as a weighted blanket.
After a few more minutes of you silently rubbing his back, Hyunjin begins to lazily press kisses onto your bruise covered chest, paying extra attention to your collarbones.
The kisses are soft and sweet, nothing like the lust coated ones from before.
“Did you mean it?” you ask him quietly.
He pauses his kisses only to answer you. “Mean what?” He starts kissing you more.
“That you asked Bang to work on the case.”
He chuckles against your neck, his hair tickling your skin. “Oh, yeah. It took entirely too much convincing.”
You laugh with him and keep him close to your body.
In the back of your mind, you know you should get up, that he should pull out and the two of you should shower and drink water, but you can’t seem to distance yourself from him.
There’s no harm in sitting there for a while anyway.
Hyunjin hums into your neck again, “Thank god we have the week off.”
— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
words・15.2k
pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡
“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Please, angel.”
“No! Leave me alone.”
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.
When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.
“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”
“Because you’re so scholarly.”
“I am not scholarly.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”
“I need to get my steps in somehow.”
“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”
“God, I learned so much about you that day."
“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”
“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”
“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”
He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”
“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.
“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
“Hwang, I need you in my office.”
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”
“Thanks, cap.” Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”
“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”
“Yep.”
From: Kim Kyeyoung «[email protected]»
To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kim Kyeyoung
Professor of Anthropology
“That’s bullshit!”
“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”
“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”
“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”
Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”
“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”
“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”
“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”
“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?”
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”
“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”
Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
“I thought you said your order was complicated.”
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
“Was it not?” You ask.
“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”
“What? Really?”
“No.”
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.
“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”
“I do, but you don’t.”
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”
“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”
“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.
He’s thinking.
That can’t be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”
“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”
“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”
“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”
Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”
“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”
The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”
“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”
“I can see it.”
“I can see killing myself, maybe.”
The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”
Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.
“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”
“You have a kid, don’t you?”
“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”
“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”
“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”
You can’t argue with that. “What do you have to tell me?”
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.
“I’m failing anthro.”
So much for a serious conversation.
“Come again?”
He repeats the mystifying statement.
“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”
“I just said that, yes.”
“You’re failing anthropology?”
“Mhm.”
“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”
“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”
This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”
“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”
“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”
“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”
“Do you want it to?”
“Just tell me the deal, boy.”
“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”
“On which part?”
“All of them. Everything.”
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.
“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”
“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”
“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”
“Let me guess. Not for you.”
“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”
“To dinner or to practice?”
“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
“—you should manage our team.”
“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”
“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”
“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”
“Me!”
Oh, right. “But you hated it!”
“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”
You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”
“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”
“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”
You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.
“What is this, mock trial?”
The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.
“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”
“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”
“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”
“I would never.”
“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”
“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”
You stiffen. “I haven’t—”
“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”
You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”
“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.
“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.
The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”
“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”
“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.
“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”
“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”
“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”
“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
“Go easy on me, yeah?”
While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
“I can’t promise anything.”
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
“You’re not nervous, are you?”
“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”
“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”
“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”
“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”
“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.
“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”
One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.
Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
“Caring about me.”
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”
“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”
“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”
“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”
The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.
“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”
“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
“Motherfucker!”
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”
“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.
“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”
The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
“You should’ve opened with that.”
“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”
“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”
“I think so. I hit my stride.”
“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly.
“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”
“It really is.”
“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”
“I really would.”
“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”
“Didn’t you come up with that?”
“No, hello? I live in that village.”
He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”
“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”
Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”
“Really?”
“No.”
You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
“But I do give a fuck about you.”
There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Don’t forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
🫡
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.
“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”
“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”
“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”
“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me, Minho.”
“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”
“I want nothing to do with this.”
When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”
“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”
“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.
“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
“I already did,” you finally answer.
“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”
“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”
“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”
He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”
“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”
“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”
“Then you’re smarter than you look.”
“Well, you look—”
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
“What was that?”
“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.”
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”
“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”
“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”
“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”
“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”
You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
“Do you want to be alone?”
You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.
“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything.
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
“It’s been a while,” he greets.
“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”
“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”
You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
“Is this enough space?”
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”
Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.
“How do you see under these things?”
“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”
“And?”
“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.
Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”
Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”
His role model.
“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”
“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.
“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”
“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?
“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.
“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.
“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”
“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.
“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”
The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”
He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Traitor.”
Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.
“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?”
“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”
He stops speaking.
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”
“You are about to be a professional athlete.”
“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
“Let’s get this over with.”
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.
“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”
Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”
“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”
“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”
“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”
“She really is.”
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.
“Yeonwoo, right?”
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.
“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”
“Also a singer?”
He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”
“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.
“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”
“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”
“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”
“The arcade wasn’t enough?”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Whenever you want, then.”
“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”
“Bet.”
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.
“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”
Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”
Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.
“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.
It’s not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”
An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.
“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”
His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”
Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”
Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off.
“Love you too, Bin.”
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
“The short answer,” she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.
“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?”
“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.
“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.
He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.
“Hwang, I need you in my office.”
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.
“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back.
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Who’s our opponent today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
He’ll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”
“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”
“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”
“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”
He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”
“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”
“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”
You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”
He returns in a flash. “You love me.”
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”
“No, no. The opposite, actually.”
Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”
“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
“Duty calls, my love.”
“Tell me your thing later too?”
“Of course.”
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
“Hypocrite.”
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.
I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.
🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・@automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8・@weedforthoughtz・@hyunverse
Vox: This is why you don't have an arch-nemesis, Velvette, because you focus on the wrong details!
Velvette: Maybe I don't have an arch-nemesis because I win all my fights.
Vox: ...
Vox: That's a pretty fucked up thing to say to me.
Part 2. (Istg if tumblr doesn’t make this appear on the tags i’m going to kms)
WARNINGS: SMUT. PART1
• Gynecologist!Chishiya x afab!Reader
You’ve been going to the gynecologist since you were around fifteen years old. The first time being for the painful periods that you wanted to treat with medicines. You only got a bad memory from it. Your first experience being an old woman who was way too quick and not focused on her work, left a mark within you.
Now… your last time was really interesting… If we could say that.
But a year ago, two of your colleagues talked to you about a miraculous doctor that one of them was seeing.
When you think about it, you feel sad. What if what he did last time does it with his other patients?
After hours of inner debates, you finally decided to make an appointment with your gynecologist. So you sighed loudly as you thought about the option of maybe changing doctors, how could you look at him again after what happened?!
The following day consisted in you overthinking the situation and questioning your decision, did you have to shave or not and other silly questions, to a point where you were wondering if you should cancel the date.
How could you have spent so many time without properly getting dicked down by someone?
I mean, you had some laids here and there, but they felt nothing like what Chishiya made you feel.
You used to hate having to go to the gynecologist! It is not exactly the most comfortable position to be in; with your feet in the stirrups and your entire vagina on show for a stranger to look at and probe around in.
But you have to. You need to get a new prescription for your birth control pills and your doctor, Dr. Chishiya, mentioned that it would be a good idea to examine you first, even though, it hasn’t been a lot since your last appointment.
It’s a Wednesday morning, so the office is seemingly quiet. You found yourself waiting for your gynecologist to call you.
You watch as the big clock on the wall changes positions from 11:03 to 11:05. You have been here for fifteen minutes but somehow it feels like an hour.
In the distance you can hear a door opening and closing, heavy footsteps carrying in the opposite direction of the waiting room, but you do not pay much attention to it because the secretary starts to speak to you.
“Dr.Chishiya is ready to see you now,” she tells you and starts leading you towards his office. But you don’t follow her.
Shit. Get up. Walk walk walk. It’s okay. Just some prescriptions and bye bye.
Leading you inside, she shuts the door behind you, “You can go ahead and take a seat on the exam table,” she points out and you jump up on the edge of it, your feet no longer touching the ground.
She rolls a small steel stable towards you, a tray of various instruments laying on it. You swallow hard when you see them, only recognizing the speculum and the gel. The tingling feeling returns to your body. This is normally the part where you get incredibly nervous – even more so than you were before entering the room. Seeing all the instruments laid out, ready to be used… You want to throw up.
“I’ll give you some privacy to undress and then Dr.Chishiya will come in about five minutes, okay?”
God please send me 6ft under pleaseplease. “Alright..” You nod.
You undress. Taking off everything except your socks and fold it neatly to put it on the small chair next to the table, you suddenly feel way too cold and exposed under the small gown. It brings memories to your body of how little you felt when the speculum and his fingers were deep in-
The lump in your throat sinks to your stomach where it lies heavy as the door opens.
Shit.
“Alright, (Y/N)…Ah, it’s okay if I call you that isn’t it?” he asked, making sure it was alright for him to call you by your first name, even if it was already a little late for that.
“Yeah, sure,” you smiled cordially, but also nervously.
“So how’s everything?” he questioned, clicking around the computer screen with his mouse.
“Everything has been fine. I’m just here for the check up and that’s all” you stated, your hands fidgeting with the light blue hospital gown..
“Alright,” you saw his head appear from behind the monitor, “So I’m guessing you have a boyfriend, that’s why you’re on birth control, right?” He sounded more serious now, was this his way to see if you have a boyfriend?
“I mean… Yes i’m on birth control, but not because I have a boyfriend.” You chuckled when you saw his shoulders untense.
Okay, get back into what you came here for. No more talking.
“Okay then,” he smirked, “If you would be so kind as to follow me to the inspection room then.”
Oh my god, nonono.
“Okay” You gave him a little smile.
You entered the space and closed the curtain behind you with your heart beating like crazy. This is only a check up. Calm down. Surely he doesn’t remember.
And there you are. You do remembered who Dr. Chishiya Shuntaro and what happened last appointment.
You shivered a little and went to lie down on the cold leather seat. You breathed out as you looked at the white ceiling. Your ears started to be on alert as you heard fumbling noises, water running down and hands rubbing with soap before the click of gloves.
“Okay, i’m going to touch you now..” He said, you’re sure he had that smirk, even though when he said this it almost sounded like a whisper.
Fighting the urge to jump out of the damn chair and close your legs, you just shut your eyes closed as you tried to empty your mind. Thinking about the chores waiting for you at home, how his fingers felt the last time, when they were deep inside your- Shit.
A sudden moan left your mouth. Your eyes widened in shock to the obscene sound that you just made “I am so sorry” you apologized.
SHIT. Not this again.
His index finger pressed once again on your clitoris with little tapping movement, providing your needy bud with some friction and making you wiggle lightly. He then took a speculum and pushed in against your entrance without any warning. You swear it feels better than the last time. And this time he did it intentionally. Stop.
You closed your eyes, anticipating the coming intrusion. Lifting a brow and opening an eye you looked at him by lifting your head and saw how his hand was going back and forth.
“D-did it get in?” you asked, unable to hide the surprise in your tone.
“Yes, it did” he chuckled “Sorry, I didn’t say it” he paused, leaving the speculum in your core, making you feel full, slightly moving it to the right. “But you were dripping...so it was easy” he confessed.
You couldn’t do this anymore, you started to get your feet off the chair. But his firm hands kept you in place on the spot.
“Where do you think you’re going now?” he chuckled lowly “I’m here to do my job on you and you need my help so please... he said before drawing down the curtain so that they were just under your breasts.
You didn’t get time to do or say anything when you suddenly felt bare digits rub against your folds, toying your clit. The moan that escaped you next was louder than intended. But his kisses didn’t let you moan anymore.
“We shouldn’t do this” You mumbled.
“I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you and this pussy, it left me wanting for more.” He said putting more pressure on your sensitive nub and taking the speculum out of you.
He didn’t pay attention to your cries and kept on with his ministrations. A low chuckle resonated in the cold room.
“On all fourth now please” he demanded.
As you positioned yourself as asked you felt the fresh air of the aircon caress your blazing body and the slap on your ass that left it burning. Anticipating his next move you flinched a little and moved forward to escape another slap on your behind. But it never came. In fact, you didn’t feel anything but only heard noises like a drawer being opened and closed, then a foil-like sound.
“Now I would like to fuck you, would that be okay with you Miss?” he asked nonchalantly, making you gasp at his abrupt and crude sentence.
“Please… Do it…” you said quietly, “I need you”
He only groaned before unzipping his trousers. He then positioned himself at your entrance, spreading your legs wider for him to enter you.
“God you’re really dripping” he said, letting down all formalities.
With one swift push of his hips, he entered your needy and warm core, both of your groans resonating in the room.
Just as he thrust a particularly hard stroke you felt a fabric against your bare back, the material of his blouse. He was still dressed. That idea disappointed you somehow, but you couldn’t mind it too much as his movements were driving you wild just as much as his filthy words.
With one last hard thrust, he obeyed and helped you position yourself on your back, in your original posture. As your eyes met, you were blinded by his beauty, how dark his gaze was, some of his hair was sticking to his forehead and his lips were parted as he looked you up and down.
Indeed, you couldn’t even see his dick in his standing position as it was hidden by his coat, only seeing the form of it, straining against the piece of clothing.
But as he looked at you it’s like he caught on and he quickly took off all the garments that were on him and came back between your legs, not letting you the time to waste. Then he entered you again at the slowest pace possible.
“F-faster please doctor..” You moaned.
“Shuntaro. Call me by my name.” He groaned with one specific thrust that made both of you see stars. He stopped his thrust before going back to the quick pace he had before.
“Yes, yes Shuntaro! OH MY- fuck..” you moaned, feeling your climax approaching.
Moaning louder and scratching at his back you tried to make him understand that it was getting too much to handle, you clenched around him until he came too and that was it, you felt the hard and intense wave of your orgasm shake all your being as he kept his assault on your neck, clit and inside your pussy.
He pulled out, cleaning you up and dressing again.
“Mmm, I think we need another date, since it seems you still have some problems Miss. What about if we talk about it at 4:00 pm at the Lavender Café?”
“Is this you asking me out?” You chucked as you saw his ears getting red.
“Maybe?” He laughed.
Don’t forget to:
(Give a heart and reblog)
Dear Tumblr:
For the love of god, PLEASEEEE, please, make this post appear on the tags. I’m not asking you, i’m BEGGIN YOU. PLEASEPLASEPLASE
Once you sit at the table the wager has been accepted. You put everything on the line. He likes to play. You like to gamble. Your heart races at the thought. It’s a rush you won’t deny yourself.
A game of strip chess that ends with the pieces launched across the room.
Clothing optional.
Warnings -
Drinking, gambling
Drama Masterlist
Part Two
He likes to gamble. But so do you.
That’s actually why you’re in this mess to begin with, in the back room no doubt used for all their illegal business. You are walking a fine line between bravery and stupidity and it’s a line you find yourself on often.
That smug look on his face - you can’t tell if he’s serious, but the rush of not knowing forces you to sit. You have accepted. The game is on.
“Confident? Or stupid?” It’s not a question. His face is emotionless.
“Who starts first?” You ask, ignoring his statement which you’re indeed certain is a statement.
“Heads or tails?” He holds up the pristine coin between his middle and index fingers with a slight quirk of his left eyebrow.
They fall one by one. Easy money. You know how to play and you don’t like to lose. When he walks in, you realize you might have found yourself an actual challenge. He’s upping the stakes. This is a game of pool you don’t plan to lose.
This is technically part two to Checkmate but can be read as a stand alone.
Warnings -
Drinking, gambling, exhibitionism/voyeurism
Drama Masterlist
Part One
Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
As the night progresses, the game loses the magic it once created within you. Knowing you’ll win is no fun.
The man in front of you is trying, he really is. He’s trying so hard it’s almost cute. He knows he’ll lose but he’s just here to have a good time. You should be grateful for the company but his sweet disposition is not doing it for you.
You need excitement. Even the clunk of the eight ball resting with his other pals in the table’s nets brings you no joy.
“Wow, good game!” He beams as he hands over a hundred dollar bill with a slight bow before looking over his shoulder at the line of men grumbling by the bar. “Looks like I’m not your only victory tonight.”
“Seems so.”
He walks back to his friends, one of whom pats him on the back before downing his beer. His friend is hot. You think about making your way over to them when the door opens. The breeze rakes across your shoulders, the spaghetti straps no match for the cool air that breaks up the stale heat of the room. A shiver dances down your spine.
It’s him. Your little friend from the chess match. Alone, although someone will be waiting outside for him no doubt.
His eyes catch yours as you stuff the money from your latest victim into your bra. He raises an eyebrow, making his way over, stopping in front of the pool table.
“Charging for tricks?” And it begins. The smug smile and eyes that gloss over you with that disappointing judgmental gleam.
“Anyone in this room could be so lucky,” you say, motioning with the flick of your wrist. “Why are you even here? You may well be the last person I wanted to see.”
Hi! I was wondering if you could write something about reader being an olympic gymmast and chishiya being amazed of all the tricks she can make? Thank u!!
Mirrors || Chishiya x Reader
➸ Adverentence: NSFW / Mature Content ♢
The training room on The Beach is very special.
You love it, it's a room completely covered with mirrors, a long wooden bar on one of the walls - mounted for anyone who wants to train with dance - and various tools for all types of training.
In addition, there are also times for the pool in case some swimmers want to use it for training.
The Hatter has really thought of everyone and you are really grateful to him.
Sport is your life.
Today, you are completely alone in that room, it is completely empty, but it is for the simple fact that it is evening and everyone is at the usual party in the bar.
You have no game scheduled for tonight and you just wanted some peace.
Extend your leg as far above your head as possible, grasping the ankle with your hands to increase the pressure, exhaling slowly.
You want to need to feel your muscles tug, almost moan, sore. You try in every way to think only and exclusively about your training but.....your mind travels.
Feel a warmth in your lower abdomen as a recent memory makes its way into your mind.
Yesterday night.
You played a game with him, the only guy who managed to get your attention.
So attractive, intelligent, mysterious.
So Chishiya.
And you knew very well you were doing the exact same effect on him. The way he looked at you during that game of Spades as you jumped from balcony to balcony in that building without fear, the way you got to the right door faster than him thanks to your athletic skills.
His eyes did not leave your body and your movements, for the first time in your life, you saw him woth an amazement gaze.
You will never forget the looks you exchanged during this game.
You both wanted it.
You both went to your room after the game, the way he ran his fingers over your body, as if he had known you for a lifetime.
The way he talked into your ear as he made you his.
He praised you all night, he found you interesting for your athletic skills and so....damn beautiful.
He stayed with you all night, you talked and you talked to him about your workouts here at the beach.
You told him you were coming to this room to train.
And in your heart, you are waiting for it.
You hope with all your heart that he can come at any moment, if only to observe you while you work out.
You start to feel too hot, you take off the sweatshirt you were wearing, leaving only the top and shorts.
You don't stop, your training must continue.
Chishiya enters without saying anything, without being heard, he finds you intent on the usual extra stretching session, the same one you did yesterday before the game of Spades and that you usually do before any game, your tied hair that follows your movements, soothing music in the background and the room, an entire wall of mirrors.
You don't notice him until you look up and met his, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, a smile of pure satisfaction.
The same smile that he started to make you shiver without restraint, just like last night.
- Has anyone ever told you that you are damn beautiful? -
The very thought that he can make you blush drives you out of your mind.
But you couldn't resist.
You stand up as he approaches you, grabs you by the hips and squeezes you against him, his mouth sliding over the bare skin of your shoulder and neck.
- Yes.....some people have often told this to me.....but only one is able to have this effect on me.....-
- I know him? -
He smiles against the skin of your neck, aware that you talking about him.
He bites your neck waiting for your response.
- I'm more than sure, he is so intelligent....and he is the only one able to make me feel this way. -
He raise his head to observe you, he doesn't give you time to say anything else, he kiss you with a passion and energy that makes you step back to support his weight, making you bang your back against one of the walls made of mirrors.
And you let him do this, now you are like clay in his fingers.
He melts your hair to pull it slowly and tilt your face more and more towards him, his hands slide free on your body, taking off your top to be able to see your breasts.
Feel his mouth on yours again, his tongue invading you as one of his hands is torturing your nipple, causing you to moan in his mouth. The other hand works its way under your shorts, finding your clit, moving his finger to make you moan as desperate as you did the night before.
You moan loudly as soon as you feel his finger moving faster, his lips leaving yours to slide down your neck and then down to take your nipple, sucking and licking it.
When you feel his fingers enter you, your mind can no longer even perceive the soothing music you put on for your workout.
He moves quickly inside you, your sweaty body slamming into the mirrors behind you, your hands clinging tightly to him and his hair. When orgasm hits, you are almost unable to support yourself and he does it for you.
You've been training for years, your body is used to any kind of hard training, yet he's already managed to turn your legs into two jellies.
The sudden cold air hits your nipple as its warm mouth leaves it.
You look at him, disheveled and almost completely naked and for him you are too enchanting.
You should see yourself.
Indeed, you can do it.
- Let's use these mirrors.....-
You are completely aware of his plan, you rush towards him, kissing him and urgently helping him to undress.
You hear him take off your shorts, the only garment that was left on. He turns you and bends you forward, making you cling to the wooden bar in front of you.
You look to the side and see both of your bodies coming together.
You feel him rubbing the tip of his erection against your clit, getting wet before slowly entering you.
He takes breaks when you just tense up, massaging his side and whispering to you how good you are at taking him inside you.
His thrusts start slow, he wants to give you time to get used to him. But as soon as his thrusts get more intense and faster, you simply stop thinking completely, blinded by the pleasure rising in you and the heart rumbling in your chest.
You moan his name, unrestrained and Chishiya feels you squeeze and stretch yourself more against him, already so close, and this makes him smile satisfied.
His thrusts slow down and you snort in despair at the loss of your impending orgasm.
- Someone here doesn't have much patience. -
He whispers it to you, stopping his movements and reaching out on you to torture a nipple with his finger.
You, too crazy for his games - which he had played yesterday too - move your hips quickly to try to imitate his movements.
And he, smiling as a cat for his work, comes out of you and grabs you again by the hips, forcing you to leave the wooden bar and throw yourself on the soft mattress you use for training.
You lean forward, kneel and face against the mateasso, your butt high, exposing yourself for him.
You feel him kneel behind you and finally enter you again.
You can't stifle your moans that echo in that room along with the background music, his thrusts touching the best place inside you while he holds you tight by your hips.
Feel another orgasm explode inside you along with the pleasant soreness of your legs.
You hear him coming right after, his moans mingling with yours.
You are completely lost to him.
For him who captivates you with that cat smile, for him who kisses her with indescribable sweetness and determination, for him who watches you during the games and admires your agility, your athletic body, your skills as a professional athletic who works hard for years.
For him who just whispered "I like you" in that warm room covered only with mirrors.
And he is all you need.
Ehyy!! ♡
Thank you so much for your request! ♡
I worked a lot for this fanfiction for I had several ideas in mind......so I thought of merging them and doing something that was NSFW too, I hope that is not a problem! ;;
If so, I can write you another one! That said, I hope you enjoyed it!♡
