MDNI +18 MFM, BOY KISSING, THREESOME themes! Drinking (all of legal age) no explicit smut.. yetâŠ
Thereâs a reason you donât stick around long after work, that the moment 5PM hits no one can find you anywhere. You vanish from sight, because the one night. The one out of a hundred chances you stay to finish editing a graphic. Will smith knocks you down, âcome to the bar with me and mack? Come on- we never see you anymore! Remember BCâ He begs, soft blue eyes pleading with your own, âyou only exist behind the cameraâ
You turn in your chair, chewing at your thumb as you stare between the now two faces infront of you
âFineâ you agree, âjust let me save thisâ
Itâs how you end up in Macklins apartment, brain foggy and fuzzy with alcohol, staring at the two of them on the couch from where youâre standing by the counter, âIâm a much better kisser than youâ Will shakes his head, you donât know how you got to this topic, your head is fuzzy.
âThereâs no shot. Youâve kissed like two girlsâ Macklin retaliates, frustratedly pointing at you, ây/n. You gotta be our deal breakerâ
You raise an eyebrow, lips pursed together in sheer confusion, âyouâre so drunk right now Mackieâ
Will chimes in, âno- no heâs right. Only you can decide whoâs the better kisserâ
You shake your head. The sudden movement makes your head throb, âthatâs stupid as hell. And breaks like soo many workplace rules and regulationsâ
Macklin bats his lashes, that lazy pleading look heâs used to throwing around. When he clenches his jaw and looks up at the cameras with those big green eyes, âpleaseâ
You snort, âyou two kiss before I kiss. Then itâs fairâ you shrug. You donât expect them to do it, thatâs why you say it. Thatâs the whole reason you say it, because you think itâll get them to drop the topic.
Will moves first, lips pressing against Macklins. Mouth opening slightly, letting Macklins tongue gliding against his.
You stare, in sheer, unashamed confusion. In partial arousal you donât know if you should be aroused by.
Macklin moves into Wills lap, his hands invading his hair, tilting Wills head back to kiss him deeper. Itâs passionate, and you can hear it- the sounds. Lips against lips, teeth clacking against teeth. A string of saliva connects them when they part, quiet gasps and grunts as they turn to you in unison.
You move slowly, first reaching for Macklin. Helping him off of Wills lap, letting him settle in front of you; hands reaching for your hips.
Itâs slow, painstakingly as he moves in to kiss you, lips still slick from Wills spit. His mouth still parts yours, tilting your head back. His hands move from your hips, to your waist. To your cheeks. You let his tongue explore your mouth, feeling against the plush line of your lips. The ridges of your teeth. Noses bumping against each other as you let him eat your face, only pulling back when your lungs scream and squeal for air. Macklin holds you there, letting air fill your lungs again. Thumbs caressing against your cheeks as you wait for the tingling between your thighs to die down, âwhat do you think. Out of tenâ he breathes, still softly gripping your face.
âEightâ
Macklin smiles to himself, still semi assured that he might do a better job at kissing you than Will. You know this because he sits down confidently. Eyes never leaving Will Smith as he stands.
You step back slightly, letting his hands settle against your body. He tilts your head back. Kissing against your lips, soft at first. Then more, waiting for you to open your mouth before inviting his tongue into your mouth. His hands donât wander. They just rub small circles into the dips of your hips, your jaw moves in sync with his.
He pulls away first, blue eyes staring down into yours. Watching you catch your breath, âwhat do you rate that?â Mack asks, hands joined together.
You shrug, âan eightâ
Macklin groans, âwhat? No. Thereâs no tie in thisâ he complains.
You still shrug, âit was a good kiss, from both of you- youâre both good kissers.â You comment, âdoes that work?â
âNoâ they say in unison, âwe need a tie breakerâ
Hey! Can I get prompt 10 from smut list 3 and smut prompt 6 from list 2 with will smith?
I love your macklin fic where y/n is friends with Aiden could you do something similar with wills sister grace?
will smith + smut prompts ten & six (1.9k words)
went a little crazy with this one lol, I have no idea where his family lives so I just made it all up :) not proof read i live life on the edge
age gap vibes, forbidden romance almost but its hardly any romance just lust, mutual masturbation, sex toys :p
It started with the Ford Bronco.Â
Leather seats and a dark centre console. You felt weird sitting in his passenger seat. Not weird in a bad sense; you assume thatâs an even worse thing. It should feel weird because of that, sitting in his car, but instead you almost felt giddy about it.
Grace said it would be fine. She assured you with soft eyes and fluttery lashes. Her brother wouldnât mind; besides, how many things have you done for their family? Itâs the least he could do. You remember the days when you had just got your licence. It was weeks before Grace got hers, but she had a car under her name before you, so you drove it for her to and from college. Then, ultimately, Will started tagging along. He was quiet in the backseat alone, unless he had one of his friends with him. Then it was so loud you could hardly hear yourself think.
But then after a couple years he was gone, halfway across the country, like Boston was just a distant memory. You didnât feel much about it then and hardly protested when Grace instead chose to drive. Protesting would require you to care about it; you certainly didnât do that.Â
Something changed that day he came back. The hockey season was over, and Will was on the next flight back home to Massachusetts. Strangely enough, so were you. After you graduated, you moved to Dallas. There was a better opportunity there for your career, but it really was that far from your family and friends; you had to swallow the homesickness over the long stretches of time. It wasnât easy; after a while you couldnât stop searching up plane ticket prices.Â
His name brands itself over your phone, a bright flash of colour and reminiscence. The message was vague, almost hostile-seeming despite how long you've known him.Â
I'm at the arrival lounge. Lmk when you land.Â
Odd. Your friend did offhandedly mention how subtly her brother had changed since he was drafted into the league. A delusional part of you didnât believe her, but maybe there was some truth to her words. You didnât know Will that well. He closely resembled a buzzing fly in your ears for most of your youth. The annoying younger brother of your best friend, he didnât know how to not bother you.
You slowly pack up your things once you hear that chime in the aeroplane. People rush to stand, but you know itâs pointless. You all end up in the same place anyway, and that place for you just feels a little different. Itâs not like you're nervous or anything, right?Â
Maybe itâs wrong, maybe itâs corrupt, but over the past few weeks your social media feed has been bombarded with the blond boy. You search his name once, and itâs like a cascade. Youâd be lying to yourself if you said the edits with your favourite songs didnât make you feel a certain type of way. You stay awake at night wondering what the fuck is wrong with you. You canât be thinking this about him, Will Smith of all people.
Exiting out of the plane, a gust of cold air brushes over you. The chill wasnât something you anticipated; only a thin thermal sweater covers your form, and the old pair of sweatpants does nothing to harbour the cold air.Â
It doesnât take long for him to spot you, eyes locking with one another as you filter through the bodies of people moving at a snail's pace. He looks bigger than what you remember. He's probably been putting in gains in San Jose; thick stretches of muscle bulge through his white shirt.Â
âHey.â Will mutters, arm already moving to pull your carry-on off your shoulder. He slips it over his and tightens the strap. Your keychains clink and smash into one another, and you begin to regret everything leading up to this moment. Should've just got an Uber and cried about the prices later. But no, instead you just had to mention it to your best friend, who in turn brought it up to her suddenly really hot brother.Â
"Hey," you respond back with an equally awkward tone. The silence that spans between you is horrifying. âBeen a while, huh?â You continue quietly, moving to start your journey through the busy airport. He hums, steps falling into unison with yours.Â
âHow is Texas going?â
âGood. It's good. Big, but really good. What about you? How's California?â
He makes a strained sound, like it hurts to even choke out. That stumps you; heâs been doing amazingly with the Sharks. You hear about it all the time from Grace during your regularly scheduled Facetimes.Â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â You replicate the sound, eyes burning into the side of his face.
âI donât know. Itâs alright; it always feels like something's missing though.â
Oh. Homesicknessâyou understand it all too well. âThat sucks. I get it though, itâll be good to spend some time back home.â
He chooses not to say anything back, so you stop pressing. But from the corner of your eye you see him smirk, whatever that means. Willâs always been confusing like that. It used to be a silly little rumour Grace would egg you on about. Her little brother had a crush on you for the few years you knew him. It was innocent, childlike, and not something you ever thought about with substance.Â
The interior of his Bronco is clean, cleaner than youâd expect from a man. The upholstery is perfectly stitched together; you admire the colour blends mentally, noting the soft scent of an air freshener perched in one of the vents. What you canât bear to watch is the way his hand flexes around the stick shift. Or the way his jaw clenches whenever someone else on the road does something stupid. Or the way his body heat radiates off him and warms you.
âYour parents are out of town?âÂ
Theyâre somewhere west. Itâs pretty common for them to fly over to see you every so often; you just really wanted to be back home for once. You tell him that, and he nods, but you can tell there's something biting at the back of his mind.
âWhere are you staying?âÂ
âAt your parents' place. Grace didnât tell you?â
âShe might have mentioned it. Donât remember.â He confesses, hands grinding over the steering wheel. Itâs bright in the city, luminous lights spreading as far as you can see down the busy streets. Theyâre alive with people, drunk and sober.
The family home is only a short drive from the airport, but with the nightlife traffic you expect the journey to stretch on longer than intended. Kicking off your slides, you tilt your head back and rest it completely on the headrest.
His dad ends up calling his phone five minutes later. Youâre instructed to pick up something for dinner. The longer you spend time with him alone in his car that costs more than you earn each year, the more haunting it is.
You're half asleep on the couch when Will comes up to you.Â
âWhatâs this?âÂ
You blame God and the way wind brushes through the trees for what happens next, but ultimately you blame yourself and your own designated stupidity. He stands there, cocked up with a grin on his face, holding your stupid pink vibrator in his hand. Why you? Why now? Why him?
It doesnât look pleasant in his hold; it appears more ugly and sinful the way he rotates the small device like itâs the television remote.Â
âWhere did you even find that?â You try to move quickly, catch him off guard and snatch the dreadful thing from him, but hockey reflexes gain him the advantage of being far quicker than you. âDid you go through my bag?â
âIt was there. So was I. Are you really that desperate that you need to bring your sex toys with you when you come back home?â
He thumbs over the silicone head, and you cringe. How many times have you held it against your clit? And how many times did you forget to clean it off after you finished? The view makes you wetter than you realise; you're beginning to think that was his goal. The relationship you share has always been a weird one. You evaded each time he tried locking eyes with you over dinners, and you definitely ignored the drunken messages he sent to your phone over the past few months. It was weird; you weren't crazy thinking that. Heâs your best friendâs younger brother (only if itâs by a year).Â
âWhat do you do with this, huh? How does it work?â he asks with a sarcastic lilt. He knows how it works; heâs not that dumb. You turn your head to watch the front door as he flicks the small device on. A faint buzzing sound comes out as it vibrates slowly. Oh god.Â
âYou want to show me?âÂ
Itâs safe to say that youâve gone crazy when you find yourself in the spare bedroom with him, the door closed and locked behind you.Â
His belt is unbuckled; you heard it happen when you walked up the stairs. He sits on the edge of the bed while you situate yourself in the middle of it, pants and underwear already halfway down your legs. The house is empty except for the two of you, his parents and sister off somewhere. You planned on going with them, but a sick, lewd part of you held back. Maybe you were waiting for this without even realising it; maybe you did leave the small thing out in the open with a purpose. Maybe he was supposed to come across it; that same sick part of you is glad he did.
That cruel buzzing sound happens again when you subconsciously flick the on button. This time itâs louder and faster. Will blinks and shucks his boxers down. Itâs mostly quiet between the two of you, but you both are able to communicate what exactly is about to happen.Â
It happens gradually, a crawling pace where the two of you just decide to⊠do it. Your mind spins with pleasure the moment the head hits your warmth. The vibrator buzzes harder against you, the contact causing a chain-link reaction as you and Will moan almost instantaneously.Â
His hand wraps around himself suddenly; he shifts it down his length once before he bites down on his lip. The silence is penetrating, but not nearly as uncomfortable as you thought it would be. Maybe youâre both just too horny to care. The stimulation on your nub is catastrophic; you peel the head off just a centimetre before he chokes out complaints. âDonât stop.â
You don't; you place it back on and form a fist in your unoccupied hand to deal with the fast-building arousal. Fuck. The blend of excitement is too much; the visuals of him and the feeling on your cunt moulding into one unbearable pressure. He looks best like this, hair muddled like itâs busily thrown in the wind. A gentle flush paints his skin, a deepening red over his cheeks as he huffs out these little creaky sounds each time his hand catches his pink tip.Â
You donât make eye contact with one another; that would ruin this weird haze of mutual pleasure, so instead you watch him jerk his hand up and down. Previously soft movements grow desperate as he gets close to that finish; you're already there by the time you see beads of cum leak through his fingers.
Dopamine flashes through your brain like a flood; each moment is like biting off the edge of the world.
Macklin has got to give it to the girl. For all she seems indifferent to him, she absolutely adores his family. OR the 4 times a Celebrini calls Sloane + 1 time Sloane calls Mack!
RJ
Somehow, over the span of a single summer, Sloane Crosby managed to weasel her way into the good graces of every single Celebrini. However, if there was one person she had never really needed to win over, it was RJ.
As was every thirteen-year-old boyâs rite of passage, RJ had finally been granted permission to get Snapchat, and boy, had he run absolutely wild with it. Sloane despised the insipid app, but somehow RJ managed to build a streak with her that rivaled the ones she had back when she was thirteen herself.
Pictures of his breakfast. Pictures of Cali sprawled across the couch. Pictures of him and his brothers after conditioning. Oh, little RJ knew exactly what he was doing there.
Sloane responded in kind: pictures of her dadâs latest sourdough creation, her motherâs needlepoint stocking she had been working on, the pong table she and her friends were painting for senior week.
Something about RJ Celebrini reminded Sloane painfully of her little brothers when they were younger. The earnestness that peeked through all the teenage bluster and brawn.
At some point, RJ started sending her videos from the garage while he messed around with a puck. While Sloane maintained she had little to no understanding of whatever drill he was supposedly working on, it quietly became part of their routine.
Every Tuesday, she FaceTimed him while she worked on her needlepoint, RJâs tales of summer practices and the antics of thirteen-year-old boys serving as background chatter to her stitching. Sometimes she would pause to watch him chip pucks into the net. Other times she would force him to pay attention to her thread choices.
âItâs velvet thread, RJ. Look at the texture.â He would groan dramatically at her insistence, but every so often she would be rewarded with a reluctant admisson of his interest.Â
Sometimes, Macklin would wander into the frame, grabbing tennis shoes before heading out for a run, or lingering in the background while correcting RJâs grip and angles. Sloane always noticed the way his eyes drifted toward her through the phone screen, the quick glances he thought she did not catch.Â
He always said hello, asking after her and her family with an easy warmth that contrasted the boy she had met at the draft. Sometimes he lingered longer than necessary, leaning against the garage doorway while RJ rambled on about practice. Sometimes he would ask what she was working on, pretending to be deeply invested in thread colors while his eyes stayed fixed on her face instead.
âYou know,â he had said once, squinting at her stitching, âI think I am finally developing an appreciation for the sparkle thread.â RJ could not help but gag loudly in the background.
Sloane knew he was flirting. And some part of her - the prideful part - relished it. She recognized it every time his attention settled on her a beat too long, every time he found some excuse to wander into RJâs calls.
Still, these calls became something dependable those blistering months. And in a summer where everything in Sloaneâs life seemed to be changing, consistency mattered more to her than she ever wanted to admit. By September, she would be moving across the country. Away from home. Away from her parents. Away from her friends. Away from the only life she had ever really known.Â
But every Tuesday afternoon, somewhere in Northern Vancouver, RJ Celebrini would answer her FaceTime before the second ring. More often than not, somewhere around the 17 minute mark, Macklin would happen to wander into the frame.Â
2. Charlie
âI just cannot believe I thought it was any different. That this time was any different from all the other times. Why canât he just let me in?" Sloaneâs heart ached as Charlieâs anguish crackled through the phone.
âI feel like I have to walk on eggshells all the time,â the sixteen-year-old continued through tears. âOne step out of line and he just so . . . cold. A shell of this person I've known my entire life.â
Sloane closes her eyes briefly, unable to stop herself from thinking about her own sixteen-year-old self, wrapped up in a boy who had not been worth half the energy she devoted to him, yet somehow still felt like her entire world.
Charlie was all things smart and brilliant and kind and funny. She was one of those people that lit up the lives of people she let in. Fiercely loyal and oh so sweet. But that brilliance was not something any sixteen-year-old girl could see in the face of the boy she had loved forever.
Christian Nash and Charlie had known each other since they were practically in nappies. Summers spent diving off the dock between their neighboring lake houses, bike rides to the gas station for popsicles, muddy hands shaping âcakesâ in the front yard while their mothers watched from lawn chairs. The kind of history that tangled itself so tightly around your heart that sometimes you could not tell where the memories ended and the feelings began. Sloane knew that kind of attachement all too well.
Now, Macklin did not make a habit of eavesdropping on his siblings, but he and Aiden exchanged matching looks of horror at the top of the stairs when they heard Charlie sobbing through her bedroom door.
Because Charlie never cried.
Between three brothers and a family that revolved around sports, tears were few and far between in the Celebrini household. And if Macklin was being honest, neither he nor Aiden particularly knew how to handle them when they did appear. Especially when it came to Charlie. They always seemed to flounder somewhere between being wildly overprotective of their only sister and wanting to treat her the same way they treated RJ.
Aiden, coward that he was, immediately bolted for their shared bathroom, abandoning ship without a second thought and leaving Macklin saddled with older-brother responsibilities. Macklin couldn't help but stare at him in disbelief.
âYou are such a dick,â he hissed.
Aiden merely pointed at Charlie's bedroom before disappearing behind the bathroom door. With all the enthusiasm of a man approaching his own execution, Macklin began the shuffle toward Charlieâs room.
âCharlieâ His voice cracked halfway through her name, and he immediately flushed with embarrassment. âCan I come in?â
There was a pause before the door creaked open. Macklin frowned the second he took in his little sisterâs face - red and blotchy - her green eyes glassy with tears.
âWhoa, what happened? Are you okay? Whatâs wrong? Are you hurt?â A small laugh tinkled from Charlieâs phone where it lay abandoned on the floor. Her laugh.
The laugh he found himself waiting for every Tuesday afternoon. The one he preened under whenever he managed to pull it out of her. Sloaneâs laugh, albeit slightly resigned. Charlie could not help but smile at the sight of her brother hovering in panic.
âYou could at least try to look a little less like you are about to lay an egg, Mack,â she teased wetly. âThey are just tears.â A full belly cackle - one of those highy and witchy ones - erupted from the phone as Macklin settled beside his sister on the floor, their shoulders and knees bumping together.
âYeah, yeah. Laugh it up,â he grumbled. âLaugh at the poor sucker who was concerned for his baby sister.â He focused on Charlie once more, his gaze narrowing as he took stock of her properly.
âWhatâs going on, Chuckles?â he asked softly. âWhy are you so miserable?â
Charlie kept staring down at her palms instead of answering, and only then did Macklin notice the angry red streaks along her legs where she had clearly been scratching at her skin. His expression immediately softened.
Without another word, he looped an arm around his sisterâs shoulders and tugged her gently against him, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he resigned himself to waiting out her silence. Charlie melted into his side easily, the way she always had since they were little.
From the phone on the floor, Sloane stayed quiet too. Macklin could practically feel her worry through the screen, could see the crease between her brows and the tense purse of her lips. Eventually Charlie let out a shaky breath.
"Christian is being mean again,â she whispered miserably. The word mean triggered something in Macklin. She sounded all of five years old again, complaining when the boys werenât allowing her to play with them, fat tears falling down her face as she waddled off to their mom. Macklinâs jaw tightened as he looked at Sloane, cataloguing the close of her eyes and tilt of her head away from the camera.
âCharlie, honey,â Sloane began, her voice steady, âhis actions are a reflection of him and only him. You are everything I wish I had been at your age. The way you love the people in your life is such a privilege to receive, and if he cannot recognize that, what a pity for him.â
Macklin shifted slightly, tightening his arm around his sister unconciously. âIs he like⊠actually mean, mean?â he asked carefully, voice lower now. âOr just⊠stupid boy mean?â
From the phone, Sloane let out a sharp exhale that almost sounded like a chuckle, like she could not help but laugh at his blunder but still appreciated his earnestness.
âI donât know,â Charlie admitted. âItâs just⊠sometimes he acts like I am annoying him. And then other times heâs totally fine. And then if I am with other people - other guys - he gets weird about it. Mean weird."
Macklinâs expression changed immediately, something sharper settling behind his eyes. He saw the same change reflected back at him in Sloane's expression, the same bullheaded protectiveness rearing its head.
âTruly a tragedy,â Sloanes eyes with steel, âbecause he is missing out on a pretty perfect human being.â
3. Robyn
Macklinâs mom got in these moods sometimes.
Macklin liked to think of them as the byproduct of four incredibly busy children and one incredibly busy husband who were seldom all in the same place at the same time.
The late-summer sun was setting behind them as she corralled the family into the kitchen of their house by the coast. Late July was always strange for Robyn. Soon hockey and basketball and tennis would pull her entire family in opposite directions for the school year, and the warmth of summer would become a distant memory meant to tide them over in the cold.
Robyn Celebrini had endured a lot of sacrifice to keep the people she loved happy. Years of carpools and exhaustion and changing homes and schools and friends. Early mornings and late nights and calendars so packed they barely fit on the fridge. She would do just about anything to keep her smile reflected on each of her childrenâs faces.
Rick and she had reached an understanding years ago: he could push and push, but she would always be the safe place their family landed. Her husband, God love him, was a hard ass. He knew it just as well as anyone. But his one undeniable soft spot would always be her. Her and the family they had built together.
So when Robyn wanted one night away from lab reports and PT and emails and training blocks, he humored her without complaint. He simply shut his laptop, kissed her cheek, and trudged upstairs to gather the kids.
Macklin and RJ were perplexed when they came downstairs to the sound of a familiar voice echoing through the kitchen.
âItâs so easy, Mrs. Celebrini, I promise! My dad and I got really into it over Covid, much to my Uncle Nateâs chagrin. Focaccia is super simple, you just have to let it rest.â The familiar chirp floated from the iPad propped against the counter, and Macklin felt an involuntary, boyish grin tug at his lips.
âSup, Crosby,â he called as he entered the kitchen. âIs she bothering you?â His mom rolled her eyes as Macklin wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Sloane felt warmth spread through her chest at the sight. She could not help but think Rickâs genes had not even tried when mother and son stood side by side.
âAbsolutely not. If anything, I was hassling your poor mom to try out this new olive oil I found,â Sloane admitted. âShe and my mom were talking last week while I was making focaccia in the background. She called to ask for the recipe so she could make it for your ungrateful self.â Her eyes narrowed playfully through the screen.
âHey, watch it,â Macklin replied, smirking as he pressed a kiss to his momâs cheek. âI am plenty grateful for this lady.â Robynâs eyes twinkled as she observed their dynamic. She could not remember the last time she had seen Macklin this animated. The sweet, excitable boy she knew had grown into someone far more reserved and driven as he got older. Always chasing the next thing, the next team, the next record, the next expectation placed on his shoulders. It was good to see him slowing down this summer.
âI fear I bothered her for nothing, though,â Robyn admitted with a small pout. âApparently the dough takes a few hours to rest, so it would not even be ready in time for dinner anyway. I just thought it would be fun for us to make together. A family project.â
Rick handed his wife a glass of wine, smiling dryly as he took in the various states of disarray currently occupying his kitchen counters: half-cut vegetables, an open box of pasta, and RJ and Aiden attempting to steal cheese when they thought no one was looking.
âI think maybe itâs best to stick with what we know if you want any of us to be of help to you in the kitchen, honey. Nobody can afford to have food poisoning right now, and RJ looks one misplaced knife away from bleeding into the sauce.â Sloane let out a laugh at RJâs indignation as his older siblings cackled.
âWell, I will let yâall get to it then. Send me a picture of whatever yâall end up making?â Sloane called. Rick smiled as he said,
âThanks for trying to help out where you could, kid. We still on for next Tuesday?â
âYes! Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Celebrini, I really appreciate it!â Macklin looked quizzically at his dad, but the older man was too busy waving goodbye alongside his wife to notice his confusion.
While Sloane did not end up receiving a picture that night, she did end up receiving one a couple of days later. A picture of a pan of focaccia, albeit a bit misshapen and pale, sat proudly on the counter.
I know you helped him out with this. Thanks honey for making the time, it was delicious!
A second text followed just moments later.
Please ignore the fact that my son used pre-shredded parmesan.
4. Rick
Having a sports medicine legend for a dad came with quite a few perks, if Macklin could say so himself.
Rick had owned the facility in North Vancouver for years, and while Macklin had excellent trainers his entire life, there was no one he trusted more than his dad. It was never uncommon for him to ask for second copies of scans from team trainers just so Rick could look them over too. And when he was home, even when his father could be overbearing sometimes, there was still no one else Macklin would rather go to.
Connor, Fraser, and Macklin had just arrived at the facility for recovery work when Macklin realized his dad was nowhere to be found. When he spotted Dr. James and Dr. Patel on the floor instead, with Jack and Elizabeth assisting nearby, his confusion only deepened. He had mentioned coming in that morning over breakfast, and he was 95% sure his dad was paying attention when he said it.
Macklin tugged his bag higher onto his shoulder as he scanned the clinic again.
âYour dad ditch you?â Fraser asked dryly.
âApparently,â Macklin muttered.
Jack looked up from where he was organizing resistance bands and immediately brightened.
âHey Mack! Your dad is in his office,â he called. âHe told me to tell you and whoever you were bringing to meet him in there today. Wanted to go over target centers and whatever before you guys started today.â
The trio exchanged shrugs as they began walking up the stairs toward his office. As they got nearer, Mack heard Rick . . . speaking softly?
âItâs okay to not have it figured out right now. You are going to a great school, and you are going to gain great experiences. Whatâs important right now is gaining experience and seeing what you donât like.â Macklin startled to a stop. Who was he even talking to?
âI know, and I truly am so grateful for the opportunity to shadow you come September. I have only shadowed orthopedic surgeons so far and I would love to see sports medicine from the recovery side. Iâm just . . . overwhelmed, I guess?â came the familiar voice.
Sloane.
âI have always had a plan,â she admitted, âand this feels like a moment in which I donât.â Mack felt his heart slow to a crawl. He had never heard anything but confidence from the girl, someone always so determined and sure of everything. Hearing her uncertainty made him feel unsteady in a way he could not quite place.
Macklin didnât notice Connor and Fraser catching up behind him until the latter knocked on the doorframe.
âOne second Sloane, come in boys,â the doctor called. The trio stepped into the office, Connor and Fraser slightly startled to find Rick mid-call.
âSorry to interrupt, Dr. Celebrini,â Fraser said quickly, ever polite. âWe had no clue you were on a call.â Macklin barely heard him. He was focused on the blonde on the screen, cataloguing every expression flickering across Sloaneâs face. For once, he decided he did not like what he was seeing. Uncertainty and anxiety written plainly on there, out of place on her extraordinary face.
âWe were just wrapping up anyways,â Sloane said quickly, her voice a little too bright. Rick narrowed his eyes in concern, and Macklin felt his throat tighten, only half registering Connorâs elbow nudging him.
Is that who I think it is? Connor mouthed.
Macklin shot him a look. Yes. No. Shut up.
âDo you mind if we continue this conversation later next week, Sloane?â Rick asked gently. âAnd I do mean that. I just promised these guys we would talk through some stuff today.â
âOf course,â she said immediately, smiling again like she was trying to smooth over the moment. âThank you for even making the time today. It was nice to meet you guys!â she added, glancing toward Connor and Fraser through the screen. Connor lifted a hand awkwardly in greeting.
Fraser nodded. âYeah nice to meet you.â
Macklin mustered up what he hoped was a casual smile and wave as she ended the call, but his eyes immediately crossed to his dad as the man closed his laptop. Rick leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable in that way that usually meant Macklin was not going to get anything out of the man he did not already want him to know.
âAlright,â Rick said, crashing into Macklin's ruminations as he stood. âTarget centers. Letâs get into it.â
+1 Mack
âI say you just ask him. The absolute worst thing he could say is no,â Anjani punctuated across the phone. Sloane groaned into her hands.
âBut that is the problem. I do not want to ask,â she whined. âThis feels like a humiliation ritual. And before you start, I know I signed up for it.â She cut off the beginning of Sophiaâs inevitable âyou joined a sorority to make friendsâ speech before it could even fully form in her imagination. Sloane knew that, goddammit. But in no part of that experience did she receive a handbook on asking guys to date parties.
âFirst off, I am right about that, thank you very much. And you arenât even asking a random stranger or new friend. Youâre asking Macklin, who you have been flirting - â Sophia began.
âNot flirting,â Sloane cut in immediately. Anjani and Sophia exchanged an exasperated look across the country.
â - flirting with all summer,â Anjani continued without missing a beat. âHe is into you. And if he isnât, screw it. At least you go as friends and you show up with an NHL player as arm candy.â
âIt is just the thought of even giving a hint that I find him attractive that is the problem here,â Sloane groaned.
âWell, you do, so what is the problem?â Anjani shot back.
âYeah, but he does not need to know that!â Sloane shrieked as her friends erupted into peals of laughter. Sloane couldnât help but laugh along with them, feeling the sting of distance through the phone. They went to school together, two hours away from her childhood home. Here she was, across the country, still clinging onto them for advice like nothing had really changed. As if they could sense where her thoughts were drifting, their expressions softened.
âI personally think you should just try,â Sophia said more gently this time. âBecause selfishly, I am glad there is someone I know will take care of you there. First college date party, going out in the city⊠I would feel better knowing it is with someone who would have your best interests at heart.â Sloane couldnât help but pout, she truly had the best friends in the whole wide world.
âAww, Soph, you big softie. I know you loved me deep down,â she needled. Sophia rolled her eyes with barely disguised affection and clapped her hands.
âNow chop-chop, I better get a text within this hour that this is a go,â she said pointedly as they exchanged goodbyes. Sloane closed her laptop and looked around her silent dorm. Time to rip the band-aid off.
She watched as the phone rang, a pit slowly forming in her stomach. As the rings continued, she began to doubt herself.
What was she doing?
What if he was still at practice?
This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.
Just as she was about to cancel the call, the connecting icon switched onto the screen. She felt a surge of panic and quickly smoothed her hair, suddenly hyper-aware of her appearance.
âSorry, I was at lift. Whatâs up?â Macklin frowned as he looked at her expression. Sloane closed her eyes and bit her lip.
Rip off the band-aid.
âWouldyouliketogotomydatepartywithmenextFriday?â she blurted.
âWoah, slow down.â
âI know you probably have a game or Will or something, so never mind, thanks, bye.â
âHey, knock it off. Slow down and say it one more time,â he said calmly. âI could not understand a word you said.â Sloane took a deep breath, willing herself to be the outspoken young lady she normally was. She fixed him with a mildly haughty look.
âWould you like to come to my date party with me next Friday?â
a/n: school is almost over and that means im on writers block.. i have like two words written for chap 4 đŹ
wc: 1.5k
summary: Another shift, another day expecting Macklinâs arrival, win or loss. Instead, you are faced by his bunny-toothed best friend who stands alone.
This was becoming a more casual thing for you to be excited about. Just get through the first two to three hours of work and get to see him. You would have a five minute interaction max and then he would be on his merry way as you worked another four to five hours. It sounded pathetic, like a scheduled hug with your first boyfriend in the sixth grade, him giving you the awkward side hug while youâre taller than him, everyone screaming when your bodies touch in the slightest.
Except this time, you are nearly 19 years old and the boy stands 6 feet tall and is known all around the city, being feared of by professional hockey team managers and coaches (yes, you saw a clip of Lindy Ruff on TikTok saying he was scared of Macklin followed by an edit of him showing how heâs still just a teenager deep down, just you know, being compared to hall of famers).
Not many people come in after him and barely any more before him, so this shift can be insanely boring. Itâs honestly the best place for people like him to come, no fans who are trying to have an unscheduled meet and greet or any other people trying to harass him, just a quiet deli where he can get a sandwich before going wherever he goes. In addition, you never made it weird, you were simply doing your job.
A few weeks after he had called you by your name, the manager of the deli you worked at installed a small television above the area you worked. When you clocked in at 8 PM, the games would typically be going into or actively in the second period. It was about 9:30, the Sharks were up 2-0 on the New Jersey Devils. Macklin had an assist on a goal by Collin Graf and the other goal was unassisted by William Eklund.
They had said previously that Jack Hughes left the game prior in the first period due to a lower back injury when getting slammed into the boards, while Dougie Hamilton was high-stick and was out for most of the second period because his lip was cut badly, so the Devils were really all over the place. Though, Hughes seems to always be riddled with injury.
With 4 minutes remaining in the period, Jesper Bratt scored. With 1 minute remaining, they pulled their goaltender. Dawson Mercer nearly got a goal, but luckily, Sharks got possession back with 25 seconds left on the clock. Will Smith got a handle of the puck, shooting it from his blue line and miraculously making it in. The goal horn buzzed through the arena as the Devils accepted defeat, their third straight loss and the Sharks first win in a week.
Your internal clock started ticking. It was a win where Macklin got a point, prolonging his point streak, but he didnât score and wasnât the star of the game. If anything, it would be Yaroslav Askarov with his 32 saves. People would still interview him about the early season success, but it would be a lot less media than one where he got a hatrick or something of that sort. He would probably wait up for Will too, who did score, so you were anticipating another arrival nearing 12 AM.
But thatâs not how it went.
Macklin didnât walk through that door and it was 12 AM. You grew confused, it was like clockwork that he would come. It was his little postgame tradition that he showed to a few of his friends. Then again, it was just a sandwich. Just a late night snack before heading to bed. You were overthinking something that wasnât yours to think about this much.
At 12:21, you hear the door chime ring. You glance up, thinking, finally he shows up.
You didnât instantly recognize the damp brown hair peeking out from a black Sharks hoodie, rather a slightly wet blond with a backwards cap over his wavy hair and a navy blue quarter-zip jacket.
âWelcome!â in?â you said, slightly shocked from who was walking in from the door. It was Will Smith with no Macklin Celebrini, almost never seen before.
âNot expecting me alone?â Will chuckled slowly, almost as if he were testing the waters.
âJust a little,â you play it off, meeting him at the counter. âWhat can I get you on thisâŠâ you glance at the clock, âdark morning?â
He laughs softly. âSame thing as before, a BLT with extra bacon and non-toasted bread.â
You nod in response, starting to make his sandwich. He looks up at the TV above your head, seeing his own face in the game's coverage replay. He sees himself score an empty-netter, then skating towards the bench for high fives.
âYou watch every game?â
You look up at him through your lashes as he watches you. âWhy is he talking to me?â you think. You scramble to find your words, not expecting him to ask that, much less talk at all other than the basic manners in a transaction like this. âI do when theyâreâ you guys are on and keep up with basic stuff like the records, but I donât intently scan over every statistic for every team and player to see how my team is doing.â
âI see⊠I wasn't expecting you to be a huge fan anyway, most fans try to nearly break the glass to try to get to me and Mack,â Will awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as his eyebrows scrunch up, making you giggle. âHe talks about how the sandwiches here are like cocaine⊠Mack, that is. Yet he has never tried drugs that strong and neither have I.â
âThatâs nice to hear,â you smile to yourself, feeling a rush of blood go to your cheeks. âWhere isââ
âHe told me to come get something for him but he went straight home after the game. He said to just ask you for the âusual win special,â whatever that is.â
You knew exactly what that was. It was deli turkey on white bread, salami, provolone, a fuck ton of lettuce, cucumbers, a side of random chips (often salt & vinegar potato chips), and, of course, chocolate milk.
âComing right up!â you wrap up Willâs sandwich and bag it before moving back to the start area to start on Macklinâs. You were entirely locked in on the sandwich, you couldnât notice Will checking his phone, texting someone hurriedly as he consistently glanced up at you, eventually setting on staring attentively at you.
âYou should come to a game some time⊠of course, when your schedule permits. If youâve never been, itâs something you can never replicate with any other sport. It truly is special,â Will says rather quickly, watching you finish up Macklinâs order as you move over to meet him at the cash register.
âIâve thought about it, but money's not really cutting it right now, so I work extra shifts. I eventually will, hopefully this season, but definitely next.â
âWell, we hope to see you at the Shark Tank someday soon!â He smiled brightly. âTip, come down for warm ups as soon as possible. Me or Mack can try snagging a puck for you then. Just a nice souvenir.â
The familiar rush comes to your cheeks again, as you look down at the total. âSounds great⊠your total is $25.27.â
He pulls out his card as he taps it on the reader, the beep signalling as you hand him the bag of the sandwiches and drink.
âThank you, have a good one!â
âYou too!â he says, the door chiming as he opens it and leaves.
You resume watching the recap of the game, the clock ticking towards 12:30. You see Willâs face again and look towards the door as if it would manifest him coming back to talk more about the Sharks, especially Macklin. Maybe if you blink three times, heâll appear. Maybe even Macklin. Maybe he will order two sandwiches and the second one is for you, maybe he will stay for a bit to really talk to you.
Of course, that doesnât work, but nice try for the delusion and scenario your brain created. Now, you sit lonely in the deli, surrounded by LED signs that are on their last leg of life, tables cleaned and ready for customers that wonât come until regular hours, sandwich products that are waiting to be eaten, and a TV that blares the NBC Sport California network where the name Macklin Celebrini is spoken of endlessly, as if he were a common word in the english alphabet.
Your head fills with thoughts of him while commentators go on and on about how heâs on pace with teenage Gretzky and Crosby, thinking to yourself: is this seriously the dude I have been selling sandwiches to for the past year plus?
The answer is yes. The same guy who looks forward to seeing and purchasing a quick midnight snack from you is also in conversation with the greats of hockey.
summary: Where you work is a hot spot for Macklin Celebrini to hit up after games, you recognize patterns with him. After a rough game, you use what youâve picked up in an attempt to make him feel better. After a good game, you get your own reimbursement (in a way).
After every home game, win or loss, with or without Will, Macklin would always go to the same sandwich deli that was open until 4 AM. More than 90% of the time, you were working the shift whenever he would come in.
You werenât friends, not even acquaintances, but you knew each other. You knew what he would order after a loss and what he would order after a win, you learned to check the Sharks scores once the game ended. Sometimes, if he took longer than you were used to, his stats from the game would be open on your phone under the cashier desk. More often than not, he took longer on days where he didnât perform well. Probably had a tougher time with the media and his own thoughts eating away at him.
You memorized his mannerisms while he almost always knew you would be working, ready to read him as if he were an open book, when in reality, you were just making him a sandwich.
Today was a rough game. The Sharks lost in overtime to the Ducks, 2-3. It ended in a shootout, Troy Terry the second goal that sealed Anaheimâs win. Macklin had an unassisted goal in second period, another goal in the third to tie it assisted by Tyler Toffoli, and was the only Shark to score in the shootout.
Knowing this and how he was to a worker-usual customer relationship, he would be alone and mutter âthe usualâ while his hood was up, softly nibbling at the skin in his lips as his eyes try to look anywhere but at you, or any person for that matter. You knew better than to try to chat it up with him past a hello and simple pleasantries.
When you hear the door chime at 11:34 PM, you call out the polite âwelcome in!â as he walks in. You can hear his heavy feet sliding on the tile, approaching the beginning of the counter.
âHello, what can I get for you today?â you say as sweetly as you can, the patient customer service voice with empathy laced within it.
âHi, um... the usual,â Macklin replies, trying to return the kindness but sounding rather blunt. You had seen his commercials and other acting gigsâ it was good he was a phenomenal hockey player.
You nod as you start making his sandwich, packed with protein with a side of chips that he randomly chooses, the selection completely unbeknownst to your predictions. The only thing you couldnât anticipate about Macklin, though you knew he liked salt and vinegar chips after wins.
After wins, he typically gets chocolate milk as his reward. On losses, he doesnât treat himself with it. God only knows what he does when he exits the shop, but youâre sure it isnât getting chocolate milk elsewhere.
As you wrap up his sandwich, you see a glass bottle of chocolate milk out of your peripheral vision in the small fridge propped on the back counter. You think to yourself a million thoughts per second.
I should grab that for him, that itâs on the house. I should say he played well and deserves it because the team couldnât have gotten that close to a win without him.
No, are you fucking insane and weird?? He probably comes here to escape his famous NHL player life. Donât act like a stalker.
But itâs a sweet thing to do! He needs that reassurance sometimes and for a fan to see that and not tear him down could help.
God, I canât wait to finish my shift.
As youâre ringing up his total, you take a deep breath in. Before you show him the pay screen, you turn around to the fridge and grab the chocolate milk, placing it on the counter between the two of you.
âOh, I didnât order that,â Macklin replies hollowly, still looking downward, his face entirely blank with no sign of a grin anywhere.
âI know itâs⊠itâs on the house.â
âReally? Thanks⊠why?â he questions, taking the bottle from your hand and lightly grazing the tips of your fingers.
âYou deserve it after the game tonight. I-I mean obviously it didnât go as you may have wanted but.. like, you know, you did well and without youâ no offense to the teamâ but⊠they wouldnât have made it to overtime without you.â
For the first time that evening, he looks at you, really looks at you. Not like on nights where they win along with him having a solid night where he glances at you while speaking to you, but as if heâs realizing you actually have paid attention, even when itâs nearing midnight and he knows that you donât want to be working until 4 again.
âWow, umâ thanks. Appreciate it,â Macklin gives you a small smile, tapping his card on the reader until he hears the ding that means the transaction went through.
âOf course, have a good rest of your night!â you give him a sincere smile, biting your lip into a grin as you hand him his sandwich. He turns away, walking towards the door and pushing it open. Just like that, by 11:38, heâs gone again.
Here comes another 3 hours and a half more of no customers other than a few beggars on the street or college students stumbling in for a quick snack. Maximum 15 customers. This job could be insanely boring, pray that a drunk student cares to share a fun story to lighten your mood.
A week later, after a few games out of town, the Sharks were back in the tank. Of course, your work day landed on a game day. Lucky for Macklin, the Sharks won and he got 3 points (1 goal, two assists) in a 4-2 win against the Blues. Unlucky for you, it was another late shift that ensued boredom after Macklinâs visit. You grew to anticipate Macklinâs arrival after wins.
At 11:46 PM, you hear the door chime ring through the silent building. Youâre in the back where all the meat and other sandwich products are prepared before being put out on the counter. You yell out your welcomes, hearing two pairs of feet sliding across the tile. As you go through the door, youâre greeted by a smiling Macklin and a talkative Will Smith.
âHello, what can I get for you guys tonight?â
âHey, can I get uhh⊠shit, I didnât think about this. Too used to casual sandwich joints where I order the same thing,â Will laughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. âGo ahead, Mack.â
âOh uh⊠the usual but less turkey and more salami, also with jalapeños, thanks,â he grinned at you, he grins at you, obviously in a happier mood than a week prior. âAdd chocolate milk to that, too.â
âOf course,â you giggle. âWill you be paying together or separate?â
âTogether, I got this,â Macklin says, walking down to the register while Will still seemed entranced by the unfamiliar menu.
âSorry this is taking so long⊠uh, a number 3 but not on toasted bread with extra bacon. Please,â Will apologizes, pointing at the BLT sandwich above you.
âComing right up.â As you finish wrapping Macklinâs sub, you start to get Willâs prepared while they continue to talk. You want to listen in, but it seems like last week's interaction with just Macklin was farfetched for you to do, so you just hear snippets.
First word you hear: Game. Thatâs expected, they just finished a game, a great one for Macklin. Actually, for both. One of Macklinâs assists was for Willâs goal. It was only the first half of the season, maybe a third through, and Macklin was already at 37 points while Will trailed with 23. Amazing starts to the season.
Second: Tired. Also expected. I mean, skating on ice for up to 20 minutes while also maintaining a puck on a stick has to be rough, certainly something you would be willing to try once but not stick to.
Third: Girl. Truthfully, that one had no clear explanation or explanation at all. You knew nothing of Macklin or Willâs love life, maybe you were inclined a bit about Macklinâs. There was no reason for you to jump to romantics immediately, but you did. It could be about a little girl who was at the glass during warm ups with a cute sign.
And lastly: Hungry. That made complete sense. Shit, maybe I shouldnât be listening in and should be doing my job and making Willâs sandwich, you think.
As you finish up the sandwich, Macklin approaches the counter. A few seconds later, you are opposite of him while Will sits in a chair nearby, waiting for the two of you to finish up. You point at Will, making Macklin look back. âAny drink for him?â
âI think heâs good⊠Will, drink?â
âUh, no, thanks though.â Macklin turns back to you, giving you an awkward smirk-ish grin, pulling out his wallet. Pulling out his card, he taps it on the card reader, waiting for the beep. When the screen reads âPlease Remove Your Card From the Terminalâ simultaneously with the long sound, he grabs the bag with both sandwiches in it.
âHave a good one!â
âYou too!â Macklin called out your name at the end, quickly rushing out the door while Will held it open, nodding at you as they walked towards his car. It was 11:52. He had never done that before, and clearly he knew you to a degree, but this was new.
summary: Where you work is a hot spot for Macklin Celebrini to hit up after games, you recognize patterns with him. After a rough game, you use what youâve picked up in an attempt to make him feel better. After a good game, you get your own reimbursement (in a way).
After every home game, win or loss, with or without Will, Macklin would always go to the same sandwich deli that was open until 4 AM. More than 90% of the time, you were working the shift whenever he would come in.
You werenât friends, not even acquaintances, but you knew each other. You knew what he would order after a loss and what he would order after a win, you learned to check the Sharks scores once the game ended. Sometimes, if he took longer than you were used to, his stats from the game would be open on your phone under the cashier desk. More often than not, he took longer on days where he didnât perform well. Probably had a tougher time with the media and his own thoughts eating away at him.
You memorized his mannerisms while he almost always knew you would be working, ready to read him as if he were an open book, when in reality, you were just making him a sandwich.
Today was a rough game. The Sharks lost in overtime to the Ducks, 2-3. It ended in a shootout, Troy Terry the second goal that sealed Anaheimâs win. Macklin had an unassisted goal in second period, another goal in the third to tie it assisted by Tyler Toffoli, and was the only Shark to score in the shootout.
Knowing this and how he was to a worker-usual customer relationship, he would be alone and mutter âthe usualâ while his hood was up, softly nibbling at the skin in his lips as his eyes try to look anywhere but at you, or any person for that matter. You knew better than to try to chat it up with him past a hello and simple pleasantries.
When you hear the door chime at 11:34 PM, you call out the polite âwelcome in!â as he walks in. You can hear his heavy feet sliding on the tile, approaching the beginning of the counter.
âHello, what can I get for you today?â you say as sweetly as you can, the patient customer service voice with empathy laced within it.
âHi, um... the usual,â Macklin replies, trying to return the kindness but sounding rather blunt. You had seen his commercials and other acting gigsâ it was good he was a phenomenal hockey player.
You nod as you start making his sandwich, packed with protein with a side of chips that he randomly chooses, the selection completely unbeknownst to your predictions. The only thing you couldnât anticipate about Macklin, though you knew he liked salt and vinegar chips after wins.
After wins, he typically gets chocolate milk as his reward. On losses, he doesnât treat himself with it. God only knows what he does when he exits the shop, but youâre sure it isnât getting chocolate milk elsewhere.
As you wrap up his sandwich, you see a glass bottle of chocolate milk out of your peripheral vision in the small fridge propped on the back counter. You think to yourself a million thoughts per second.
I should grab that for him, that itâs on the house. I should say he played well and deserves it because the team couldnât have gotten that close to a win without him.
No, are you fucking insane and weird?? He probably comes here to escape his famous NHL player life. Donât act like a stalker.
But itâs a sweet thing to do! He needs that reassurance sometimes and for a fan to see that and not tear him down could help.
God, I canât wait to finish my shift.
As youâre ringing up his total, you take a deep breath in. Before you show him the pay screen, you turn around to the fridge and grab the chocolate milk, placing it on the counter between the two of you.
âOh, I didnât order that,â Macklin replies hollowly, still looking downward, his face entirely blank with no sign of a grin anywhere.
âI know itâs⊠itâs on the house.â
âReally? Thanks⊠why?â he questions, taking the bottle from your hand and lightly grazing the tips of your fingers.
âYou deserve it after the game tonight. I-I mean obviously it didnât go as you may have wanted but.. like, you know, you did well and without youâ no offense to the teamâ but⊠they wouldnât have made it to overtime without you.â
For the first time that evening, he looks at you, really looks at you. Not like on nights where they win along with him having a solid night where he glances at you while speaking to you, but as if heâs realizing you actually have paid attention, even when itâs nearing midnight and he knows that you donât want to be working until 4 again.
âWow, umâ thanks. Appreciate it,â Macklin gives you a small smile, tapping his card on the reader until he hears the ding that means the transaction went through.
âOf course, have a good rest of your night!â you give him a sincere smile, biting your lip into a grin as you hand him his sandwich. He turns away, walking towards the door and pushing it open. Just like that, by 11:38, heâs gone again.
Here comes another 3 hours and a half more of no customers other than a few beggars on the street or college students stumbling in for a quick snack. Maximum 15 customers. This job could be insanely boring, pray that a drunk student cares to share a fun story to lighten your mood.
A week later, after a few games out of town, the Sharks were back in the tank. Of course, your work day landed on a game day. Lucky for Macklin, the Sharks won and he got 3 points (1 goal, two assists) in a 4-2 win against the Blues. Unlucky for you, it was another late shift that ensued boredom after Macklinâs visit. You grew to anticipate Macklinâs arrival after wins.
At 11:46 PM, you hear the door chime ring through the silent building. Youâre in the back where all the meat and other sandwich products are prepared before being put out on the counter. You yell out your welcomes, hearing two pairs of feet sliding across the tile. As you go through the door, youâre greeted by a smiling Macklin and a talkative Will Smith.
âHello, what can I get for you guys tonight?â
âHey, can I get uhh⊠shit, I didnât think about this. Too used to casual sandwich joints where I order the same thing,â Will laughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. âGo ahead, Mack.â
âOh uh⊠the usual but less turkey and more salami, also with jalapeños, thanks,â he grinned at you, he grins at you, obviously in a happier mood than a week prior. âAdd chocolate milk to that, too.â
âOf course,â you giggle. âWill you be paying together or separate?â
âTogether, I got this,â Macklin says, walking down to the register while Will still seemed entranced by the unfamiliar menu.
âSorry this is taking so long⊠uh, a number 3 but not on toasted bread with extra bacon. Please,â Will apologizes, pointing at the BLT sandwich above you.
âComing right up.â As you finish wrapping Macklinâs sub, you start to get Willâs prepared while they continue to talk. You want to listen in, but it seems like last week's interaction with just Macklin was farfetched for you to do, so you just hear snippets.
First word you hear: Game. Thatâs expected, they just finished a game, a great one for Macklin. Actually, for both. One of Macklinâs assists was for Willâs goal. It was only the first half of the season, maybe a third through, and Macklin was already at 37 points while Will trailed with 23. Amazing starts to the season.
Second: Tired. Also expected. I mean, skating on ice for up to 20 minutes while also maintaining a puck on a stick has to be rough, certainly something you would be willing to try once but not stick to.
Third: Girl. Truthfully, that one had no clear explanation or explanation at all. You knew nothing of Macklin or Willâs love life, maybe you were inclined a bit about Macklinâs. There was no reason for you to jump to romantics immediately, but you did. It could be about a little girl who was at the glass during warm ups with a cute sign.
And lastly: Hungry. That made complete sense. Shit, maybe I shouldnât be listening in and should be doing my job and making Willâs sandwich, you think.
As you finish up the sandwich, Macklin approaches the counter. A few seconds later, you are opposite of him while Will sits in a chair nearby, waiting for the two of you to finish up. You point at Will, making Macklin look back. âAny drink for him?â
âI think heâs good⊠Will, drink?â
âUh, no, thanks though.â Macklin turns back to you, giving you an awkward smirk-ish grin, pulling out his wallet. Pulling out his card, he taps it on the card reader, waiting for the beep. When the screen reads âPlease Remove Your Card From the Terminalâ simultaneously with the long sound, he grabs the bag with both sandwiches in it.
âHave a good one!â
âYou too!â Macklin called out your name at the end, quickly rushing out the door while Will held it open, nodding at you as they walked towards his car. It was 11:52. He had never done that before, and clearly he knew you to a degree, but this was new.
Will smith is shooting himself in the foot. Heâd been fucking around with Mack, playfully smacking pucks at each other as they wait for their photos to be taken.
He didnât mean it. At all!
The puck slipped, thatâs what heâs telling himself, it slipped and shot right into your camera. Lens glass all over the ice, your now broken camera hanging loosely around your neck from where you had dropped it.
The arena falls silent, Macklin snorts. Wills hand covers his mouth, âoh my godâ he whispers, âoh my god im so sorryâ he apologizes, skating over to where youâre standing
Youâre standing, blank faced as you look at the lenses on the ground, glass, hard plastic that took you two years to save up for all broken into the ice, âfuckâ you curse, you look over at will, âwas that?â
His heart drops, âyeah- im so sorry I didnât realize how much- force Iâd passed that at I didnât realize it at all Iâm so sorry Iâll pay for it allâ he promises
You look down at the broken camera that sits against your stomach; slowly and carefully pulling it off, âoh Dorothyâ You frown, âit was nice to know youâ
The team photo day gets pushed to next week because the ice is contaminated with glass.
Next week you find a brand new Sony camera at your desk, wrapped with a nice bow. As well as about twenty other lenses; some that youâd been waiting for paychecks to hit before buying.
âAgain. So sorry for the damage. I hope this covers it. If not please please please contact me Will Smith #2â
You smile fondly, because heâd covered the camera and then some.
The camera lasts three weeks before itâs destroyed.
It happened during the Bruins vs sharks game. Youâd been sat by the bruins net to capture the goals, or any moments. By some miracle; itâs Will who breaks your camera again. A puck deflected off the goalie; and right into your camera. And youâd gotten it all in photos .
Youâre thankful youâd gotten this camera insured, and that only one lenses had been damaged; but the camera? Toast.
Will approaches you after the game, âhow much do I owe you?â He asks, watching as you jump in fright, âsorry sorry- I thought youâd heard meâ
âNo- shit you scared meâ you exhale shakily, âum. You donât have to buy me a new one. I got this one insured after the last incidentâ
Will looks down as you open the uber app, âare you- do you have a ride home?â
You shake your head, âah my cars in the shop. Iâm fineâ
âLet me give you a ride homeâ He begs, âplease. Iâve destroyed your camera again. Please?â
You give in.
Three weeks later a camera shows up on your desk. A new Sony; the same model as last time, a neat little bow around it. A note with familiar handwriting
âSorry for breaking the camera! I really hope this is the last time I break it! Theyâre expensive!! If I do.. or you wanted it.. hereâs my number WS #2 - xxx-xxx-xxxxâ
being back in vancouver for the summer off from university; or the off season for the hockey players; was your favourite thing. not that you hated your university, but you hated being away from home.
your brother played in the ahl, so often times he trained with some of the local players who played in the nhl. and when he wasn't training, and even when he wasn't home, they were at your house. they claimed your house was the best, for some reason.
this always led to the tension between you and the three of them; fraser minten, macklin celebrini, and connor bedard. you didn't hate any of them, you just found it kind of annoying how they're always around and in your space.
like right now. you had just walked out onto your back patio, full intentions of getting some hot tub time in, maybe dipping in the pool, getting a suntan. things you had planned to do since your brother and your parents are either gone out or at work.
what you didn't expect to see was those three hockey players in your pool. shirtless. duh.
'seriously?!' you exclaimed. 'don't you guys have pools of your own?' you asked.
'yeah, but yours is better.' macklin said.
'you wanna join us?' connor asked.
'no!' you exclaimed. you turned back around with full intentions of going back inside.
'wait, you can stay out here. we won't bother you. we'll give you your space.' fraser said. 'we promise.'
you found yourself agreeing. he did promise, after all. so, you pulled your cover up off, pulling your sunglasses down to cover your eyes as you laid down on one of the lounge chairs on your back deck. you were aware that they glanced at your ass as you moved, but you just rolled your eyes at it.
you'd only been laying out there for a few minutes when you still felt eyes on you. you tilted your head up, peering through your sunglasses, noticing macklin had migrated more towards the edge of the pool, arms crossed over the side, eyes clearly locked on your tits.
you pushed your sunglasses up. 'you're not fucking serious. you're a fucking perv.' you yelled.
'uh... i wasn't...' macklin started.
'yeah, you were.' you said. you were about to say something else, probably even more harsh, but fraser cut you off.
'hey! stop. both of you.' he said. 'macklin, apologize.'
'sorry.' macklin said, sheepishly.
you didn't even notice connor getting out of the pool and kneeling down next to you until he was right there. your breath hitched. he's really close. and he looks really, really good.
he lifted a hand, hearing your breath hitch and seeing you bite your lip. you didn't tell him to stop, so he kept moving. his fingertips just ghosted over the tops of your breasts that were spilling out from your bikini top.
'they are pretty, though.' he said, and he swears he heard you whimper.
when you didn't pull away or push him away and tell him to stop, he reached for the ties on your bikini top, untying them and letting it fall between the two of you. you instinctively went to cover yourself, but he pulled your hands away.
'hey, no. don't do that.' he said. then he looked over his shoulder. 'mack, come on. come get a taste.'
macklin was immediately scrambling out from the pool and onto the deck, going as quick as he could without running so he wouldn't fall. without even thinking, you parted your legs as he got closer to you. he fit in between them perfectly, burying his face into your tits.
you gasped when his tongue hit your nipple, the water dripping from his skin from the pool burning into your skin, despite it being cold. your back arched, and your eyes closed. but then you felt a hand on your chin, turning your face to the left.
'keep your eyes open.' fraser told you, looking down at you, eyes wide and pupils blown with lust.
they let macklin suck and nip at your breasts for a few minutes until they saw a wet patch starting to form on the center of your bikini bottoms. perfect. then fraser was grabbing macklin by the hair and pulling him back away from you.
'what? what are you- but... mmph...' macklin whined.
your heart burst at the pet name, but your desire overtook that. you whined, nodding, sliding your wet bikini bottoms down your legs and throwing them to the side.
fraser reached for his bag that was on another lounge chair, pulling out a condom.
'been thinking of this every summer for the past few years.' he admitted. 'so have you, huh? want us so bad.'
you whined again, nodding, spreading your legs and reaching for him.
'on your hands and knees.' he said.
you didn't move fast enough, so connor grabbed you by the hips and flipped you into position, making you gasp out in surprise. then, he was grabbing macklin by the shoulder, putting him on his knees in front of you, his obvious bulge in his swim trunks right in front of you.
he helped macklin push them down and pull his cock out as fraser gently ran his fingertips through your wet folds. you pushed back into him.
'so desperate.' he whispered.
'yeah, she is.' connor agreed, tangling a hand in your hair to guide your mouth to macklin's waiting cock, which you immediately hollowed your cheeks and took in as deep as you could.
you moaned both at the taste and the feeling of fraser pushing into you. you pushed back further into him as his hands settled on your hips to get into a good position to start his thrusts.
connor kept his hand in your hair, pushing you down further onto macklin's cock, making you gag and your eyes water. he still had his other hand free, so he freed his own cock from his swim trunks. he guided it to your mouth, and you pulled off of macklin, a string of spit connecting you.
fraser grabbed a handful of your ass, speeding up his thrusts as you wrapped your lips around connor's tip. you reached a hand up, wrapping around macklin's base, twisting and tugging.
'that's it.' fraser whispered. 'taking our cocks so well.'
you moved your mouth over connor once more before moving back to macklin, using your hand on connor. you moaned onto macklin again, making him cry out and reach for your hair.
'oh!' he moaned out as you licked a stripe up the side, running your tongue over the vein there.
connor pulled you back off of macklin. 'my turn again.' he said.
macklin whined, but connor's hand on the back of his neck again shut him up.
'look at her.' fraser cooed.
you pulled off connor's cock again to glance over your shoulder at him as he thrust into you again. your eyes were watering and your lips were slick with spit and a mix of both connor and macklin's precum, but in their eyes, you never looked prettier.
'gonna have to do this a lot more.' fraser said when he felt your walls clench around him. oh, you like this.
'so pretty.' connor said, trailing his thumb across your bottom lip to pull it open, tapping the head of his cock on your tongue.
he turned you back to macklin, letting you wrap your lips around the younger boy again, relaxing your throat as you deepthroated him.
macklin cried out again, hand tangling in your hair. 'gonna come.' he whined.
you sucked harder, eager for him to spill down your throat. he came with another cry, sending spurts of come into your mouth, which you swallowed.
you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out to show them, and then fraser reached up to tilt your head back towards connor. you closed your eyes as connor jerked his cock in front of you, sending his come in ropes across your face, letting it drip down to your tits.
you moaned at the taste, cunt clenching around fraser as your own orgasm hit you, sucking him in deeper and milking his cock as your orgasm spurred on his own.
he helped you ride it out, thrusting a few more times as connor wiped his come off of your face and macklin fell backwards onto the lounge chair, still whining, the pleasure overwhelming him.
'that's it.' fraser said as he pulled out.
he saw you beginning to fall forward, and reached out a hand to grab you but didn't in time, and you fell forward into macklin, both of whining again. you're both so fucked out.
connor reached a hand over, brushing some of your hair back, seeing the blissed out look in your eyes.
'you good?' he asked. you nodded. 'gonna have to do that again, yeah?' you nodded again.
'let's get cleaned up before your brother gets back, yeah?' fraser said.
both you and macklin shook your heads, hands shooting out to pull the two of them down into a cuddle pile with the both of you. cleaning up can wait. you just want this right now.
Conner x reader. Conner loves two things: back rubs and head scratches.
CB98.||connor bedard.
fluff.
connor loves back rubs and head scratches.
One thing about Connor was that he lived for affection. Anywhere we went, truly, he didnât care who was watching; it was always the same request for âback rubsâ or âhead scratches,â usually accompanied by him looking at me with the saddest, most pathetic puppy-dog eyes he could muster.
Today was no different. Connorâs mom, Melanie, had invited us out to an early dinner since we were back in North Vancouver, and of course, I said yes.
âConnor, we have to leave in like ten minutes! Are you ready?â I called out to him, slipping on a light coat and double-checking my purse. Iâd opted for a pair of jeans with a nice top and heelsâa rare effort that I hoped heâd appreciate.
âIâm ready, but you didnât give me any scratches this morning,â he pouted, adjusting the strap of his watch. He looked effortlessly handsome in black trousers, crisp white shoes, a plain tee, and, of course, his signature hat.
âIâm sorry, baby. We woke up late and I needed to make sure we were on time. When we get back, Iâll make up for it, okay?â I reached upward to plant a kiss on his lips. Even in heels, I was still dwarfed by himâone of the perks of being so short, I suppose.
âYeah, yeah,â he sighed, clearly unimpressed. The lack of physical contact this morning was a bad omen; I knew his mood would be "off" until he got his fix.
As we walked out to the car, the silence was heavy. I plugged the restaurantâs location into the GPS, glancing over at him. His "sad face" remained firmly in place for the entire drive, making guilt prick at me.
âBaby, donât let a rushed morning ruin your mood,â I said softly, reaching over to drag my nails lightly up and down his forearm to soothe him. It was our routine: head scratches in the morning, back rubs before sleep. Without it, his internal compass seemed off.
âIâll try, but it feels weird,â he shrugged. The only time he went without his "maintenance" was when he was on road trips for hockey, and even then, I usually tagged along to keep the peace.
Pulling up to the restaurant, we realized we were a few minutes early. Melanie and his sister, Madi, hadn't arrived yet. Connor turned off the engine and immediately tried to lean across the center console toward me, though the gear shift made it a clumsy endeavor.
âWhat are you doing?â I giggled, bracing my hands against his chest.
âNeed head scratches,â he muttered, tilting his head toward me. I reached out and gently lifted his hat off, running my fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp. He practically melted into the leather seat, a satisfied, low moan leaving his lips as his eyes fluttered shut.
A few minutes later, I spotted his momâs car pulling into the lot. âCompany's here,â I whispered, reluctantly pulling my hand away and smoothing his hair back down before handing him his hat. He let out a long, dramatic sigh of disappointment.
âI love you,â I told him, kissing his plump lips one last time before we hopped out to greet his mom, dad, and Madi.
âWhatâs with the face, Connor?â Madi asked immediately, pointing at his lingering pout.
âNothing,â he replied shortly, though he squeezed my hand significantly tighter as we walked into the restaurant.
âConnor just didnât wake up on the right side of the bed today, thatâs all,â I told everyone, trying to be vague. I didn't want to totally expose his desperate need for constant physical contact in front of his father.
âOh, itâs okay, sweetheart. Hopefully, some good food will make you feel better,â Melanie said warmly as we were led to our table. Connor just shook his head, looking down at the menu like it had offended him.
Once the food arrived and conversation began to flow, I noticed Connorâs eyes repeatedly darting toward me. I smiled back, but I could tell he was reaching his limit. The jokes and stories at the table were great, but he was vibrating with restless energy.
Suddenly, I felt his breath against my ear. âMy back,â he whispered urgently.
âWhat about it? Are you okay? Does it hurt?â I asked, leaning in, genuinely concerned heâd pulled something during practice.
âNeeds rubs,â he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
âConnor, right here? At the table?â I questioned under my breath.
âPlease,â he whined, his voice hitting that specific pitch that I could never say no to.
âShh, okay, okay.â I reached over, sliding my hand discreetly up the back of his shirt. I began to rub slow, soothing circles against his skin while maintaining eye contact with Melanie, nodding along to her story about their neighborâs dog.
The change was instant. Connorâs entire demeanor brightened. He sat up straighter, finally joining the conversation with his dad, laughing and cracking jokes like the mood cloud had never existed.
Melanie, however, was a motherâand mothers notice everything. She paused, her eyes drifting to where my arm disappeared under Connorâs shirt, and a knowing smirk spread across her face.
âOh, I see some things never change!â she laughed, turning her gaze to me. âGrowing up, Connor always wanted his back rubbed. We couldn't go anywhere without him leaning against someone for a scratch. I see he never grew out of it.â
She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly through her gallery before sliding it across the table. âLook at this.â
It was a photo of a tiny, toddler-aged Connor, leaning his back against his momâs legs while she was trying to cook, his face wearing that exact same pouting expression heâd had in the car.
âAwww,â I cooed, leaning over to kiss his burning red cheek. âYouâre so cute. You've always been a velcro baby.â
âStop,â he muttered, though he was blushing furiously and smiling into his water glass. I just kept my hand moving against his back, feeling lucky to be the one he chose to lean on. I really did love my needy little family.
Summary: Youâre the new physio intern for the Sharks, but unfortunately the SAP Center has a personal vendetta against you.
The first thing you realize about the SAP Center is that it is not a building. It is a labyrinth, designed to ruin your day.
Youâre standing in a concrete hallway that looks identical to the last three concrete hallways youâve walked down. Your internship badge is clipped to the front of your shirt crookedly, and your phone is telling your that youâre somewhere near Section 127, which means nothing because youâre not here for hockey.
Youâre here because youâre a physiotherapy student and you thought it would be a great opportunity in a professional sports setting. You did not account for the maze.
You pass a sign that says âMEDIAâ, then another that says âLOCKER ROOMâ. It all feels wrong. You turn a corner and immediately run into a very solid human being. You stumble backwards and he doesnât move an inch.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorryââ
âItâs okay!â He says immediately, hands hovering out in front of him like heâll steady you if you fall. âIâve been hit harder.â
You look up and see the guy, standing with messy dark hair, Sharks logo printed on his gray hoodie. Itâs Macklin Celebrini, of course it is. Your brain short circuits.
He looks down at you, surprised. âYou good?â
You open your mouth, close it, open it again. âIâm looking for the physio room.â
He just stares. So you continue talking, because what else are you supposed to do.
âIâm starting my internship today. In, likeâŠten minutes. And I think I just walked into media? And then like, a storage closet? I donât know anymore.â
Thereâs a moment of slience and then he grins. Not in a mean way, just absolutely delighted about this.
âOkay. SoâŠfunny thing.â
Your stomach drops at his words.
âYou are heading,â he points behind you, âin the exact opposite direction.â
Now itâs your turn to stare in shock.
âLike,â he continues, smiling, âthe straight wrong way.â
You let out a long, slow exhale. âCool. Thatâs great. Thatâs reallyâ really awesome.â
He laughs. âFirst time in the building?â
âIs it that obvious?â
He shrugs. âI did the same thing my first week here. Couldnât find the locker room for shit. This place is like a maze designed to test rookies.â
That information settles something in you, and the embarrassed flush in your face is starting to fade.
âDo you know where the physio room is?â You ask, hoping for clear directions this time.
âYeah, Iâll walk you.â
âYou donât have toââ
âI know.â He grins. âBut if I let you wander you might end up in the zamboni garage.â
You drop your head, groaning. He laughs.
âOkay, thank you.â You accept.
He falls into step beside you like itâs nothing.
âYou nervous for your first day?â He asks.
âA little.â
âThatâs normal.â
And you nod, hiking your bag back up your shoulder. You turn down another identical hallway, but Macklin seems to know where heâs going, so you donât question it. But youâre thinking that theyâre really gonna need to start putting more signs up.
âSo, what year are you in?â Mack asks.
âSecond, doing clinicals. Iâve worked mostly in hospital setting so this isâ different.â
He nods thoughtfully. âYeah, itâs intense. But the physio team here is the best. Super smart. Theyâll love you.â
âYou donât know that.â You argue lightly.
âWell, youâre about to see for yourself.â He stops, gesturing to a door. âPhysio.â
You look at the hall, at the stupid room that is ten feet from where you made your first wrong turn. You laugh, slightly mortified, but also relieved.
âThank you. Seriously.â
âAnytime.â He pauses. âAlso, welcome to the Sharks!â
You glance back at him as he nods goodbye, turning to leave and almost running into someone else. You muffle a laugh as he apologizes.
You step into the physio room, heart pounding for an entirely different reason than it was when you first got here. Maybe this building wonât be so bad after all.
summary: after walking away from will, y/n was convinced that everything will be fine but she canât help but think about him when he doesnât reach out to her anymore.
pairing: will x reader
word count: 1.5k
song of the fic: mess it up - gracie abrams
part one: guess iâll never be good
will not texting you feels like something you should be proud of at first. you tell yourself its fine, that you protected both of you from something you're not built to handle. you remind yourself that over and over again for the first couple of days as if thinking that would eventually make it true in your heart instead of just your head.
it works until it no longer does because the silence between you two wasn't a good kind. it was heavy, full of him in different ways.
you don't reach for your phone as much as anymore because there's no reason to, or when you sit down somewhere and your brain expects him to be there beside you like its muscle memory. the worst part is how normal he used to feel in your life, almost as if he wasn't even something you had to think about.
he was always just there and now he isn't, or at least he's not where you can see him and that hurt you more than you thought it would.
-
it ends up being cat who gets through to you in a way no one else has managed to do in the last few days. you're on her bed again, scrolling through your phone mindlessly while she folds up her laundry she just took out of the dryer.
"you know what i don't get?" cat says suddenly.
you look away from your phone and catch her eye, "what."
she tilts her head slightly, "you constantly acting like love is something you're supposed to be qualified for. like there's a checklist you didn't pass so you don't get to have it."
you place your phone down beside you shaking your head. "that's not what this is."
"it kinda is though."
you don't miss the way your throat feels tight. she grabs a jacket, throwing it onto a hanger before shrugging. "i mean look at it this way. will has been showing you the same thing over and over again and you keep rewriting it into something that feels safer."
"cat, he's just-"
"-being nice?" she cuts in before shaking her head. "no, he's not just nice. hes consistent. theres a huge difference."
her words stick to you like glue.
consistent.
"you deserve to be a part of the stuff you always read about,"
"what?"
"you know, like those books you like or those movies you always make us watch and then pretend you don't cry at," she pauses before walking over to sit on her bed next to you. "you talk about them like they're separate from real life, like love like that only ever happens in stories."
you shift awkwardly, playing with the hem of your sweater. "that's not what i think."
cat hums softly, "you don't think you're someone who gets those soft parts, the staying and being chosen without conditions but you are. you're literally the kind of person those books and movies are about. you just don't let yourself believe it."
now that struck something hard in you.
cat leans forward and brushes a piece of hair out of your face, a soft but sad smile resting on her face.
"and will?" she adds. "he's been acting that story out for you the whole time. you don't have to earn it, you just have to stop acting like it's not for you."
that actually hurt because it's true in a way that you didn't want to admit out loud.
-
itâs later that night when it starts to feel too loud in your head. youâre home now, your phone is face down on the counter every notification making your heart skip a beat hoping his name would flash up. but it doesnât.
you keep thinking about catâs words. then it shifts to will not reaching out after that night, about how he just listened and respected your boundaries without fighting you on it and somehow that feels worse than if he had.
itâs not just missing him.
itâs worse than that.
itâs the feeling that you didnât just walk away from a person. you walked away from something that could have been real and you did it because you didnât believe youâre allowed to have it.
before you could properly think about it, your phone is in your hand hovering over his contact.
your heart is screaming at you.
go. go. go. whatâre you waiting for?
but your head is still there too.
donât, you already ruined it. you already made your choice.
you take a deep breath before pressing call. it rings for not even a second when his voice comes through.
âhey.â
and thatâs all it takes from you. his voice. still so comforting after you hurt him. you try and say something but it almost comes out as a low whine.
ây/n? heyâhey are you okay?â
you try to answer but itâs like you forgot how to speak.
âiâ will.â
the line goes quiet for a second, âwhere are you?â
âi donât- i donât know what im doing.â
âokay, okay. hey, just breathe for me alright?â
you try and listen to what heâs saying, taking a breath but it comes out broken. âi canât willâ i canât stop thinking about it.â
âabout what?â
âyou.â
thereâs another beat of silence over the phone, then you can hear some rustling of keys. âwhere are you?â
âat home.â
âiâm coming.â
-
it doesnât take long for will to arrive at your front door. the soft knock snaps you out of your thoughts. you slowly open the door and there he was. his eyes filled with concern but slightly softening when he locks them with yours.
âhey,â
the way he speaks, so quietly is what does it for you. him in front of you; after days of not seeing him. you completely shatter.
you shake your head, tears spilling before you could stop yourself. âiâm sorry will, iâm so sorry.â
âhey, none of that. donât apologize, just talk to me.â
you angrily laugh through your tears, frustrated at yourself. âi donât know how to be normal. be enough, be someone who doesnât mess everything up before it even starts.â
he takes a step closer, making sure to not overwhelm you in any way.
âyou didnât mess anything up.â
âbut i did though, i keep doing it. i keep pushing you away and i donât even stop myself because iâ i donât think i deserve it.â
he goes quiet before shaking his head.
ây/n..â
you wipe away at your tears, âyou donât get it. i look at you and i think why would you ever choose me on purpose? and i know what you said and i know you meant it but i canâtâi canât make it make sense in my head.â
you run your fingers through your hair stressfully, trying to find something to do with your shaking hands. âbecause iâm not someone people stay for. iâm not someoneâs person.â
silence fill the room again but this time it feels different.
he exhales slowly, âyou donât get to decide that for yourself,â he says quietly.
âi do though will, itâs me. i know me.â
âno,â he says, stepping closer now, finally close enough that you have to look at him. âyou know what you think about yourself, thatâs not the same thing.â
your lips wobble as you look away from him at your feet. if you looked at him you knew you were going to break down again and you donât want that.
âiâm trying,â you whisper. âi swear i am. i just donât know how to be someone you can love without ruining it.â
his expression softens completely.
âyou already are someone i love,â he says.
you freeze at that, letting his words sink in.
âdonât say that,â you mumble.
âitâs true.â
âwillââ
âhey no, seriously look at me.â
you slowly up at him, and he nods in satisfaction. âi love you, okay? iâm not trying to fix you, iâm trying to be with you.â
you feel your throat close completely and this time when the tears come, you donât even try to stop them. your hands come up to your face, shoulders shaking before you can even steady yourself.
his body steps closer to you, arms immediately wrapping you pulling you close against him. you can hear him let out a small exhale of relief.
âcmere, iâve got you. iâm here now.â
his lips come to press up softly against your forehead causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. you were so gone now, youâre in. thereâs no backing out of this.
he pulls away taking your face in his hands, thumbs swiping away the smudged mascara under your eye.
âi donât need you to be perfect,â he murmurs. âi donât need you to be fixed. i donât need you to earn anything alright? i just need you to stop running from me,â
âi dont know how.â you admit
âthen start here,â he says softly, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face. âstay.â
you nod, pushing your face back into his chest. his arms come to wrap around you tightly, placing another small kiss to the top of your forehead. and for once you felt okay with your heart taking over your head.
You picked Sonoma state because- because you were drunk. And it was the warmest and farthest place you could think of getting into. A small college. No big town with famous news reporters. Youâd quietly slipped out of the media. Left your life behind.
Thatâs where you met Will Smith. Not at Sonoma. But during a weekend youâd driven down to see the penguins play against the sharks. Heâd backed into your car and youâd about cussed him out in every language you could think of, âare you actually stupid? Do they not teach you how to drive in Boston? Or are you just stupid hockey player? Shoot puck in goal?â You make a disgruntled sound, âah- canât even score goal. Blue is for winners, not loserâ you shake your head
âDamn. Iâm sorry I just wasnât thinkingâ it sounds bad when Will says it out loud. He was tired, just lost 6-0 and barely got any ice time because his bald coach hates his guts and now heâs just backed into Malkins daughterâs car and he wants to eat himself alive. As if being chewed out by the coaches wasnât bad enough, now heâs getting yelled at in Russian and now English
âNo.â You raise your hands, âah. Is not scratched badly. You already lost very sad, you maybe want to go home and cryâ youâre smiling when you say it, pulling your hair back as you scruff your jacket up higher. Your accent comes off thicker than you want it too; usually itâs not that noticeable. But when English isnât exactly your first language.
Will looks at your car. Because it is scratched. The paints chipped off and the headlight is cracked, âyou sure? I mean I can pay for itâ
You tsk, âif they do not send you to AHL before you go homeâ
Wills expression drops, âyouâre meanâ
âYou back into my million dollar car! You have reverse camera no?â
You make a fair point, âat least let me take you to dinner. Yâknow. Paybackâ Will offers
You pout your lips, mulling the idea over in your mind before saying, âI was raised by hockey player. Iâm not cheapâ
âProbably cheaper than fixing your carâ he reasons.
âOh. And I driveâ you nod to yourself as you slip into your car, rolling down the passenger window and pat at the seat, âget in pretty boyâ
Itâs how it starts.
It always ends in flames. Like the second you get comfortable around him; enough to like his post on Instagram but never enough to actually follow him back; you flee.
Youâre in, and the moment he does something. Like tell you he loves you as he nuts inside you- you flee. The moment he admits he needs you. You remind him you donât need him. And then youâre out.
Youâll find him in the parking lot after a game, mock him for losing. Then youâll press him against the side of his car and kiss him until heâs breathless.
Itâs like that again tonight, youâd mocked and teased and now heâs pressed against the range rover as you kiss his neck, âwhy canât we put a label on it?â He murmurs, âI like youâ
You pull away, âI said no labels. Just sex- is all I want you forâ
Will leans back, âthereâs no way you think we canât be something seriousâ his grip on your bicep tightens. You flee back even more
âI am. I told you- I keep telling you. No labelsâ you sigh softly, looking up at him as his grip relaxes
âAt least- like. I dunno can I cook you dinner?â He offers, brushing his hands through his hair.
You pull your hair over your shoulder, âyouâre going to cook me dinner? And then what?â
Will leans back in, âI lick whipped cream off youâ he whispers in your ear.
Your breath hitches, âconfidentâ
âI know what I want.â
You do go over for dinner. You end up on his couch, pantless, wearing his hoodie. Your feet tucked under his thigh to keep warm. His hand rests on your ankle. Itâs domestic, and itâs natural. Natural in a way that panics you. Natural in a way you said you were going out with friends instead of meeting your dad and Sidney for dinner, âbe honestâ you start, âhow many times have you seen home alone?â
Will exhales, âlike a million timesâ
âRemoteâ
He hands you the remote, you flick onto Netflix. Opening the movie âEndless loveâ and playing it, âI thought we were watching home aloneâ
âYou are not home alone? You are with me. We watch what I wantâ
Will nods, leaning back against the couch, his hand settling on your thigh as you scoot closer to him.
You fall asleep like that, pressed against him. You wake up in his bed, his arm tossed over your side as you curl inward on him. Drool coating your cheek. You wake up; unsettled. A feeling in your stomach that you canât control. Youâd spent your entire 9 months of adult life fleeing. And for the first time, you experience the opposite.
You want to stay. You want to stay in bed with Will smith forever. And itâs the one thing you canât have
You had a week's break after a long tour that you planned to spend cooped up in your favourite cafe, all in hopes of getting over your writer's block. But somehow two strangers managed to change your plans. Your world started blending into theirs enough for the lines to blur. But just as you started thinking about forever you overheard something that suddenly made everything click into place. If thereâs one thing youâve always been good at, itâs running away.
pairings macklin celebrini x fem!singer!crosby!reader x platonic! will smith warnings hidden identities (ish), Sydney Crosby isnât really mentioned a bunch but heâs an absent dad here, fluff, angst wc 14.6k notes donât ask me how long this took to write. I donât want to talk about it.
The Bay Area made for a great escape. There was nothing comparable to the feeling of the cool misted air encapsulating your heated body in a hug of frost. It was a different feeling, drowning in the waves of Mediterranean-like air that swept through your open window. Though it was foreign all those years ago, it wasn't unwelcome.
If you allowed yourself to be honest, youâd admit that it made for a nice change to the humid air you used to subject yourself to in Pittsburgh. Itâs not saying much, though. You only stayed there during their hot summers, your bags already packed by the time the sun started setting a bit earlier than usual.Â
You loved San Jose, you truly did. Itâs been three years since you first landed with your momâs teary eyes still reflecting through the hot summer heat waves, an oasis of what you were leaving behind.Â
But itâs also been three years since youâd spent your last summer cooped up in a room too big, too unfamiliar. Only this time, this type of unfamiliarity wasnât welcomed. The one that your dad spent weeks setting up every year. Planning through focused eyes, and unreliable Google results about what kids your age liked. Not that you knew, though. You always assumed too much and trusted too little. But how could you not? Three years since youâve seen his face, the childlike glee that simmered in his eyes as his nervous hands shakingly held up a big, dramatic, welcome home sign. It was cruel, he was cruel.Â
But that was before. It was before your world tilted on its axis, the one itâs been teetering on for years. Before heartbreak took on a clever disguise, and betrayal lingered hotter than the warmed tears forcing its way down your cheeks, ones that resembled the man you left behind.
So, you went home early. Back to your mom, back to Canada. For a while, it was good, great even. Until it wasnât. It was the same vicious cycle, an event that haunted your timeline. After all, you were your father's daughter. Your eyes crinkled up the same way whenever your heart bloomed too fast, your smiles lighting up your entire face with a sheen of light. And the way everyone always did, they caught it.
Old friends, relationships, every single person youâve ever talked to for longer than a fleeting conversation, eventually found out. And then you were that same little girl back in Pittsburgh holding back her tears, and suffocating under the weight of the name on the back of her jersey because the world didnât know about her. Every relationship in your life circled back to your dad, and they all ended the same. Only this time you didnât allow your dad to soothe the pains with poolside (virgin) piña coladas and extra sunscreen, you resented him. With no other choice, you blamed him.
So you changed the straw for a pencil, and the sobs for hums. You blocked a few numbers too many, and deleted photos that not even amnesia could make you forget. You erased everything with a flimsy eraser, graphite-filled holes littering each corner. And then you wrote over it as if your skin didn't shed with it, as if your pencil wasnât fueled by the tears youâd spilled.Â
But San Jose didn't bleed black and gold, it bled blue. After years of sitting like a wounded fish in water coloured by your own damaged fins, waiting for the circling sharks to lunge, you finally became something more.
The walls you built were strong enough to keep them out. And to keep you safe. Distance meant security, and secrets meant everything you could mutter out between clenched teeth. It didnât burn the same when you never allowed yourself to feel it.
Even now, your sacrifices seemed worthwhile. The sharps of your troubled heart sometimes made themselves noticeable, but it was worth it. It had no choice but to be. But somewhere along the late nights youâd spent perfecting your albums and pushing yourself to perfection, you lost everything.
Itâs a weird paradox of delusion that you were still far too blind to come to terms with. It wasn't always this way, and there was no one to blame but yourself- and the secret youâve been forced to carry your entire life.Â
But still, you closed yourself off to the world. And in response, the world kept spinning. People aged and the seasons changed, but you were still exactly where you left yourself. In San Jose.Â
Your transformation was gradual since the beginning. It started with the rare out-of-body experiences, the echoes of the voices from the people you left behind bouncing off the walls of your apartment, their voices sharp as they spoke in tongues. Your body grew used to moving on autopilot as your mind forced itself into the passenger seat.
Because now, it is easier to pretend that nothing happened than to accept the fact that your entire world ended those few years ago. To pretend that you never succumbed to a shell of the person you once were, the type of person who didnât flinch at the sight of every happy family you couldnât help but watch through the slightly fogged windows of your favourite cafe buried deep in the heart of Silicon Valley.
And when you finally looked away in an attempt to hide your tears, your mind finally caught up. Your hands weren't yours, the nail beds were unfamiliar. And the overhead lights were too bright, too loud to be left on. But you werenât your father's daughter anymore, so it was worth every slowly blinking away tear.
But now with your vintage sunglasses perched comfortably over your nose (not because it was sunny, but for fashion. Always for fashion) with your, just as loved, brown coach clutch practically glued to your bare thigh, it couldn't be clearer.
Nothing compared to San Jose.Â
Your hands cramped with each swirly âYâ that you delicately carved into your notebook, your pencil suspiciously sharp beneath your much smoother fingers. But the burn only fueled the fire in your mind, words coming together and practically writing themselves, your stress-bitten pencil becoming your muse.
Your voice was low enough to get lost in the ambience, the tunes you turned to melodies floating far enough to dance with whichever elevator music the cafe usually played around this time. Playful, and light. Not that you were aware of it, though. Your headphones didn't allow for any sudden noise to interrupt your flow, your instrumentals coming in one ear and fluently travelling across to the other.
You read between the lines, the notes that carried heavier than they used to. The poems translated well onto paper, your emotions seeping through each new sentence. The words weaved between commas and ended after your periods, only to start back up again without a hitch.Â
It wasnât until a tap against your shoulder, one too light to ignore, but sudden enough to pull a harsh flinch out of you. You looked up too sharply to be played off as something less, your headphones suddenly feeling heavier against your done-up hair. You sat frozen as your mind travelled through excuses because normal people didn't flinch when someone noticed them. Normal people did not hide their faces even after the sun had set with glasses too dark to see through.
Before you could stammer out some sad sentence that you knew would come out too heavy, too rehearsed to be natural, you were cut off by the same elderly woman whoâd tapped you. She spoke as if she were repeating herself, your eyes watching the slopes of her mouth as your music replaced her voice.
Even though you were finally writing something after a month of silence, your mind was empty every time you even dared to picture your notebook, you slid the headphones off. ââclosing in a few minutes, dear.â You blinked once, your body relaxing when you realized what this was. Or wasnât, about.
âThank you, maâam.â You nodded your head to show your thanks, your voice quiet with lack of use. The lady lit up, her warm smile growing â which you almost thought wasnât possible. Her mouth opened as if she already had something to say, but then she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded. Her greyed hair swung with the motion, your eyes following the braid as if it held its own gravitational pull.
You watched through a confused gaze as she turned on her heel a little too fast, her braid swinging around and slapping across her frail shoulder. Your heart leaped the same time your legs did, your hands abandoning the one thing that had your everything in it.
She didnât fall, but she didnât have a chance to trip â thanks to you. She waddled on her feet for a second, her palm coming up and wrapping around one of your arms that wrapped around her from behind. âWhoa, I got you.â You helped her gain her balance, your hands never straying far.
She turned around much more carefully, her smile a bit stunned but genuine. Up close you can see her face more clearly. She was beautiful. Her eyes that held warmth for a stranger sheâd just met gleamed unashamed, her irises bright as if sheâd been staring into the sun for too long.Â
Her eyes carried deep lines, ones that branched down her cheeks and joined together at the bends of her mouth. It was obvious sheâd spent her life smiling, perhaps loving everyone she'd ever encountered. Your heart ached, jealousy rooting over you. It was times like this that made you wish you werenât alone. But standing in front of her with her nurturing gaze washing over you, you almost felt the ghost of it.
The lights began burning your eyes and her voice transformed into something you didnât recognize. You spoke back in a voice soft enough to combat her, but you couldnât hear your thoughts. Noises rang in your ears as you watched her walk away, round the corner of the counter, then disappear behind the back doors.
Youâve been coming to this cafe for all three years at every possible time you could, yet youâve never met her before. But you couldnât dwell on it now, not when your hands began shaking, your palms burning as you tried to feel something human-like again.Â
By the time the bell rang one last time to announce your departure your body was already numb. It was dark enough that no one would recognize you but your glasses stayed on. Because what if they did? What if someone saw you walking this street yesterday and decided to camp out? What if the elderly lady was the same person who contacted Deux-Moi about some outlandish rumours that only made sense to the incels who believed them? Â
If you were in your right mind you would know that you were overthinking everything. But growing up being forced into being a secret had its consequences, the eggshells still exist just as much now as they did back then. The burning in your palm could only keep you conscious long enough for you to get home. But when your apartment's lights remained flicked off, you spiralled.
There was nothing to comfort you when you were alone. Not even the voices that ricocheted off the walls had anything to say, not worth remembering at least.Â
It was a few days later, but again you were found in the place your body almost always found itself during each short break you had. And as always, your notebook was sitting beside you. The same bitten pencil was placed absentmindedly adjacent to it.Â
Your body was sunken down into the seats with a type of exhaustion that was downright criminal at this time of day. It was barely noon, and already the gravity was pulling you down and away from the world â into a secluded space that held no room for anything but you and your thoughts.
Your feet, clad in lacy red tights, swung gently beneath you. Your other leg was pushed under it, your warmth radiating across it enough to keep the bite of air away each time the door opened with a new unfamiliar face. Your black kitten heels were kicked off somewhere between your seat and the one across from you, not that it mattered at the moment.Â
People watching was just as heartbreaking as exhilarating. While you loved watching the way every individual went about their days, some beaming with bright smiles, others with stained cheeks and tears lining their waterline â it was daunting.Â
You made stories up for them in your head, some more heartbreaking than others. But it wasn't the sad ones that hurt the worst. No, it was the happiest ones that carried the melancholy.
It was the ones that had no choice but to be real.
The ones with loving parents nurturing their children, their voices soft as they spoke between hushed giggles and half-apologetic glances towards everyone who glanced over when their child cheered a bit too loudly when their favourite drink was placed in front of them.Â
The ones where small groups of friends leaned over each other as they whispered into the night, their voices overlapping but never straying too far away. Notebooks crossing over each other enough to become obvious, but not enough for anyone to move them away.
It was the couples with their sides pressed as close as possible, their mouths whispering sweet nothings into the other's ears as they knocked their knees together in an affectionate bump. Cute, and hidden enough for it to be missed by anyone who wasnât watching for it.
And it was the longing that filled your entire body when you observed them. Sure, you had some people you considered friends. But they were kept at arm's length, far enough that the collapse of the friendship couldn't possibly trap you beneath the rubble. You couldnât do that to yourself, not after you barely survived the last one.Â
Your fingers were cold against your drink. A milky, almost hazelnut taste lingered. It was the same elderly lady from the other night who surprised you with minutes ago, âa secret drink for our favourite regular,â she winked as if it meant nothing, but enough to untangle a part of you that you've been protecting. A regular, so she noticed you before. It did nothing but make you feel guiltier. If only sheâd met you today, on a day when the world seemed a bit easier to hold.
The condensation thatâs been collecting alongside the outer cup dripped down your fingers without a care, as if they were in a race towards a destination only they knew. Not that it was important right now, because whilst your journal was near, it was far enough that it couldn't get wet.Â
It was folded open on the page youâd spent the last few nights buried in. And even though it was now in its review, the lines were still bare of worthy writing. The poems you sculpted werenât as meaningful as it was the night you reminisced too long, when you let the world slip out from between your hands.
Your mouth tasted too sweet to hum along to the notes that held enough depth to bring salty tears to the surface, your hands too cold to hold the warmth of your collapsed lungs, your breath knocked out of your chest as the words became too real â too honest.
The world doesnât just pay for honesty, it pays for emotion. Your lies used to sell for just as much as your truths, so you sold them for more. And by the time the bell rang with new customers, you were already losing your train of thought.
When you saw the type of girls who just entered the cafe, you sank deeper into your seat. You used your sunglasses â different ones than last time â as a mask, and your cup as a shield. When one of their eyes began sweeping across the seats you almost wished youâd grabbed your red hat instead of your same crimson shade of glasses. But when her eyes didn't linger, you exhaled a deep breath.Â
It was risky being out in public, you knew it too well. Your indiscreet outfit didn't help either, your lips curling into your mouth to swallow your curses.
It wasnât easy going unnoticed, not when the entire world was watching. But here, in this very cafe, itâs been the only place you could breathe without it being baited into being more. But it didnât mean you didnât flinch every time someone who looked a little too much like someone whoâd listen to your songs walked in.Â
Through your distracting thoughts you missed the door ringing, the world on mute as two pairs of feet made their way towards you, their footsteps unheard. It wasnât until they spoke that you jumped, until you thought your safe space was corrupted for good.
âI like your jacket, is the leather real?â Blue eyes stared down at you with a boyish lightness, his amusement swirling around his expanded pupils before exploding across his irises. But then you remembered the question and you barely held back a scoff. Is the sky blue?Â
âDude, what kind of person asks that?â This time green eyes blinked owlishly at you, the strikingly beautiful colour almost enough to make you want to write a song about â what is wrong with you? You opened your mouth to respond, only to resemble a guppy as your trance dramatically dragged on. Your eyes traced the green-eyed manâs face, your mind already memorizing the arch of his eyebrows and his cute gummy smile â ok, so you were definitely not about to ogle some man who decided to come ruin your favourite cafe for you.
âI mean, by her silence I'm assuming sheâs too embarrassed to admit it.â The same playful voice from the blue-eyed man finally pulled you back to earth. You openly gaped at him in shock, your eyes wide under your glasses. Thereâs no way he thought your Miu Miu leather jacket was fake, right?Â
âWill!â The green-eyed man backhanded the blue-eyed man, who you now know is âWillâ. Judging by the way both boys stifled a laugh, you knew he did. Your eyes caught sight of what they were wearing, oh? Lo and behold, the same man who was attempting to bait you, was clad in the most obvious fake denim jacket youâve ever seen. You might even go far enough to say out possibly the worst one you've ever seen in your entire life.
You made a sound low enough to sound like a hiss, the air sucked behind your teeth dramatic enough for both menâs attention to be drawn towards it. They shared an amused look, Will looking almost triumphant to get a reaction out of you.
âI wouldnât be talking this much if I were you.â You clicked your tongue in disapproval, your words sharp enough to cut through the smile on his face. Your eyes traced across his jacket slowly enough to pull both boysâ eyes down at it, confusion reflecting across both of their eyes. âHopefully you didnât pay more than a few bucks for that fake denimâŠâ Willâs eyes shot back at yours. âItâs tacky, really.â You kissed your teeth.
The other boy laughed out loud, his eyes shining with amusement as he cupped his hand around the other manâs shoulder. Will looked from him, to you, down to his jacket that suddenly felt too heavy, then back up to you. âIââ he stammered, âI got this from that one vintage store.â That one vintage store⊠very descriptive.
You shrugged cold enough for his eyes to narrow, âDumpster diving must be competitive this time of year.â A scandalized gasp left his lips, âIâll have you know I paid like what⊠fifty bucks for this?â He pretended to think even though youâd bet money on the fact that he knew exactly how much he paid.Â
âIf you say so.â Will, still trying to explain himself, nudged his friend. âMack, tell her itâs real.â âMackâ just shrugged, his eyes moving down to take in your messy table. And as if heâd just remember him and Will were standing awkwardly in front of you, he glanced over at the empty seats across from you.
Will was still spiralling when you caught Mackâs eyes, your own following his line of vision. You hesitated when they met yours once again with a questioning look. Usually, you wouldnât think twice before shaking your head no. But you usually never entertained anyone else, so today you suppose you were feeling bold.
Which explains why both boys were sitting across from you with their long legs pushed beyond the invisible line between you and them, Willâs shoes gently knocking against your bare ankle with each shake of his foot. It itched against your skin the way contact usually did, but you tried ignoring it.
You didnât have to endure it long because he suddenly shot up as if heâd been struck with a thought, probably the first one heâd ever had. You snicker to yourself at the thought. His eyes were wide with excitement, his teeth gleaming under the artificial light as he smiled towards you. He was cute, youâd give him that.
âI have an idea.â You raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Mack â which was odd considering the fact he couldn't see your eyes â who was currently playing with your pencil that rolled across the table when he accidentally knocked into it while sitting down. âI sense you donât have those often, huh?â You tried your best to replicate his playful tone, your chest burning with anxiety.
Something that comes with keeping everyone at arm's length is the inability to read their cues. But thankfully for you, Will playfully nodded his head in agreement, his voice holding a faux disappointment as he mused you, âfirst ever, actually.â
Mack giggled into his sleeve, his black sweater long enough to reach his knuckles. Your eyes watched the fabric roll down his wrist for a second too long when he suddenly adjusted his position, Willâs voice bringing you back once more.
âHear me out, ok?â You nodded as best as you could with your drink nearing your lips. Will continued, âWhat ifâŠâ You raised an eyebrow high enough for them to see under your glasses, âYou come hang with us,â his pointer finger gestured between him and Mack with a laziness to it that proved it was purposeful, âAnd help me choose a new jacket. Since mine is so âtackyâ.â He bunny-eared the last word, his voice mocking yours a bit too accurately.Â
You froze, uncertainty bubbling across your skin. This wasnât a part of your schedule. You barely had over a week off, and you were already about four days in, and it felt almost too early to break the cycle. Your joints still burned with each movement you made, your back silently cracking when you straightened it to sit eye level with the waiting boys.Â
Your tour was grovelling, and long enough for you to have no time to hang out with any of your so-called friends â the ones who only reached out when they wanted something from you. An invite to the beach, which was usually a photo for their Instagram. A request for your presence at an exclusive party, which served as their ticket in.
But with two pairs of hopeful eyes, you gave in. One day wonât hurt, and your favourite cafe will still be here tomorrow for when youâre back in at the same time as yesterday. Plus, it wouldnât hurt to add a few more jackets to your collection.Â
âFine.â Both boys lit up, matching smiles growing more excited. âButâŠâ You leaned forward, your eyes carrying an emotion you usually never allowed yourself to feel around strangers. âOnly if you buy me a macaroon first. Iâm famished.â Both boys sprang to their feet, their shoes loud enough to pull looks.Â
You were proud of how naturally your words came out compared to how hard they came up. Maybe today would be a good day and your palms could thank you later by writing some new lyrics. Who knows.
âDone.â Mack was faster than Will to push his seat out far enough to squeeze past. Will was almost out right behind him, only to almost trip on something. He looked down over his shoulder as he speedily walked Mackâs path.
His eyes furrowed at the sight of your heels lying beneath his and Mackâs seats, âI knew I smelled gloves.â He winked at you with the same look heâs been giving you since he met you (five minutes ago). You shook your head and almost smiled. Almost. After all, heâs still the reason you have to abandon your warm⊠perfect spot.
You didnât realize he said âglovesâ casually, nor that he seemed to throw the word around too easily. In your mind, you connected his words to the memory of your dad's hockey gloves, the stench that was enough to burn whatever small hairs your nose used to have. You didnât think twice about it, which is weird because you usually think about what people say about three times.
You were too focused on not thinking of the fact that you were actually about to go out with two guys youâve never met before, two guys who donât even know your name, and reached down to grab your shoes. You put your notebook into your clutch, which was the perfect size to hold it, and stood up.
You were unaware of the two boys standing near the counter without the small divider, the spot designed to pick up orders, with their ears anticipating the fake names they gave for their order, watching your every movement. They both watched as you smoothed your matching black leather mini skirt, one that barely touched your upper thighs. Then as you used a small circle mirror, one that you managed to pull out of thin air, to check your lip gloss.Â
You walked as if the world folded and blended for you, your feet unhurried as you made your way towards them. You felt their stare prickling your skin, yet you stayed silent. Even with your kitten heels, your height was obviously enough for others to notice.Â
Will whistled low, âgotta say, fake leather suits you veryyyy well.â He smirked when Mack hit him again, only for it to fade into something softer when your nose wrinkled up shyly. âFor, uh⊠Butthead?â Will perked up and Mack groaned low enough for just the three of you to hear.Â
He looked at you and rolled his pretty eyes, âDonât know why Butthead over here got his order first, I clearly ordered it before him.â He tried to act annoyed, but his small smile gave him away. Will came back over with a small pep in his step, his teeth exposed as he handed a small bag over towards you, âfor the pretty lady.â
You huffed, but graciously took it with a polite smile, your voice soft as you murmured out your thanks. To which he replied with a gentle smirk, his eyes still soft as he gazed at you. âFor Beavis?â When Mack lit up, you let out a genuine laugh. Perhaps your realest one in months. Willâs eyes flickered down to it right away.
âBeavis and Butthead?â Will nodded seriously, âour parents loveddd us.â He dragged on the word the usual way he does, as youâve been learning. When Mack returned, both yours and Willâs jaws dropped. In his hand was a clear container, easily twelve inches long, and filled with macaroons.
âDudeâŠâ Will trailed off, his eyes glancing from the container his friend bought, to the bag he handed you. Will shook his head before anyone could say anything, âNope. Now I have to buy two of those.â He nodded his chin towards the clear container that Mack was graciously holding for you.
By the time the next song ended, you were walking out the door with three boxes of macaroons, and an empty bag, the macaroon taste rivalling your earlier drinks. Right before you got to the door a new song started. It was your song, the newest release.Â
You didnât freeze, but you noticed. It was rare that you went anywhere without hearing your music at least twice. But when the two boys beside you, one on each side, suddenly gasped as if something insane happened, you realized that maybe they too knew your name. Even if they didnât show it.
Youâd all agreed on going to your choice of store first, your insistence that it was close enough to walk to enough to convince them without any extra persuasion.Â
The air burned hot enough to cause your skin to be warm to the touch, your leather doing nothing but pulling it all in even more. Both boys were flanked by your side, one on each. Both kept an obvious gap between you and them, but every time a car came a bit too close to the sidewalk you could see Will stepping a bit closer to you, as if he was trying to guide you more into the sidewalk, and away from any potential upcoming danger.
You barely made it down the street when Will was already complaining about the heat. âDude, itâs so hot.â You side-eyed the man who was dramatically fanning his face, as if the warm air wafting across his skin was going to help.
You made it another two steps before Mack chimed in with agreement, "I think my skin is melting off.â Both boys rode off each otherâs statements and tried to get a reaction out of you. They were aiming for a laugh, or a smile at least. It was weird how easily it came out of you, but later when you return to the comfort of your room and begin recalling your day, youâll brush it off as if you were too hot to think.
Small, meaningless, chatter was shared between the three of you for the rest of the short walk. Though, it was mostly the two boys talking â you only chimed in when it got too silent and both of their expectant gazes turned to you.Â
Will held the door open for you and Mack to enter first, his footsteps softer than before as both he and Mack stood in place. Their eyes were wide as they took the store in. You tried not to preen at the sight of their mouths open, and started walking right towards your favourite section right away.
You didnât need to turn to know that they followed after you, their playful voices trailing after you. Your eyes lit up at the colourful rack of clothes in front of you. Your hands brushed against all sorts of textiles as your feet brought you towards a specific skirt that you somehow managed to spot amongst the many, many others.
Your feet paused when you finally reached it, your hand naturally falling to rest against it. It wasnât necessarily as soft as it appeared, but it definitely wasnât scratchy. With hands gentle enough to pluck it from its spot, you held it up in front of you.
Typically, it wasnât the type of skirt you went for. Denims and leather are your recent go-tos. But it was nearing summer, and the soft blue hue was enough to conjure ocean breeze and fruity scents. Scenes of mid-day beach brunches paired with the exact sandals you suddenly remembered you owned, played in your mind. The shirt was already in your elbow before your toes even touched the sand, and your eyes were tracing across the array of options before the next scene could commence.
You absentmindedly pushed your glasses up, the need to see the colours exactly as they were was overriding the desire to hide. Youâd processed the action too late, but for some reason, you didnât care as much as you anticipated. Maybe it was Willâs following words that made it easier to deal with the anxiety that followed, or maybe the way you could finally make out what the mystery colour in Mackâs eyes was.Â
Hints of blue, the colour in your arm. You already knew San Jose bled blue, maybe you could too. Your cheeks burned when you realized you were staring too long, not that either boy noticed. Will earlier declared that he saw another denim jacket, his voice holding notable amounts of awe. Youâd think heâs only ever seen his jacket by the way his eyes sparkled at the sight of another, âin the wild denim jacket.â heâd say on his way to it.
Mack giggled, and you halfheartedly complained, when Will began dragging Mack behind him, both their eyes meeting yours over their shoulder. You moved on too fast from your skirt shopping, but you couldnât find it in yourself to turn around and walk back over when Willâs proud smile beamed bright at you.
âSo?â He held it against his front, his eyes not yet searching for a mirror. He stared at you as if he only cared about what you thought, which should've been a sign. Your expert eyes only traced the fabric once before you nodded, your expression confident.
âIt will look really good on you, Will.â For the first time in a while, you were honest. âReally?â He asked, his gaze finally leaving you and wandering to find a mirror. You almost smiled and responded with a small hum. Both you and Mack took on a role familiar to ducklings, and followed Will as he guided the three of you around the store as if heâd chosen this spot himself.
Time passed in a blur, and the clothes in your arms started getting lighter. Not because you were putting them back, but because both boys started holding them instead. They both picked out different articles, their voiced opinions resonating with you enough to comply. Because yes Will, that shirt will look good with the low-rise jeans that Mack silently held up.Â
Small talk was forgotten, and louder giggles were exchanged. For once, you werenât yourself. You were just a girl out shopping with friends, a budget that only existed when you thought about it.Â
You spent hours twirling in front of them with a boost of energy you havenât experienced in a while, each article of clothing having its own fashion show. While your joints still argued, they didnât complain. The boys gave their honest opinions, ones that actually managed to make sense, oddly enough.
You laughed when Mack tripped over his shoes when he tried mimicking your twirls, and your shoulder pressed close enough to Will to feel his natural body heat. This time, you offered better styling advice than they did for you. Which Mack took well, his eyes never leaving yours with an expression akin to pure attentive patience.
You smiled between each curtain Will disappeared behind, your eyes becoming shy while you and Mack tried your best to avoid eye contact that you knew youâd read too much into. But it got easier when Will got stuck in a leather pair of pants you just had to make him try on (not to buy, but for your amusement) and fell over, his hand catching on the fabric separating him from you both hard enough to expose him in all his fallen glory.Â
It wasnât until you were outside with your arms weighed down by bags that both boys could no longer hold, both their forearms mirroring your white lines, that you realized how many hours had passed.
The three of you awkwardly lingered there in silence, the quiet almost louder than everything youâve said today. You werenât exactly sure where to go from here. You were all aware that youâd only gotten to one location, and the day had already passed enough for the sun to set.
âUmâŠâ The three of you laughed when you all spoke simultaneously, their laughter much louder than yours. You were the first to calm down, which unfortunately, wasnât shocking to you. You were quite surprised youâd laughed at all today. And as if itâd all just dawned on you, you pulled away.
You knew they knew who you were. Not only because of their reaction to your song playing, but also by the way they both individually spoke your name without you ever introducing yourself. It didnât bother you any more than it did when other strangers recognized you. But the way they treated you was definitely new. New enough for you to doubt their intentions.
But you already realized that not once did one of them pull out their phones, and no hidden click sounded whenever you turned your back for longer than a few seconds. There werenât any leading questions, no words that came out disguised as something else.
But you were cautious. You didnât have time for real friends, for people like them. There wasnât room for heartbreak, you werenât sure if youâd be able to deal with it all over again. It was easy this way, you reminded yourself. Which is why when Will asked with his breath hitched, Mackâs eyes wide with eager anticipation, if you'll meet them again tomorrow, to continue what you couldnât finish today.
7am, he said. A cafe youâd never forget the name of, following after. Youâd never heard of it before, but you knew your brain wouldnât allow you to forget it. Not when youâll spend the rest of your night researching everything there is to know about it. Not when the address was already written in your maps before you rounded the corner away from them.
You parted with a promise you werenât sure youâd be able to keep. Yes, youâll be there, that's what you said. But did you mean it? You werenât sure yet.Â
And you werenât sure until you woke up the next morning to a silent phone. No calls from your PR team about a leaked photo. No headlines holding precarious attention grabbers. Nothing but the silence you created.
You hesitantly left your notebook, the pages slipping from your grasp at the last second. Your jeans were low enough to carve your waist the way you wanted, but not enough to guarantee any safety when you inevitably bent down. But itâs what you felt like wearing, so it was worth it. You were already cheating on your cafe by going to a different one, you can only sacrifice so much in one day.
You didnât walk with a pep in your step on your way to your car, and you didnât turn the radio on high enough to get lost in it. But the song that played hit deep enough to leave a mark. Soda. By Nothing But Thieves. Your windows were down, but the lyrics didn't leave your car.
Your lips moved to the words, venom catching on your teeth and burning beneath your tongue. Maybe it was performative. The lyrics, and their hypocrisy. But you didnât have time to dwell in the wave of self-pity when the cafe came into sight.Â
You parked along the road, not directly in front of the cafe to be seen by the two boys you could already see standing in front of it, but close enough not to worry about breaking a sweat.
Your glasses were a bit different this time, a pale pink matching the LA symbol on your denim hat. Maybe you felt inspired by Willâs outfit yesterday, or maybe you just really loved the way pink and denim looked paired with your complexion. Neither option mattered anymore, not when you were walking up to the boys, only to freeze when they both turned over and looked at you.
Will was wearing a navy blue track suit that he left unzipped, the top half having an almost bomber look to it. Beneath the open jacket was a white shirt whose neckline was low enough to display his silver chain. He had a red bull hat on front facing, the colours somehow not clashing with the rest of his outfit.
Mack was also wearing a hat, but unlike Will, he opted to flip it backwards. He wore a button-up black top that cinched perfectly along his arms, his biceps flexing when he crossed his arms across his chest. Your eyes looked down at black (slightly) baggy jeans. They were baggy enough to make it look purposeful, but not enough to stereotypically find him on a skateboard.Â
Then you looked at your own outfit. Your shirt was the same pale pink that decorated your accessories, a tube-top styled bandeau crossing your cleavage before coming together in a tulle diagonal side triangle. One side of your stomach was exposed, the other covered in pink. The side triangle stopped just shy of your waistband, leaving just enough skin to catch the light.Â
To other people, your outfits didnât correspond in the slightest. But all three of you knew what it actually was, and what it meant. Each of your outfits consisted of the clothes you bought yesterday.Â
You picking Willâs tracksuit, Mack choosing his top â his voice sly when he made a joke too low for you to hear, but funny enough for Will to cackle at.
Will finding Mackâs baggy pants, you throwing in the shirt that you pretended didnât make your heart race at the thought of him wearing it.
Mack choosing your jeans, Will forcing the shirt into your hands with an exaggerated wink.
You clutched your diesel bag closer, as if the feeling on the rough denim against your bare skin could bring you back down to earth, and away from the scary thought that just crossed your mind. The warmth that spread along your chest was uncanny, and something you wish you could never experience again.
âDressed up just for us, huh?â Will smirked when you rolled your eyes, a minuscule smile pulling on your lips. Mack nodded, his eyes lingering on your exposed waist long enough for you to feel it, ââcourse she did.â You now regret having forgone bringing your notebook, your brain sparked with inspiration. Lyrics built up with the melody youâd already fine-tuned, letters coming apart in jumbles that actually made sense now.
Before standing in front of them youâd felt confident enough to leave your glasses on top of your hat. But now you werenât sure. Youâd been around enough people to read the look in their eyes, your mind distinguishing between each flash of colour, nitpicking every micro twitch.
They werenât nervous, but relaxed. The opposite of you. You didnât know it now, but they too had experienced similar scrutiny. Being in the public eye made them realize quite early on that some people didnât mean what they said, or say what they meant.
But they couldnât read you. Your walls high enough for them to see from the get-go. It only made them more convinced to break them, to climb over the ruins and help you build it into someone stronger, something that allowed them in.
And when the sun set that night, you almost wanted it. All three of your backs pressed against the blanket Will shoved in his car, your shoes kicked off and lost somewhere around the frills, your toes dug deep into the sand. But before that, Will had chosen to spend the first hour of the morning people watching, your guilty pleasure.Â
Youâd finally spoken your observations aloud, the same type of people youâve seen in your cafe following you everywhere you went. You only feared the boy's judgment for a minute, long enough for your hot drink to fog the sunglasses you finally put down. Until they caught your bait. They added their own ideas, storylines that merged into yours with spilled ink.
Then youâd spent the afternoon stuffed in his apartment (one that he, unsurprisingly, shared with Mack), which you almost outright refused. It took them nearly half an hour to convince you to come, with promises of not making it weird enough for you to try it. You grew comfortable by the third hour, the melted chocolate mirroring your resolve.
Will acted like the chocolatier he seemed to think he was, directions falling from his lips as if heâd made these exact chocolate bars a hundred times. You found out he didnât when your chocolate came out better than his, accusations of beginner's luck echoing off the walls in his kitchen. Heâd done it a dozen times more than you, Mack barely matching half his attempts.Â
Dubai chocolate never tempted you to break your strict diet before. But Willâs begging eyes, and Mackâs soft pleas, were enough for you to finish it. The three of you ate all three bars by the dinner time came around. And just as you feared, it spoiled it. Dinner was undoubtedly your favourite meal, which was yet another part of your routine that the boys changed.
Then finally, Will dragged two very tired bodies behind him and towards his car. He woke up a few hours earlier than he was supposed to, just to stuff his car with supplies for his final idea. âI know a spot.â He boasted when you urged to know where he was bringing you, Mack silent from the back seat. (which was another thing you tried to complain about. Being beside Will was scary. Not because he was, but because you could tell that you were already letting them in. After only two days.)
Constellations used to be nothing more than lines between the stars, traces of figures you couldnât make out with your naked eyes. But with Mackâs warm breath wafting against your cheek each time he turned towards you to explain what Will was trying to point out, it wasnât what it once was.
You wanted to turn your head, just to see how pretty he looks in this lighting. Would the red that permanently stained his cheeks still be visible? How about the freckles that now reminded you of the very constellations you were looking for, would you be able to find the lines?
Willâs voice was low enough to match the ambience, âSee? This one is the small dipper.â Your eyes squinted in the spot you've been searching for minutes, your heart still racing with the realization that the only ones you wanted to memorize were the ones belonging to the man pressed against your shoulder, whose voice still heard even with his mouth shut.
But then you saw it, and your body didnât feel real. Down here you were everything youâve ever wanted to be. Famous, rich, everything youâve ever dreamed of. But out there, you would be nothing. Youâd be as free as the next dying star, as bright as the supernova youâd become.
Planets wouldnât spin for you, but for themselves. The fans that orbited you, who were drawn by your gravitational pull and hypnotized by your siren song, would turn to moons. Moons that had a purpose outside of you, craters that were unique to them.
In a universe of everything, surrounded by the nothingness that space left in place of time, you werenât anything, not really. It spooked you, the cool air awakening goosebumps across your arms. Was this really what you wanted? Youâd spent your life being a secret, something unshared beyond the people who already knew.Â
Was that your purpose? To push everyone away in fear of being linked back to your absent dad? No, it wasnât. It took these boys two days to make you realize something that no one else has ever managed to pull out of you. For the first time in years, you were willing to make new friends, Actual friends.
With the epiphany still on your mind, you agreed to exchange numbers with the boys. You smiled freely when Will offered you a ride home, and nodded with the wind that blew through your hair. Your car was still at Willâs chosen cafe, but you knew youâd get it back, you allowed yourself to trust in them. One last time, you told yourself. One last try, the final one.
Your arm hung out the window, your fingers spread enough to catch the salty air that lingered. Your eyes were wide with life, cheeks blossoming as loud singing left your beaming mouth. Mack, who was in the backseat and currently singing along to the song blasting from Willâs radio, was distracted. His eyes flickered to you every few minutes, his body buzzing like a life-sized kitten.Â
You looked happy. Actually happy. Heâd known you for less than forty-eight hours, and he was already obsessed. He noticed more than he wanted to, more than he ever expected himself to ever notice about anyone else. The way he held his breath when you looked at him was pathetic, but he couldnât help it. And when he looked away between the time the song ended and the next started, he saw Willâs eyes glance at him in the rear-view mirror.
Then, he knew. He knew that Will knew. That he noticed. It was all starting to feel too real, so Mack spoke before he could really think about what he was saying. âIs it possible to get your number?â His cheeks warmed when he realized what he said, so he tried backpedalling far enough to explain himself. âI- well- for my day tomorrow.â You didn't turn around to face him yet, but you tensed. You watched the trees highlight the horizon as Will drove over the speed limit. Not enough to actually be speeding, but enough for your neck to feel the tension, the speed.Â
ââCause weâre on for tomorrow, right?â You had limited free days left, but you still agreed. You were committed this time, almost convinced that this time was going to be different. Which is why when you got home, you turned the lights on.
Your shoes were carelessly kicked off at your door, your hat and glasses following suit. Then you grabbed your notebook and pen, the same lyrics youâd created earlier still ringing through your mind. Your legs barely touched your couch, half your knee still hanging over the end and beneath your other knee, before you had the cap of your pen in between your teeth.
You didnât hum this time, didnât drown the thoughts in loud music. Instead, you wrote until you couldnât, until your fingers burned and callouses stiffened. Only this time, you had a new muse. Your interactions with Mack flashed in colours, scents that coaxed your room into a dreamlike state.
You felt the way his fingers grazed yours yesterday when you leaned in a bit closer to whisper about the next ugly shirt Will shamelessly modelled for you. The faint Chlorine scent that followed your bodies when you ran along a random splash pad that Will found around the corner from your house on his way to drop you off, one that he made you stand in front of for âphotosâ, then with himself for âmemoriesâ. Then finally with Mack, for âhis fridge.â
By the time morning chimed you had three songs done. Not polished, but perfect in the sense that only mattered to you. You were committed to change, so you were honest. Your phone lit up with a text, a group chat already created with texts rolling in. You read it right before bed, your eyes half lidded with exhaustion. You were just about to put it down when a text from Will caught your attention. You read it once, then a second time. Macklin, a name you didnât know until now.
When you finally put your phone down and closed your eyes, a dream of a boy named Macklin unpaused. Itâs only been two days now, and you were addicted.Â
Macklin chose to spend the morning at another cafe, yours this time. He sat across from you and Will, his arms resting in front of him, whereas Will had one of his behind you. It wasnât touching you, but it was there. It didnât feel romantic, but almost brotherly.Â
You were deep into a story about something that happened on tour. One of your dancers accidentally unplugged your speaker system (and snapped the cord)Â when she almost tripped over the cord. You giggled remembering the chaos that ensued. Sure it wasnât funny when it happened, but now you could appreciate it. You told them about how the weight of your electric guitar felt on your hands, about the stinging it left on your fingers when you went backstage after the show.
You spoke of the media it brought, the fans believing it happened on purpose in order for you to showcase your musical abilities. The piano, your crumbs, the guitar you learned one summer after your dad heard about your obsession with the Big Time Rush show and panic bought three.
The mention of your dad caused their eyebrows to raise. It was the first time you mentioned your family, which is quite normal since youâd only met them days ago. âThree guitars? Dang, you mustâve been happy.â Will gurgled between loud slips of his milkshake.Â
You shrugged and picked at a croissant, ânot really. Three guitars didn't make up for his absence.â You werenât trying to trauma dump this early on, but their comforting presence made it feel welcomed. After all, theyâd already spoken about their childhoods, hockey coming up now and then. You still werenât aware what their jobs were, but you didnât want to push.
You took a smile bite to gather up the courage. You tried to start nonchalantly, but your voice shook the same way it always did when you talked about your dad. âI used to see him every summer.â Your eyes burned, but tears werenât beaded yet. âIâd spend hours wrapped up in his arms with his hands rubbing my back, soft reruns of shows I could only name after I coaxed them out of him.â The ghost of his touch caressed your body, a cruel chill stemming up from your bones.
âHe would decorate my room with cheesy toys and clothes that didnât fit right. But the walls stayed the same. Drawings I did when I was barely a toddler showcased around wherever I could reach.â You could see the squiggles you proudly named âDaddy and Me.â with an arrow that he helped you write, his hand warm as he guided your much smaller ones to wrap around the black pencil crayon. But once you started thinking about him, you couldnât stop.
âI loved it at first. But then I got older and realized what it meant. The clothes didn't fit me because he didnât know what size I was, only the size kids my kids were expected to be. The toys werenât my thing, not when I was in my movie phase.â You spent at least twenty minutes stuck in nostalgia, both boys hanging off your every word and chiming in with small awed comments.
âI loved my dad until winter came around.â You tried to finish it off there, to no avail. âWhat happened when winter came around?â Macklinâs curiosity won. You looked at him with glassy eyes and a thinned smile, âHe was gone.â
The silence didn't have time to make itself known before a familiar voice came from the end of your table. âFor you, dear.â All three of you looked up, both boys looking confused, but you with a small smile. Will saw the way you tried to stand up to greet her and shifted out of the booth.
Both he and Macklin had a silent conversation as you and the woman before you talked. By the time you sat back down with a plate of desserts and the same drink as the second time youâd met her, and Will slid in beside you, the scene was different.
Both boys stared at the treats in front of you. And after you nudged it more in the middle, they dove in. âDo you know the owner here?â Will smoke through mouthfuls, your nose wrinkling up at his open-mouthed eating. But you nodded. You did know her, but not any more than you knew them.
âI met her a few days ago when she almost fell.â You smiled at the worry on their faces and clarified, âDonât worry, sheâs okay.â You didnât mention the fact that when you woke up the next morning sans notifications you deep dived into everything about this cafe, and the owners. She was the main owner, and the other staff you usually see are her grandkids. She didnât come around often, but something mustâve pulled her back after all these years.
Macklin didn't have anything special planned until mid-evening, when he was going to introduce you to their life. To his life. The three of you spent the day hopping between lowkey stores that heâd called ahead of time, pleading with the owners to close their shops to the public with the promise of promoting them the following week. When the NHL picked up again after the Olympic break.
After shopping he drove the three of you over to get your car. They followed you home, his car remaining visible in your mirrors the entire time. He left the car running when he pulled up right behind you. He hopped out without hesitation and opened the door for you with a shy smile and blotchy cheeks that burned crimson when you thanked him with a pretty smile.
Then he was pulling out with his arm wrapped around the passenger seat headrest, a singular hand twisting the wheel with enough ease to come off as natural. You were in the backseat this time, even though he offered to make Will move.
There wasnât any small talk, or any loud singing. Until Will got aux. A familiar song started playing, and your head snapped forward. Will was turned towards you with a shit-eating grin, his lips already mouthing to your lyrics. Mack giggled the way he always did and sang aloud, his blush softened now.
âIâll tell âem one by one, show âem one by one, twist my wrist.â Mack sang badly on purpose, completely off tune and in a way that you wish youâd recorded just to listen to again. Will piggybacked off of his friend and in a voice just as bad he continued, âGoes like this, start with the track, eyes on me, archinâ my back.â They alternated between lines, surprisingly not messing up.Â
You didnât join in until the next song, Revolving Door. You were barely halfway through the song when Macklin laid information on you, âWhen this song came out Will probably listened to it thirty times in the first two days,â You gasped and looked at Will, who nodded with enthusiasm. âGotta rep Boston.âÂ
Right, his birth town. Your mouth opened in an O, you already forgot that they both went to school there. Still, you teased Will. âAw! Are you my fan, Will?â He nodded the same way as before and dragged out his responses the way he did when youâd met him, âbiggesttttt fan!â
âHeâs not lying.â Mack solidified it, and he wasnât lying. He had to endure many hours listening to your songs on loop. It wasnât that he didnât like your music, itâs just the fact that Will loved to overplay music for days. It was a coincidence that it happened to be you more often than not.
Your songs played one by one up until Macklin was pulling into a place you recognized right away. Youâd recognize it by scent alone if you were to be blinded. You froze, your hands numb as you stared up at the arena from your window.
The boys jumped out, Will opening your door this time â which caused Macklin to playfully huff. You stepped out slowly, every hair in your body standing up straight. Macklin stayed back to match your pace whilst Will walked ahead, his voice spewing out his endless thoughts.
âYou okay?â You almost reverted to your prior self, barely stopping your flinch before it happened. You fixed your face and nodded with an unconvincing smile, âYep.â You popped your p. Mack, though not convinced, didn't push. He just smiled a small grin, his eyes still searching your face.
You could feel his hand twitching by his side as you walked. Did he want to hold your hand? No, you were definitely looking too much into it. You mustâve imagined the way his eyes glanced down at them between every other twitch, his eyes clouded as if he was deep in thought.
The warmth of the lobby hit you right away. It was weird being here during the hockey season. Usually, youâd come during early summer mornings, your eyes closed as you dreamt about your chalk waiting for you to get back to your dadâs house. Because while p it wasnât rare that your dad brought you to early practices, youâd spent your entire time in small closed rooms. Uncomfortable couches become your temporary bed as you sleep with one of his away jerseys as a blanket.
Your eyes lingered on the ice that seemed bigger up close. This wasnât a professional hockey arena, but a small, local one. You saw cases filled with figure skating awards, the small numbered ribbons placed beside that correlating badge for that level.Â
Yes, there were some hockey cases too. But your eyes lingered on the young girls who beamed in their group photos. Pretty purple frills with matching San Jose-coded blue bows tied up in their hair. You felt a weird sense of longing. You wouldâve loved to experience the ice the way they did, maybe in another life.
Mack disappeared behind a door after he asked for your shoe size, only to return with a pair two sizes smaller. âFor a snug fit.â He shrugged when he carried them on his own, his own pair in his other hand. Will was the next to disappear, choosing to meet the two of you in a dressing room with a helmet in his hands. A bubble.
Macklin looked at the helmet and shook his head with a laugh, his gums exposed enough for your heart to skip a beat. Or two. âFor you, Miss Singer.â He playfully bowed as he passed it to you, which made all three of you lose your composure and laugh like little kids.Â
By the time the three of you were on the ice â which took longer than it was supposed to because Will kept laughing every time he glanced at the cage over your face, which made Macklin laugh, his fingers pausing their attempt to tie your skates. Because you didn't play hockey, or figure skate, you werenât even sure if youâd ever skated outside of your yearly school friend trips.
You wobbled on the ice once before Macklin was already holding your hands â which he grabbed after getting your permission. Will skated circles around your slowly moving figures, chirps falling from his lips. âLookinâ real professional, miss singer.â You werenât sure what made him start calling you that today, but you werenât hating it as much as the first time he said it.
You scoffed, your hands tightening around Macklinâs when he rotated your body too fast â to which he apologized for with a soft look, âAs if youâre a professional, Will.â Both boys stopped skating suddenly enough to not only make you wobble, but also for misted snow to come shooting at your skates.
Their faces were shocked, both of their eyes wide as they stared at you in disbelief. âWhat?â You nervously bit your lip, did you say something wrong? You were so prepared to make new friends on your own terms youâd forgotten about the fact that theyâd need to feel the same. Did you ruin it already?
âDid youâŠâ Will skated up to you, his shoulder pressing against Macklinâs. âDo you not recognize us?â Now you were confused, enough for it to bleed onto your face. âOh my god?â Will wiped his hand across his face before slapping Macklinâs shoulder. âDude, she doesn't know.â
Now it all made sense to them, everything from the day you met to now lining up. Why you looked normal when they first said their names. Why you gave them a weird look when people stared at them too long. Why you paused when youâd arrived at the arena.
âY/n, weâre professional hockey players,â Macklin said it so gently you almost missed it, what? âYouâre what?â They both nodded, âYep, for the San Jose Sharks.â Will shook his head, his eyes still in awe. âI didnât know.â Your voice shook, your hands trembling enough for Macklin to feel from his hold in you.
âHey, thatâs okay. Youâre okay.â He was quick to reassure you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hand. But it wasnât okay, not really. Hockey was the thing you ran away from when you moved here, and now, when you finally opened up your heart once again, it followed. Macklin looked anxious, and his voice sounded with the same feeling, âIt doesnât change anything, right? Weâre still Will and Macklin, the boys you've been hanging out with for days,â You nodded and said okay, but you didnât mean it. It changed everything.
You kept it in the back of your mind for the rest of the day. It only came up one more time when the boys took turns shooting a puck through your shaking legs after Will made Macklin go get from his car after only twenty minutes on the ice.
But by the time they made you act like Bambi disguised as a goalie, youâd already gotten over it. They werenât your dad, they probably never talked to him more than a few seconds, maybe a chirp or two landing. When it was Macklinâs turn to play the goalie, you basked in victory. He deflected all of Willâs shots, but used his skate to push the gloves you guys used as the net bounds for enough for your super out puck to come gliding in.
When he declared you the winner with a loud laugh and warm hands that rested against your waist to guide you to circle a faux disappointed Will, you loved whatever version of hockey they made for you. Your music career is going to love it even more, and your notebook is undoubtedly going to be littered with a few more songs by the time tomorrow rolls around.
After a few hours at the rink that Macklin also rented out, he brought you back to his and Willâs apartment. You spent the late night watching highlights of them playing, which made them look more excited than you've ever seen. There was a childlike gleam in their eyes as they explained plays. They shit on bad calls and icings that cost them a few victories. And for the first time in your life, hockey wasnât about your dad.
The next few days flew by too fast. Youâd spent all hours of the day with the boys, your bonds strengthening with time. The day after Macklinâs day was the first time you spent the night, your body too tired to love, your stomach full with oven-made sâmores â A recipe Will admitted to stealing from TikTok.
You woke up to Big Time Rush reruns, the exact ones you got the boys to watch last night after hearing theyâd never heard of it besides the times youâd spoken about it. The lady at your cafe learned their names by their third visit, and by the fourth, they were already drinking the same drink she made just for you,
They infiltrated every inch of your life, and you loved it. Eventually, your break came to an end, but your friendship thrived. Weekly sleepovers included the same sâmores â Will sometimes trying to sneak in his pistachio mix that he had memorized by now.Â
You actually found yourself watching their games over your phone between studio sessions, your new album is planned to be released within the next few months. Youâd spam their phones with congratulations, or soft encouragements after each game.Â
It was the day before their game against the Blackhawks when you called for your bi-daily FaceTime. You were in a hotel room that felt less stuffy than usual, your face squished against your pillow as your tired eyes stared at your reflection on your screen. Your bags disappeared enough to be hidden perfectly under light makeup, your sleepless nights scurrying off with your friends on the other line.
Macklin was the first to answer, his face still glowing from yesterday's win against Nashville. âHey, Mackie.â You took on the nickname a few weeks ago after he surprised you with a customer jersey that had your first name on the back, and his and Willâs numbers â one on each arm. âHi, pretty.â Also a new nickname, one that Will always mocked without fail.Â
Which is why it was suspicious when no other voice chimed in. You were about to question it before you heard his distinct voice calling out in the background, âMack! Donât call little Miss singer until after my shower!â Macklin didn't try to hide his laugh when he saw the expression on your face, which meant you heard it.
Willâs groan was loud enough to get caught by Macklinâs microphone when the younger boy countered his request, saying you called them first. Macklin pushed his damp hair back with one hand and adjusted his phone, his eyes openly moving across your face with a cute smile. âI miss you.â He was earnest, his voice barely louder than his room's AC.Â
You melted into his soft words and reciprocated the saying. But knowing you had a secret, you werenât as sad as he was. âAre you excited for summer break?â He already knew you were, but he still asked. Just to see the way youâll light up, to see your excited smile. You've been counting down the days until their summer break starts, plans of bringing them around with you for a few weeks enough to get you through the harder days where the world felt as heavy as it used to before them.
You nodded, âsuper excited! Iâve never been a fan of winter.â He knew why, but he also knew that he had been trying to change your mind. He wanted you to love it, to look forward to it the same way both he and Will always did. âIâll change your mind.â Your head tilted with a half-confused smile, âWhat?â
Macklin looked more serious than you've ever seen him, and he nodded again. âWhen winter comes around again, youâll love it.â You laughed like it was a joke, a quiet sure thing coming from your lips. But he doubled down, âYou wonât be alone next time. Youâll have me.â Before it could get too serious, Will gasped from the door. âUm⊠and me?â
Will sat down beside Macklin, his bare chest exposed. He waved with a vigour he never failed to pretend didnât exist. âI miss you more than Mack.â Macklin rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, and you smiled and playfully whispered back, âI believe you.â
The three of you talked into the night, up until it was getting late enough for all three of your eyes to begin dropping. You tried your best to hide the fact that you were in a hotel, and maybe it was because of their exhaustion, or maybe you just did a really good job, they didnât realize.
Your phones stayed connected through the night and into the morning, them hanging up only when they met Tyler Toffoli, whom youâd met a few times while picking or dropping the boys off for practice, for breakfast. You woke up shortly after, your body naturally rising without an alarm.
You were excited, your body alive with nerves when you stepped out of the shower. Your housecoat felt softer than usual against your skin, perhaps because of the number of times you've exfoliated lately. A mixture of album nerves causing enough brain fog for you to do everything twice.
Your tights were the first thing you put on after your undergarments, a dark blue colour that matched spots on your jersey. Well, both of your jerseys. You werenât sure which one you should wear yet. Your first choice was the one Macklin had made, your hands drifting towards it. But then again, you werenât a regular fan. You were invited by the other team to sing the national anthem long before youâd ever met the boys. It was after a successful concert there, one where almost all players and their significant others attended.
Back then when your manager first accepted it you dreaded it. But now, you were nothing less than thankful. So you played it safe and grabbed both. Youâll wear the Blackhawks one for all public appearances, but change into your Sharks one after making it to your private suite.
Your managerâs voice faded into the background the closer you got to the arena, your heart stuck in your chest. You entered the arena earlier than the fans, and in an area that was constricted to only the home team players. You stopped a few times to talk to a few players that you recognized, having done your research before arriving.Â
Specifically, you talked to Connor Bedard. You knew of him for a few different reasons, one being the fact that heâs friends with Macklin. Your conversation lasted around five minutes before your manager beckoned you over. Youâd parted with a silly handshake, both your smiles evident.
You knew some media people were around so you were on your best behaviour, your Blackhawks jersey feeling imposterious knowing you werenât exactly cheering for them, not that anyone knew. Your manager's bag held the real jersey that you cared about, the one you were itching to get your hands on.
It was hard to find a time to sneak off between all the photos the media team had you posing for, and the short interviews they scripted. But you found it, and you were off. You werenât sure where you were going, but it was in the opposite direction so it mustâve been the right way. Because thatâs definitely how it works.
You heard a few voices from down the hall after three minutes of blindly walking, and you perked up. Then you heard a loud scream of misery that your mind clocked as Macklinâs. He screamed about forfeiting, saying everyone else sucks. You were almost there, your body counting on your feet as you neared. Then you made the mistake of pausing to glance around the corner to where the boys were playing with a ball. Michael Misa, Sam Dickinson, Collin Graf, William Eklund, and your favourite two boys.
You waited a second too long before you heard one of their teammates start talking. âSo now Mack is too good to play with us, huh?â You paused, your chest filling with a weird defensive energy. You knew his teammates were joking, but you didnât know the context so you were offended on his part. Sure his season was good, but that doesnât mean he was suddenly too good for them?
Then the heartbreak followed. Another teammate laughed, âToo busy kissing on Crosbyâs daughterââ he said more, but you couldnât hear it. Crosbyâs daughter? Betrayal burned like the lava that filled your eyes and you staggered back on weak ankles.Â
Like you were the butt of a joke, another person added, âFirst, he goes off to Milan for the Olympics, then he gets close enough to Sidney Crosby to learn about his secret daughter, and now both he and Will are best friends with her?â
Milan, your hands shook, Macklin went to the Olympics? The pieces fell into place. Macklin, a Canadian athlete, played with Sydney Crosby, your dad, at the Olympics. Macklin, your Macklin. The one you confided in about your father, about how much heâd hurt you. He sat there and pretended like he cared, pretending that he didnât already know.Â
He almost let you love him. All these almostâs fell into place, and you fell out of them. Your throat burned as the sobs forced their way out, your presence already long gone before you allowed the first sniffle to sound. You yanked open a door to a random room when your body got too heavy to hold, your back sliding down against the door as you curled into yourself.
Meeting them wasnât a coincidence, was it? Somehow they knew youâd be there at that exact time, knew youâd be alone. They pretended that you were a stranger, a random girl who sat with a leather jacket that youâd fought to prove was real.
It was a lie. Everything was a lie. They never cared for you, not the same way you did for them. Because you, you wouldâve never done this to them. Until now you thought your dad was evil, but now you have realized that no one was as evil as Macklin and Will.Â
You regretted everything. Every lyric you wrote about them, every secret you've ever told deep into the long nights, every message you've ever typed. Macklin was right in one way though, he did change your mind. You didnât just dislike winter, you hated it. And you were sure that the next time it came around, you werenât going to be here.
There wasnât anything holding you to San Jose, you realized. You could easily go anywhere, studios were located all over the states. Your manager actually tried convincing you to move to Anaheim a few weeks ago. But at the time, you outright refused. But now? You considered it. Maybe youâd be the fool they thought you were by running away, but itâs what you did best.Â
You've become a pro at packing your bags and leaving without a trace, ask anyone whoâs ever known you for proof. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, which you fished out with trembling hands.
It was a text from Will. Before every game, you sent them a photo of you in your jersey, whether you were home or not. But instead of getting the photo he requested, you blocked both their numbers and locked your phone. You didnât leave the group chat, not when you knew they were both huddled around Willâs phone waiting for a response,Â
You saw the time before you put the phone away, it was ten minutes before you were supposed to go out. So, you played the role you used to have mastered. Your walk to your room was quiet, nothing but soft sniffles landing. By the time you opened your door, there were three minutes left.
Everyone was out waiting near the area youâd enter from. The room was bare except for the snacks youâd requested, and a bag that you recognized as your manager's. It hurts to open it and see the jersey inside, but as long as you donât touch it, it doesn't exist in your mind.
After a few years of rushing between short outfit changes youâd mastered the art of fixing makeup in a limited time. Your makeup was already back to perfect when the sharp knock sounded, a staff official letting you know that your cue was coming.
On your way there, you realized something. The only way to get rid of ghosts was to confront them, to become them. So you whispered a plan into your manager's ear, one that might change the entire trajectory of your life. You werenât going to be a secret anymore, not when secrets had a history of ruining your life.
The silence of the crowd when the announcer announced your name, your real name, dads last name and all, didn't compare to the roar that vibrated the ice when you stepped out. The microphone was held just under your chin, and your other hand was pressed against your chest. Unlike your dad, you were born in Pittsburgh. So coming into the world you were American. And coming out his daughter, you were red white and blue.
You tried your best to avoid looking over at the sharks, knowing two familiar pairs of eyes would be locked on you. But you couldnât stop your eyes from wandering halfway through. Macklin Celerbini, and Will Smith, stood there gaping at you. Their faces etched with disbelief and something you couldnât name.
They both tried to smile at you discreetly enough to be unseen by the crowd, but you didnât react. Your blank eyes were worse than whatever anger they couldâve held. Will was the first to realize something they missed when they read your name, and it was the use of Crosby, the name you've spent your life running from.
Hot panic rose through his body. You knew. He was just about to turn to tell Macklin, when he noticed his eyes glazed over, Macklin knew too. But right now, as they were about to start their second-to-last regular-season game, there was nothing they could do but watch as you turned on your heels and walked out.
Macklin stood frozen when he processed the look on your face, and memories from the week before he met you came in flashbacks.
Macklin could feel his legs shaking from a mixture of nerves and something more. Theyâd just won Silver. Not Gold, but Silver. He was spiralling in his own mind, his thoughts loud enough for him to miss Sydney Crosby crossing the room to sit in his stall, which was right beside Macklinâs.
He didnât play the final game, his injury happening at the worst possible time. But he knew what it was like to lose something you wanted more than anything, so he comforted him the only way he could think of. His hand landed against Macklinâs back suddenly enough for the young boy to jump in fright, his eyes wide and glassy as he looked into the hockey legend's eyes.
âIâm sorryââ Macklin began apologizing for anything he could think of. For losing. For not being good enough. For not living up to the expectations people had for him going into todayâs game. For not being as good as the man he was talking to.
But the older man shook his head and cut him off with a stern voice, âDonât apologize for trying your best, Celebrini.â Mackâs frown didn't lift, so Sydney tried to distract him by admitting something heâs never told anyone besides his closest friends, and teammates.
âYou remind me of someone.â Macklin tilted his head when Sydney started, his eyebrows furrowing at the ss look that crossed the older manâs eyes, âOf my daughter.â Macklin froze,p and his mouth dropped, it was enough to make him forget about everything he was sure would haunt him for the next four years.
âI havenât seen her in years, she moved to San Jose early spring in 2022, almost four years ago.â Macklin stayed silent, and Sydneyâs grip grew tighter around his shoulder. Sydney told him about the things he now knew you liked because right when you pulled away, that was when he really learned. He spoke of cafes and certain clothing stores. He whispered out your name through bitten lips, and with eyes as delicate as Mackâs he asked the thing he's been sitting in.
âSheâs amazing, Macklin. But sheâs alone.â This wasnât the best time to ask such a thing of a heartbroken boy, but Sydney Crosby was a man who lived in milliseconds. âI think youâll be able to help each other. You with the loss, and she with her loneliness.â Macklin didn't know why he agreed to such a thing, but he was desperate to feel okay again.
So he went to his room and called Will. They started searching all the Cafes in San Jose, and the day Macklin got back theyâd begun hitting them, two a day.Â
But when he agreed he expected a singular day with you, a fleeting memory that would fade with time. He didnât plan to fall in love, but Sydney was right. You were amazing. And watching you disappear behind the door was worse than losing Gold. Because the Gold he could chase again in a few years. But you? You were gone by the time his game ended.
All that was left was a voicemail. He didnât know that he was blocked earlier, then unblocked for just enough time for you to leave a voicemail. You knew he wouldnât answer, so you did it then. Will was left with one too, just as heavy, just as heartbreaking.
Macklin listened to his the entire way back to San Jose after their game against the Jets, because while you could go home during the game, he was stuck on a tight schedule. He was in Winnipeg, too far to stop you from leaving.
By the time he and Will landed and hopped in Macklinâs car â Will driving because Macklin hasnât stopped shaking since you blocked them. Your place was empty, and you were gone. And he and Will wouldnât see you again until the next winter came around, when he found himself at another cafe, buried somewhere in Anaheim before a game against the Ducks. (Which also wasnât much of a coincidence. Both he and Will spent months trying to convince the owner of your former favourite cafe to give them your address, which she only gave under one condition. To bring you home.)
But until then, all he had to prove your existence was the only thing youâd left. The voicemail, and the realization that heâd lost the only person heâd ever be able to love as much as he loved you, even if it was only for a few months.
And even thought Will wasnât in love with you, he loved you like a sister. Enough to feel the lack of you, to miss you when not even Macklin could fill the gaps you left. Without your giggle to bounce off theirs.
âYou knew. You both knew, and you still did it. I should've known that it was too good to be true, that I was too happy for it to be genuine. But youâre just like everyone back at home. Youâre not special to me anymore, Macklin. Youâre just mean. Youâre worse than every friend I've ever had that found out, worse than every friend that used me for my name. Because I actually trusted you, I even started loving you. Was that your plan all along? To make me fall in love with you, to believe that you and Will actually cared about me? Everything always circles back to Sydney Crosby, I can never be happy if Iâm still hiding behind him.â You paused long enough for Macklin to think your call ended here the first time he listened to it, but then your voice came back softer than before. You werenât just crying, you were sobbing. âEven now I just wish you guys wouldâve told me the truth from the start, or even from the day you told me you were hockey players. Because maybe we couldâve ended differently, maybe it would've been enough for me to stay. But I hope it was all worth it, Macklin. I really hope it was. Donât tell anyone that you knew me, because I never knew you.â
Well⊠that and the entire three albums that came after you ghosted. All songs written about two unnamed boys who you left when things got hard.
summary - in which you dm a random celebrity on instagram and the blooms of new love might just make you drop dead.
pairings - macklin celebrini x reader
warnings - none! (maybe an excessive use of figures of speech)
wc - 1.7k
requested - no
a/n - This came to me once I figured out Mack was a Gemini. I started this when I woke up yesterday, and I finished it the same day. Enjoy! Also, imagine they are somewhere Mack can drink legally. I was imagining Canada for this, but thatâs just me.
Boredom caused this.Â
You could curse your semi-drunk self for randomly scrolling through Instagram and finding people to stalk. But when Macklin Celebrini is leaning against the bar looking at you like youâre the only girl in the whole place, you canât bring yourself to anything but smile.Â
âSo you really do know anything about hockey?â Mack asks, taking a sip of his beer. The same one heâd been nursing all night, lukewarm and half full.Â
âNo, never been around it much.â You lean a little closer to him. âBut Iâm not opposed to learning more. Especially if youâre teaching me.â
âIâll teach you. Happily.â His face flushes pink as the soft sounds of âJust Like Heavenâ mingle with the conversations around you.Â
âSounds like a plan.â
âLast calls!â The bartender yells, and you tap on your phone.Â
âItâs so weird this bar closes at 11.â You shake your head, and Macklin agrees.Â
âWe can go somewhere else? Or I can take you home? Iâm not sure I want this to end yet.âÂ
âIâm good with that.â You grab your jacket and purse while Macklin closes out the tab.
He smiles and walks over to you, looking like an angel in the dim bar light.
âSo you really found me on Instagram and decided to stalk all of my pictures?â He looks over at you with a grin on his face.Â
âI was half drunk and in bed, not my best decision-making, but have you seen your face?â You shrug, walking through the door heâs holding open for you.Â
Macklinâs face goes redder than before as he falls into step with you. He clears his throat, âSo you sent me a message? How did you know I would respond?â
âCall it intuition.â You grin cheekily.Â
âSure.â He doesnât believe you, but he doesnât question it. âCan I give you a ride? Or walk you home?â
âMy place isnât too far from here, we can walk.â You nod in the direction of your apartment.Â
âOkay.â Macklin hesitates for a second, looking like heâs contemplating something.Â
âEverything alright?â You place soft fingertips on the back of his hand.Â
âYeah, would it be alright if I held your hand?â His words come out a little rushed.Â
âOf course.âÂ
âOkay, good.â You hold your hand out for him and he takes it gently. The warmth of his palm on yours feels like a punch in the gut.Â
You didnât even really mean to DM Macklin in the first place, but now you look at him and realize you might want to stay with him forever. The two of you begin the walk to your apartment, your shoulder pressed against his.Â
âFavorite trip youâve ever taken?âÂ
âThatâs a hard one, ummâŠmajority of the time Iâve traveled itâs been for hockey. But probably Italy."
âHave you ever been to Japan?â You look over at him. âThatâs my favorite place Iâve ever been.â
âNo, not yet.â He shakes his head. âIt seems really cool though.â
âItâs amazing there. Or the UK, I even took the train from England to France, it was amazing.â You gush, and Mack smiles more.Â
âThat seems really cool. I need to go somewhere fun for the offseason this year.âÂ
âI can give you plenty of recommendations.â You squeeze his hand.Â
âI look forward to them.â He looks down at you, and your eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth briefly.Â
âGood.â You turn your head away, trying not to shamelessly glance at his lips again.Â
Your walking pace is slower than normal, almost like you donât want the night to end just yet. Cars pass by as the start of the next day ticks closer.Â
âWhyâd you respond to my DM?â You ask, tilting your head. âYou probably get hundreds of DMs every day, so why respond to me?â
âMaybe it was the bad grammar.â
âHey! It was not that bad. I was half drunk and half asleep when I sent them.â You nudge his shoulder slightly.Â
âFine, I could read them, but I also thought you were pretty.â You blush at his confession.Â
âIs that all Iâm good for? My looks? Oh, the tragedy!â You say and place the back of your hand against your forehead.Â
âYou are ridiculous.â Mack laughs at your antics, âBut no, your looks are not all that you are good for. Your humor is another one of your great qualities.â
âYouâve known me for four hours and yet youâre already appealing to my comedic ego. Do you think I should start doing stand-up?â
âIâll be there if you decide to.âÂ
âSounds like a plan. I become a world-famous comedian, and you quit hockey to follow me on my comedy tours.â You joke.
âWhy do I have to quit hockey?â He chuckles, a slightly confused look on his face.Â
âShhhâŠdonât question it.â
Mack throws his head back, letting out a bark of laughter. Your gaze travels over the side profile of his face, tracing every line and contour highlighted against the dark of the night. He was so pretty, handsome, or any other adjective that could describe how much his face made your stomach flutter with butterflies.Â
âFine, I wonât. But I expect a cut of the money for encouraging your career change.â He barters over your fake job.Â
âDeal. Itâs a pleasure doing business with you, Celebrini.â
âYou as well.â He gives you a fake business-like handshake before the two of you start laughing.Â
âYouâre pretty funny too, Mack.â
âThanks, I try to be, but I think the only person I amuse more than myself is my best friend Will.â He looks over at you, and you notice his eyes moving from yours, down to your lips, and back up again.Â
Heâs thinking about the same thing as you.
âWell, you can add me to the list. Who knows, we might just become a comedy duo.â Your eyes make a similar path over his features. Again.Â
âWe might.â
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you walk down the street. The looming realization that you are close to home dampens your overly playful mood. There was just something so surreal about the situation that made you paranoid, you were going to wake up at any moment and realize it was a dream. But his hand in yours grounds you to the moment, because this was real and this wasnât something your brain made up. He is real, the feeling of your shoulder pressed to his is real. The undeniable urge to kiss him senseless is overwhelmingly real.Â
Macklinâs eyes keep flicking back to you. The hesitation that was present when he wanted to hold your hand was evident again.Â
âSomething on your mind?â You try to sound nonchalant, knowing that he may ask to kiss you. The one thing that might make you drop dead on the sidewalk.Â
âA few things.â
âWanna share?â You both slow to a stop, moving to stand under a street lamp. âIâm a great listener.â
âJust thinking about how well this is going.â He says honestly, and you lean against the base of the streetlight.Â
âYeah, it is going really well.â You agree, and your heart begins to beat faster.
âAnd I was also thinking about how much I want to kiss you.â Your heart leaps to your throat.Â
âYeah? Can I say that I was thinking the same thing?â You peer up at him through your eyelashes.Â
âYes, yes, you can.â Mack breathes out a sigh of relief. âSo can I kiss you?â
âYes, please.â
Mackâs hands settle at your hips as he tugs you closer, so you are almost chest to chest. He leans forward, and his mouth is warm against yours. You melt into the kiss, arms settling over his shoulders, one snaking into the hair at the base of his neck. He groans into your mouth, and you feel the smile forming on his face.Â
âYou canât just do that.â You pull away, face flushed, and lip gloss slightly smudged.Â
âCanât do what?â He asks, and you want to wipe the grin off his face.Â
âSmirk into a kiss, asshole.â You softly smack his shoulder.
âNow youâre calling me names?â He raises an eyebrow, hands squeezing at your hips.Â
âYes.â You deflect eyes, looking away to watch your thumb rub circles on his shoulder.Â
âIâm sorry, can I give it a second shot? To make it up to you?â
âI guess you can.â You shrug noncommittally and let Mack kiss you again.
Your mouths move in synchronized harmony, slotting together like a key in a lock, cracking your chest wide open. The warm glow of blooming love spreads from your heart, in a display you can only feel. You finally pull away, and Macklin chases after your mouth with a few more chaste pecks.Â
âA little eager are we?â You tease and try to wipe the lip gloss from his mouth.Â
âDonât leave it.â He bats your hand away, and you chuckle.Â
âYou sure?â
âIâm sure.â He nods and looks down at his watch, âI guess we should finish this walk.â
âI guess we should.â You agree much to your chagrin.Â
You get back onto the pathway and begin the short walk to your apartment that is left. Mack takes your hand again, fingers laced with yours this time. The comfort that his hand in yours brings creeps up on you unexpectedly. Your apartment building comes into view, and you slow to a stop, the night coming to an end sooner than you hoped.
âThis is me.â
âWill I see you again?â Mack asks, not letting go of your hand.
âDo you want to see me again?â You walk back closer to him.Â
âIs that even a question?â He looks at you incredulously.Â
âI guess thatâs a yes then.â
âItâs a yes.â Mack squeezes your hand one last time.Â
âSoâŠIâll see you sometime soon?â You ask.Â
âIâll text you. Or call. Youâll hear from me.â He nods.
âI look forward to it.â You beam and quickly press a kiss to his cheek. âGoodnight, Mack.â
âGoodnight, Y/N.â He blushes at the feeling of your lips on his cheek.
You keep sneaking looks back at him, and Mack keeps standing there on the sidewalk watching you go in. He is still there when you walk into the elevator and press the button to your floor. You give a small wave, which he reciprocates before the elevator doors shut, and you canât see Mack anymore.Â
You canât contain the giggle that bursts from your mouth, as you lean your head back against the cool metal. You and Mack work so well together, and it might be too early to even think about the long term.
summary - in which macklin goes back home to italy with you. he doesn't understand what your family is saying, but he ends up finding his place there.
pairings - macklin celebrini x reader
warnings - reader speaks italian, author doesnât know italian and didnât want google translate to do anything incorrectly, so all âitalianâ is italicized. TOOTH rotting fluff, like you'll need to get your cavities filled.
wc - 1.9k
requested - yes
a/n - crazy coincidence that the necklace the girl is wearing in my header has an âmâ on it. the pinterest gods really helped me this time. this fic also has nothing to do with the olympics, I just like italy. amore mio aiutami means help me, my love, it is also a beautiful instrumental from a old Italian movie of the same name so give it a listen!
Italy in the summertime was far better than in the winter. The city of Florence was always alive and bustling with people when the flowers started to bloom. You missed your hometown most days when the sky over San Jose was a perpetual gloomy gray, and the onslaught of rain seemed never-ending. Which spanned nearly all of winter. Macklin knew how much your home country meant to you, and the fact that you couldnât always get back during long breaks or holidays was heartbreaking to him.Â
So to see you so giddy in the warm Tuscany sunshine, he has never been happier. But, meeting your family? Mack has never felt so much dread in his entire 19-year-long life.Â
âWhat if they donât like me?â
âThey will, Mack. Stop stressing.â The soft lull of your accent made some of the anxiety dissipate, but not all of it.
The front door to the townhouse opens before the two of you even walk up, your mother opens the door with a wide smile on her face.Â
âMy darling girl!â Her fast Italian didnât register in Macklinâs ears. âDoes he speak Italian?â
âNo, he doesnât.â You respond in English, and your mother nods in understanding.Â
âIt is fine. It is very nice to meet you, Macklin.â She gives him a hug.
âYou as well.â
âYou will have to excuse the family, the majority do not speak English. Some very broken, others nothing at all.â
âThatâs alright, Iâll manage.â He shakes his head.Â
âIâll translate for you. Most of my nieces and nephews donât speak English. And Nonna Francesca doesnât speak any English.â You place a gentle hand on his arm.Â
âGood to know.â Macklin leans a little closer to you.Â
âCome on in, please!â Your mother opens the door wider and lets the two of you in. âWe have the guest bedroom set up for you, Macklin. Right across from Y/Nâs room.â
âOhâŠalright.â Mackâs face falls.Â
âSorry, we are a traditional household since you are both still young and unmarried. So no sleeping in the same bed.â Your hand travels down his arm and laces through his fingers.Â
âAlright, Mamma. Let me take you up there, amore.â
âYou two are too young to make me a nonna!â Your mother calls after you as the two of you move up the tiny stairwell.Â
âMammina, please stop!â You huff and continue to lead Mack up the stairs. âThis is embarrassing.â
âI wouldnât say that.â
âDonât lie, amore.â You get to the second floor and turn to look at him pointedly.Â
âI would never.â He trails after you, hand still holding yours.Â
âThis one is mine,â You push open the door.
Mack feels like heâs stepping into your head, a bookshelf lined with classics, fantasy, romance, and everything in between. The soft golden light from the lamp on your bedside table highlights the soft white comforter and the million different pillows decorating your bed. There is a vinyl record player in the corner with a milk crate full of records, both new and old. It was an amalgamation of everything cozy and something purely you.Â
âWelcome home, little sister.â Your older brother walks through the door.
âGio.â You smile and walk over to hug him.Â
âWho is this boy in your room?â Macklin feels the piercing gaze of your older brother on him, and his nerves vibrate beneath his skin.
âMy boyfriend, Macklin, I told you he was coming.â The only thing he understands is his name falling from your mouth, but the cold glare of your brother makes him want to shrink into his skin. âHe doesnât speak Italian.â
âI see. So Macklin,â His accent is far thicker than yours, all the time living in North America must have softened it. âWhat are your intentions?â
âMy intentions?â
âYes, from what my sister has said, you are an athlete, you tend to beâŠhow you sayâŠa player.â Giovanni looks at Mack, trying to size him up, and you roll your eyes.
âNo! I would never do that. Your sister is very important to me. The idea of hurting her is something that has never crossed my mind. She is the only one for me.â Mack shuts down any idea that he would ever choose anyone besides you.
âI told you, Giovanni, very loyal.â You cross your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him.
âWeâll see, Nonna will test him for sure. Now, if you are done unpacking, the rest of the family is downstairs waiting for you two.â Giovanni nods down to the back patio.
âLead the way.â You reach out and lace your fingers through Mackâs, the two of you follow after Giovanni back down the stairs and to the patio, where the rest of your family is waiting. âHe thinks heâs intimidating because he is older than me. But, we're just the two babies of the family, and I really run this place.â
Mack laughs and presses a kiss to the side of your head, âI can hear you.â Giovanni grumbles and shoots a glare over his shoulder.
The three of you push through the double doors at the back of the house, and the patio is filled with immediate and extended family alike. Mack always thought growing up, his family was big, but yours was huge.
âDo you really know everyone here?â His eyes grew wider at the sight of over 50 people mingling and walking throughout the yard.
âWould you believe me if I said yes?â
âYes.â
âThere you go.â You squeeze his hand.
You walk around the patio and introduce Macklin to the aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some speak English, and others donât, but he can still feel how welcoming they are. He found himself separated from you at one point, but he ended up trying to explain the rules of hockey to two of your cousins.
âHeâs a good one, Y/N.â You smile at your cousin, Valencia. âI was skeptical of the boys you would find in North America, but you found a keeper.â
âI know. Should I save him from Antonio and Luca?â She laughs at your question.
âProbably.â You say goodbye to her and walk over to Macklin.
âSo you do all of that on ice skates.â Luca has a bewildered look on his face. âWhen I played football, most guys would fall to the floor with even a slight scratch.â
âYeah, we would get fined for that. Embellishment.â Mack smiles at the feeling of your hand on his back. âHi, baby.â
âHello, amore. Mind if I steal him?â
âNot at all Y/N, find us later, I have more questions.â Antonio claps his shoulder.
âDoing alright?â You rest your chin on his shoulder.
âI am, your family is nice. I wish I could understand more of what they are saying. It makes me feel bad that I canât speak to them properly.â Mack rests his cheek against the top of your head.
âThey like you though, everyone is telling me how good you are.â
âReally?â
âReally.â
âSheâs here!â A tiny stampede of children runs towards you as you turn your head, their hushed Italian floating through the air.
âOh no. Itâs the nieces and nephews.â You look at him with a crazed smile that instills fear in his heart, your arms falling away from his waist.
You stumble backwards as you are nearly tackled by what seems like twenty small children aged 3 to 11. Itâs really just six kids, but it feels like more.
âY/N! Y/N! Youâre home!â The six children swarm you, hands grabbing for yours, little faces looking up at you.Â
âI am!â The Italian flows seamlessly, and you ruffle a few heads.Â
Mack looks at you in awe. Youâre so natural with the kids. His heart beats a little quicker as you hug each one of the kids, speaking softly to them. He may not understand what you are saying, but he can sense the heart behind your words. Mack is so entranced by you that he doesnât notice a nephew of yours is staring up at him, confused at the unfamiliar person standing in your room.Â
âWho are you?â The boy, who must have been no more than 4 years old, blinked eyes wide and doe-like.Â
Mack is at a loss for words. He doesn't know what the boy said, and you are preoccupied with the other five kids.Â
âUmmâŠhi.â
âYou look funny.â The boy giggles, rocking back and forth on his heels.Â
âY/N.â Mack calls to you, and you look over at him.Â
âOh, Marco, that is my boyfriend, Macklin.â The boy, named Marco, nods his eyes widening in recognition.Â
âBoyfriend?â One of the smaller girls speaks up, and you nod. The kids suddenly swarm him. âDoes he speak Italian?â
âNo, but I will tell him what you say.â You look at him.
âCan we ask him questions?â Another girl speaks up.
âThey want to ask you some questions, is that alright?â You tilt your head and look at him.
âOf course, ask away.â
âYou can ask him your questions.â You translate to the gaggle of children looking up at him.
Mack kneels down to the height of your nieces and nephews, and you follow suit. The two of you crouched in front of the kids. They ramble on and on, asking various questions about what his favorite color is (he said he wasnât sure, the kids werenât happy), his favorite season (winter), how many siblings he has (three), and Mackâs favorite question: if he loves you (yes).
âY/N! Macklin! Nonna Francesca wants to speak to you both.â Your mother calls, âCome on, children, I have panna cotta in the kitchen.â
The kids run off after your mother and her bribe of dessert.
âTime to meet my nonna.â
Your grandmother is sitting in a chair by the tree, a bench right next to her, where your older sister, Sofia, is talking with the older woman.
âIâll let the three of you talk.â Sofia stands up unoccupying the bench for the two of you.
âY/N, darling, how are you? Is this the boy your mother has been telling me about?â Her Italian is very soft spoken, the words weathered with age and wisdom, even if he doesn't know what she is saying.
âYes, Nonna, this is Macklin.â You place a hand on his back. âYou can say hello.â
âHello, it is very nice to meet you.â
âHe says it is nice to meet you.â
âHello, Macklin, it is very nice to meet the boy who is making my granddaughter so happy.â Your nonna smiles at him. âHe is a very nice-looking boy, good for a girl as beautiful as you.â
âI know.â You grin, and your nonna squeezes your hand with a cheeky smile on her face.
âWhat did she say?â Mack asks you.
âShe's telling me she thinks youâre handsome.â You watch as his cheeks flush a blotchy pink.
âOh, thank you.â He gives a bashful smile.
âHe is very good with the children, and I can tell how happy you both make each other.âÂ
âShe says you are good with the children, and she can see how happy we make each other.â You translate for him, and Mack feels his heart start beating faster. A flush creeping to his ears.
âThank you.â
âI like him. Heâs good for you.â
âYouâve been nonna-approved, Mack.â Something warm fills his chest as he looks at you, the orange and gold Tuscan sunset framing your face. Mack is starting to feel like he belongs here with your family.
âWelcome to the family.â
âWelcome to the family, Mack.â You repeat back to him in English, and it solidifies for Mack that, despite the language barrier, the welcoming feeling he receives from your family transcends any and all need for words.
Genre: Street Racer au, Friends to Lovers, angst (18+ only!)
Summary: Being a friend to Wonwoo is hard. After Wonwoo saw you coming to race with another guy, it added to the complexity.
All your friends knew Wonwoo. In fact, almost all of your friends were also his. Thatâs just how close the two of you were. At first, they might ask a few questions,
âAre you two dating?â
âYouâre only friends?â
âYou lived together?â
âHow could you never like each other?â
But then they would realize that Wonwoo was like a brother to you, and you, a sister to him. That was your relationshipâa family.
You were five years old when your mother brought Wonwoo home for the first time. He stood silently in the doorway, his wide eyes roaming over your home as he clutched the small bag in his hands. You didnât ask any questions, though you were curious. Your mother seemed busy preparing a meal for him, so you just stayed quiet, glancing at him now and then as you chewed your food.
"Eat, Wonwoo," your mother said gently, setting a bowl of rice and soup in front of the little boy. You watched as he looked from the food to your mother, then let out a tired sigh. It was the kind of sigh you made when you didnât get your wayâlike when your mom refused to buy you the candy you wanted.
"Did my mother abandon me?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
At the time, you didnât understand, but later, you learned the truth. Wonwoo wasnât just some random boy your mother decided to helpâhe was the son of her best friend, a woman who had tried to take her own life after her husband remarried, leaving Wonwoo alone. Your mother took him in without hesitation, offering him the care and love he needed. From that day forward, he became a part of your family, though you never needed to question it. He was simply always there, like the brother you never had.
Now, watching him race, with every twist and turn of his bike seeming like it might be his last, you felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You couldnât help but feel both pride and worry. For the first time, you truly understood why your mother used to nag him about his racing.
"Heâs an adult, Mom. Stop worrying so much," youâd say, trying to ease her concerns every time she brought up his dangerous hobby.
"Itâs reckless! I donât want anything to happen to my son," she would reply, her tone sharp with anxiety. "If he needs money, he could just ask me or his father."
Youâd always dismiss her concerns, but deep down, you knew your momâs worries werenât unfounded. Wonwooâs relationship with his father had always been strained, at best. His father, a cold, distant man, had barely acknowledged Wonwooâs existence after his motherâs death. With his father remarried and distant, Wonwoo had only his older half-brother, Jisoo, who helped him get his first bike and gave him the encouragement their father never would. Racing had become Wonwooâs escapeâa way to make money and prove himself on his own terms, far from the shadow of the man who refused to claim him as his own.
"I heard from Seungcheol that youâre here. What are you doing?"
Wonwooâs voice cut through the noise of the dispersing crowd as he approached you, helmet in hand. His hair was damp with sweat from the race, and his eyes held a mix of confusion and irritation. He never expected to see you at one of his races. You never cared about his racingâso why now?
"Sheâs with me."
Lee Jiseok, another racer, appeared out of nowhere, draping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him. It was an unmistakable statement, a silent challenge to Wonwoo. His smirk was as irritating as the gleam in his eye, like he was enjoying this little game.
Wonwoo scoffed, barely able to hide his disdain. He knew Jiseokâs typeâa classic playboy who treated girls like trophies. And he knew you better than anyone. You wouldnât settle for someone like Jiseok, not with your values, your standards.
Yet, you said nothing.
Your silence hit him harder than he expected, as if it confirmed Jiseokâs words. You really came with him?
Wonwoo clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his composure. Youâre my best friend, he thought bitterly. Iâve invited you to my races so many times, but you never came. And now youâre hereâwith him?
The next morning, Wonwoo stood outside the front doorâhis next door. He knocked twice before your mother opened the door, already dressed for work. She greeted him warmly, as always, her smile a comfort that momentarily softened his mood.
"Iâm sorry I had to call you so early," she said apologetically, slipping on her shoes. "She has class at eight, but if I leave now, Iâm sure sheâll skip it. Please wake her up for me, Wonwoo?"
Wonwoo nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Sure, Mom. Donât worryâIâll flip her room upside down if she oversleeps."
When the clock struck the time you were supposed to wake, Wonwoo rose from the couch with a determined sigh and headed to your room. There was no need to knockâhe knew you well enough to predict youâd still be buried under your blanket, arm flung over your head in your usual deep slumber.
But when he opened the door, his eyes widened in shock.
"Shit! What are you doing?!"
You stood there, fresh out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but your underwear. Your hair was still damp, and you were fumbling with a towel. Wonwoo froze, completely caught off guard, his brain short-circuiting for a few milliseconds before he slammed the door shut.
What the hell? He just saw you almost naked!
His mind flashed back to the last time he saw you with so little on. Rightâwhen you were both six, taking a bath together at your momâs insistence because âit saved water.â But that memory was far from comforting now.
Clearing his throat, he spoke through the door, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Breakfast is ready. Hurry up!"
The table was quieter than usual as you sat across from each other, eating in awkward silence. You didnât seem fazed by the earlier incident, casually scrolling through your phone between bites, but Wonwoo couldnât relax. His mind replayed the scene from your room like a broken record.
"Accompany me to get a new broadcasting supply," you said out of the blue, eyes still glued to your phone.
Wonwoo frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Donât you have a boyfriend for that?"
You looked up, startled by his tone. His words were sharp, laced with pettiness. He still couldnât let go of last nightâthe sight of you at the race, with Jiseok.
You sighed, already tired of explaining. "Heâs just a friend. It was an impromptu invitation. What was I supposed to do? Say no?"
Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms. "You said no to me plenty of times. I guess Iâm just your personal driver, huh? Always at your service when itâs convenient for you. Have I ever missed your events?"
You groaned, setting your phone down as frustration flared between the two of you. At moments like this, it felt like neither of you had matured past five years old.
"You have!" you shot back. "You missed my interview with Woo Do Hwan, remember?"
Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "I told you I was stuck at the supermarket with Mom! She made me wait an hour just to get free soy sauce!"
Slamming your hand on the table, you leaned forward, glaring. "Exactly! So donât act like you have the right to be mad at me just because I went to the race last night!"
The tension fizzled as quickly as it had flared, both of you slumping back in your seats. That was just how you and Wonwoo wereâbickering like siblings one moment, laughing at your ridiculousness the next.
Moments like this were why you didnât understand why so many people mistook the two of you for a couple. How could they? This was far from romanceâit was chaos.
*
Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, phone buzzing on the desk beside him. He glanced at the screenâanother message from Hansol.
"Bro, I think I gave you the wrong flash drive," Hansol had texted, followed by a facepalm emoji.
Wonwoo frowned, grabbing the drive from his desk and plugging it in. Moments later, he sent Hansol a picture of the folders inside.
"Yeah, thatâs mine," Hansol confirmed. "But, uh, I think I handed you the one with⊠semi-movies."
Wonwoo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hansol was one of his newer college friends, part of the crowd heâd reluctantly fallen in with after starting school late. Unlike Wonwoo, who entered college later, most of his classmates were still wide-eyed and full of energyâwhether it was for studying, partying, or chasing girls. Wonwoo had been there before, though, so he understood their eagerness to experience everything.
Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, the room dim except for the soft glow of his computer monitor. "It happens," Wonwoo muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Hansol sent another text: "Mingyu says number 12 is the best. Just saying."
Wonwoo rolled his eyes but couldnât suppress his curiosity. He sighed, grabbed his headphones, and positioned himself comfortably in his chair. He clicked on the folder labeled â12,â his finger hesitating for a moment before opening it.
The video started, and Wonwoo settled in, one part reluctant and another part intrigued. Hansol and Mingyu had hyped it up, after all.
But just as things were getting, well, intense, a notification popped up in the corner of his screen.
He groaned, annoyed by the interruption, until he saw it was a text from you.
"Where are you?!" the message read, followed quickly by another: "You said you were coming with me!"
Wonwooâs eyes widened in realization.
Days before, youâd asked him to help you pick out new broadcasting supplies, and like the idiot he sometimes was, heâd completely forgotten. Now you were probably standing somewhere, annoyed, waiting for him.
Why would Wonwoo care about anything else when he had his cock in his hand?
His other hand hovered near his mouse, desperately trying to click away the endless notifications cluttering his screen. Yet the scene unfolding before him commanded every ounce of his focus. The moans echoing in his ears and the rhythmic slap of flesh through his headphones sent jolts of heat coursing through his body. He couldnât tear his eyes away from the screen, couldnât slow the frantic pace of his hand as he worked himself closer to release.
The tension tightened in his stomach, pleasure building with every stroke. His grip grew firmer, movements more urgent, as he chased that blinding high. His jaw clenched; his breath hitched. It was so close. So, so closeâ
Another notification popped up, your name and profile picture covering the screen. Goddammit. Wonwoo groaned in frustration, his free hand fumbling to get it away, but in his haste, he tapped your profile picture instead.
Your face expanded across the screen, your bright smile abruptly replacing the explicit video. The sudden shift broke his focus, and his cock twitched impatiently in his grip. He growled under his breath, fumbling to switch back to the other tab.
But just as he was about to, a noise froze him in place. A sharp intake of breath.
Wonwooâs head snapped up, his stomach plummeting like a stone.
There you were, standing in his doorway, eyes wide as saucers, mouth slightly agape. And you werenât just looking at him masturbatingâyou were looking at him masturbating with your profile picture plastered across the screen.
His heart stopped.
For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent. No moans. No rhythmic slap. Just his ragged breathing and the deafening beat of shame pounding in his ears.
âOh⊠fuck,â he rasped, his voice barely audible. He scrambled to cover himself, his hands awkwardly darting between the computer and his lap as if any amount of damage control could salvage the situation.
But it was too late.
The damage was done.
And God had officially crowned him the biggest loser in the universe.
*
You sat in front of your computer, staring at the words you typed into the search engine box.
"Why would a friend masturbate with our picture?"
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard, unsure whether you were about to dive into an existential crisis or just make a bad decision in the name of curiosity. You glanced around the room as if someone might pop up and say, âDonât do it, this is a terrible idea,â but no one did. It was just you, your increasingly weird search history, and the growing suspicion that you might be losing your mind.
You clicked on the first link. A vague, clickbaity headline stared back at you: âThe Psychology Behind Bizarre Friend Behavior: Why Did They Do That?â
Oh, great. You were now entering the realm of psychology and potentially ruining your future Google search recommendations for life.
You closed the tab and slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples.
Your phone buzzed, breaking the awkward silence. You glanced at it, half-expecting it to be some random spam message or a notification you could ignore. But no, it was from Lee Jiseok.
You hesitated before opening it. The message read: âHey, you look pretty in your new profile picture.â
Your eyebrows shot up. âPretty?â you muttered under your breath. Seriously? You sighed. Yeah, right. You needed to delete that profile picture, now. That image had clearly caused more trouble than it was worth.
Trying to move past it, you quickly typed a reply: âJiseok, want to help me grab some broadcasting supplies?â Hopefully, that would steer the conversation away from your now-infamous photo.
And here you were now, roaming around the store, hunting for a new microphone.
âDo you find it?â Jiseok asked, looking at you expectantly. You shook your head and sighed. âThey donât have it until next week. We have a podcast this Thursday, though.â You added, your voice tinged with frustration.
Jiseok nodded, an idea forming. âLetâs try another store. Weâll find it.â He was always the optimist.
The two of you stepped out of the store, but as you walked, a familiar figure almost collided with you. You looked upâof course, it was Mingyu, the engineering student you were doing the podcast with, and, to your absolute delight, Wonwoo.
Your eyes widened, and a chill ran down your spine when you locked eyes with him. Two days after that... incident, you couldnât look at him the same way again. He masturbated to your picture, for god's sake! And now it felt like the words were written on his foreheadâonly you could see them, though.
âY/N, how are you? Nice to see you here!â Mingyuâs friendly voice pulled you back into the moment. You forced a smile, saying the usual pleasantries, before introducing Jiseok.
âWonwooâs a racer too. You know him?â Mingyu pointed to Wonwoo, who, to your amusement, now seemed to be avoiding eye contact with everyone.
You internally scoffed. He acted like he didnât like the attention, but deep down, you knew he secretly loved it when people talked about him. What an idiot.
Jiseok, ever the social butterfly, grinned. âSure. Who doesnât know him? Heâs the best.â
Mingyu turned his gaze to you, a puzzled look on his face. âThen why did you want to do the podcast with me, rather than Wonwoo? Heâs got more achievements.â He said it so casually, completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the air.
Oh, Mingyu, you thought, rolling your eyes inside your head. Now you understood why Wonwoo always complained about Mingyuâs lack of awareness when it came to reading a room.
You forced a smile. âWeâll have the podcast later, but right now, we have to go. Weâre in a hurry. Bye, Mingyu!â You grabbed Jiseokâs hand and pulled him in the opposite direction, away from Mingyu and Wonwooâs destination.
âWhy did she only say bye to me? Do you guys fight or something?â Mingyu called out, turning his head as he asked Wonwoo, confusion written all over his face.
Wonwoo sighed deeply, shaking his head. He looked at Mingyu for a long moment, then made his way into the store by himself. âYou really donât know how to read a room, Mingyu.â
Mingyu blinked, still not quite understanding, and then shrugged. âWell, whatever.â
*
Wonwoo heard a knock at his door while he was unpacking the late-night snack heâd ordered to accompany the game he was streaming. He immediately ran to the door, expecting it to be your mother, perhaps returning something sheâd forgotten or maybe just dropping by to see him. But when he opened the door, there you were.
"What's wrong?" Wonwoo asked, his voice sounding oddly stiff. It had been a week since you last spoke, and though youâd fought plenty before, never had there been such a long stretch of silence. And definitely never because he hadâwell, you knew what had happened.
"The electricity went out next door," you said, your voice a little shaky as you stepped inside. "I called the owner, but they said they won't fix it until tomorrow morning. Iâm... Iâm kind of scared."
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. Your mother had gone to Busan for a trip with friends, leaving you alone for the night. She had asked Wonwoo to look out for you while she was gone and had even handed him a bottle of whiskey her colleague had given her. Wonwoo had shrugged it off at the timeâit was just another nightâbut now here you were, knocking at his door for the first time in ages, even though you knew the passcode. Something had clearly changed after what happened last week.
"Oh my god!" you gasped suddenly, snapping Wonwoo out of his thoughts. He assumed it was because of the food, but then he turned and saw what you were holdingâthe whiskey.
"Mom gave this to you? I've been wanting to drink it, but she gave it to you? So unfair!" you exclaimed, looking at the bottle as if it were a treasure you had just discovered.
Wonwoo smirked. "Now you know who the favorite is."
You immediately pouted, ignoring the playful tone in his voice. "Let's drink it!" you insisted, eyes sparkling with excitement as you held the bottle up like it was the holy grail.
"No," Wonwoo replied, shaking his head and taking the bottle from your hands. "She just gave it to me. Plus, you havenât had dinner yet. You shouldnât drink on an empty stomach."
You stared at him with big, watery puppy eyes, your lower lip sticking out in a dramatic pout. You were sending a signal that clearly said, âPlease?â
Wonwoo sighed in defeat, his resolve weakening. He looked at the food heâd ordered and then back at you, who was now practically bouncing on your toes in excitement.
"Alright," he relented, âEat first.â
You let out a delighted squeal and grabbed the plate, skipping over to the coffee table in front of the TV, already too excited to even think about the conversation that had just unfolded.
Wonwoo watched you go, shaking his head with a bemused smile. It wasnât often he had to deal with this kind of energy from you, and the contrast to last weekâs... incident was striking. But still, it was good to have you here againâeven if things were a little weirdâand he wasnât about to let you get away with skipping dinner.
He was already mentally preparing himself for whatever chaos might come next.
23:00.
00:00.
01:00.
You poured another glass of whiskey, the bottle now more than halfway empty. Beside it sat a bottle of Soju and a few cans of beerâclear evidence of the drinking escapade you and Wonwoo had been on.
Wonwoo slapped your hand lightly, his fingers brushing against yours as you reached for the whiskey bottle again. You winced, offended, before giving him a pointed look and downing the shot in one go.
"Who drinks whiskey in one shot, idiot?" Wonwoo scoffed, his words slightly slurred.
The two of you were definitely drunk, but if the scale of your inebriation had a measure, yours was definitely tipping the higher end. Wonwoo, ever the stoic, had become quieter as the alcohol hit him. On the other hand, you turned into a full-on talkative monsterâsomething Wonwoo had often referenced before, claiming alcohol was your âserum truth.â You never could hold back when tipsy.
"Now, tell me," Wonwoo began, eyes narrowing, "Are you dating Lee Jiseok?"
You didnât answer, not even giving him a glance. You just kept swirling the last of your whiskey, pretending to focus on the glass in your hand.
Wonwoo chuckled lightly. "Who could guess you'd date a playboy like him?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
You kicked his arm, hard enough to make him flinch. "You're not in the place to call anyone a playboy, Playboy!"
Wonwoo frowned, giving you an incredulous look. "I'm not a playboy," he retorted, his words slow and careful, "Havenât dated in a while. And Iâm loyal too."
Wonwooâs expression hardened. "It was for a project," he said quickly, his tone defensive, "She's too young for me, not even twenty."
You suppressed a laugh, trying to hold back the drunken grin that was threatening to spill out. "Shut up, Wonwoo. I know you dated a high schooler before. Did you teach her how to kiss?"
Wonwooâs eyes widened in shock, and he gasped, flustered. "When was I? You think Iâm a criminal? You think that low of me?"
Did you mention that Wonwoo also got angry a lot when he was drunk? His tone had shifted from playful to defensive, the edge in his voice sharper than usual.
You smirked, your mind racing with more teasing remarks. "Lost your virginity at 18?"
"Who told you?!" Wonwoo shot back, his face flushing with a mix of indignation and embarrassment.
You couldn't resist. "Your first kiss was with the aunty neighbor, from ten years ago!"
"Y/n, you better shut your mouth!" Wonwoo growled, eyes narrowing, clearly irritated now.
But you weren't done. "You masturbated over my picture."
The room went completely silent, like a cold wave crashing over both of you. For a moment, everything stopped. The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. You felt your heart skip a beat, realizing, in horror, what you had just blurted out.
The weight of your words hit you like a punch to the gut. It felt as though time froze for a brief second, the drunken haze clearing just enough for you to realize the enormity of what you had just said.
Wonwooâs face went pale, his expression unreadable. The playful banter had evaporated, replaced by an uncomfortable, pregnant silence.
And then, the awkward tension settled in, wrapping around both of you like a heavy, unspoken confession.
"It was a misunderstanding!" Wonwoo blurted out, his voice rising defensively. "You think Iâd ever make you an object? Thatâs completely the opposite!"
You stood abruptly, the alcohol fueling your indignation. "Yeah? What do you mean by that? Are you saying Iâm not good enough? For your information, I do have decent boobs!"
Before he could respond, you grabbed your chest dramatically, emphasizing your point.
Wonwoo's mouth opened, then closed. He blinked at you in disbelief. "Not big enough for me," he mumbled under his breath, as though he hadnât meant to say it aloud.
Your jaw dropped, and you hissed at him, âOh, really?â fueled by liquid courage and your mounting irritation. Without thinking, you plopped down onto his lap, challenging him with your eyes. "Letâs see if thatâs true.â
You grabbed the hem of your T-shirt and, in one swift motion, pulled it over your head.
There you were, sitting on Wonwooâs lap, your black lace bra on full display. He froze, his brain short-circuiting as his eyes instinctively dropped.
Sure, heâd accidentally caught a glimpse of you changing once beforeâan awkward, fleeting moment that had plagued his thoughts for weeks. But this? This was something else entirely.
"Eyes up here, Jeon Wonwoo," you snapped, reaching out to tilt his chin up so his gaze locked onto yours.
His breath hitched as he met your intense stare.
"Are you good at kissing, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice lower now, almost a whisper.
"Why?" he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
You shrugged, leaning in just enough to close some of the space between you. "I donât know. Iâve never kissed anyone before. Iâm curious... Can you kiss me?"
Wonwooâs eyebrows shot up, the shock breaking through his haze. "Are you serious?"
You nodded, your determination unwavering.
And just like that, his lips met yours.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid youâd change your mind. But as you leaned in closer, your fingers brushing against his jaw, he deepened it, his confidence growing with each passing second.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wonwoo told him to stopâhe was sober since an hour ago when you sang that trot song. But right now, with you in his lap, your lips on his, and your scent flooding his senses, he couldnât bring himself to care.
*
The kiss, once soft and tentative, quickly turned into something deeper, more passionate. Wonwooâs hands slid beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as he laid you down on the couch. He was painfully aware that you were half-naked beneath him, but he held himself back, his hands hovering, unsure where to land.
Your eyes fluttered open, locking onto his. "Why arenât you touching me? Isnât that what youâre supposed to do during a kiss?"
Wonwoo froze, his breath hitching. "You... want me to touch you?"
You tilted your head slightly, your tone teasing but curious. "I donât know. I told youâIâve never kissed anyone before."
His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, a mix of amusement and disbelief flickering across his face. "Right... You did say that."
Without another word, Wonwoo leaned back in, his lips crashing against yours with newfound determination. This time, his hands began to move, sliding across your body as though committing every curve to memory. His touch was hesitant at first, then more assured, igniting every nerve he brushed against.
"Is this what you call making out?" you asked, your voice breathless as his lips trailed down your jaw to your neck.
Wonwoo hummed in response, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. He licked a slow, deliberate line along it before gently biting down, just enough to leave a faint mark.
Your body jolted slightly at the sensation, and you exhaled shakily, your voice wry as you added, "Isnât making out supposed to lead to... you know, sex? Are we going there?"
Wonwoo froze mid-movement, pulling back to look at you. His dark eyes searched yours, conflicted yet filled with an emotion you couldnât quite place. "Wait. Youâve never had sex before?"
You scoffed, the tiniest smirk tugging at your lips. "Iâve never even kissed anyone before tonight. What do you think?"
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "Youâre serious?"
"Iâm inexperienced," you admitted bluntly, meeting his gaze head-on. Then, with the same boldness that had started this whole mess, you tilted your head, challenging him. "Why? Does it matter?"
His face softened, but hesitation lingered in his voice. "It doesnât matter," he said finally, low and steady. "I just donât want to push you into something youâre not ready for."
He laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at you, his cheeks slightly flushed.
Then you whispered the words that made his breath catch: "Teach me."
Wonwoo froze for a moment, his mind racing, but the determination in your gaze erased his doubt. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in, his lips brushing yours. This time, his touch was more confident, more intentional.
"Iâll go slow," he murmured against your lips.
And you, already captivated, whispered back, "I trust you."
Wonwooâs lips moved with an intoxicating rhythm, each kiss deepening the connection between you. His hands roamed freely now, exploring the curves of your body with an addicting reverence. You gasped softly as his fingers danced over your skin, igniting a fire within you that demanded more.
"Wonwoo," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation, "donât stop."
His response was a low hum against your lips, his hands now tracing the delicate straps of your bra. He slipped them down your shoulders, his lips never breaking contact with your skin as they trailed along your collarbone.
The tension in the room was palpable, every touch and kiss feeding into the desire building between you. You tugged at his shirt, frustrated by the fabric that separated you. He obliged, pulling it over his head and revealing his toned chest. Your hands instinctively moved to explore him, marveling at the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.
His lips found yours again, hungrier this time. His hands slid to your hips, and he pressed his body against yours, every inch of him screaming with want. The air around you was charged, and it felt like nothing could stop the moment from escalating further.
But then Wonwoo froze.
You blinked up at him, confused by the sudden halt. "Whatâs wrong?" you asked, your voice breathless.
Wonwoo sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sat back slightly. "I⊠donât have a condom," he admitted, his voice laced with frustration.
Your cheeks flushed as his words sank in, the realization hitting you like a tidal wave. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The charged tension hung in the air, thick and undeniable, but now it was accompanied by an awkward hesitance that neither of you knew how to navigate.
"WellâŠ" you finally broke the silence, your voice softer than you intended. "Maybe we should stop here. I donât want to⊠you know⊠end up pregnant."
Your words hung in the air, blunt yet honest, making you cringe inwardly. Wonwooâs lips quirked into a small, sheepish smile as he leaned back slightly, giving you space.
"Fair point," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement but also relief. "Guess we got a little carried away."
You nodded, smoothing down your hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. "A little?" you teased, trying to ease the lingering tension.
Wonwoo chuckled, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, maybe more than a little," he admitted.
Silence settled between you again, but this time it wasnât awkward. It was filled with an unspoken understanding, a mutual acknowledgment that what just happened meant somethingâsomething worth protecting.
He shifted, reaching for his discarded shirt and slipping it back on. "You know," he began, glancing at you, "Iâm not just here for⊠that. You can trust me."
You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. A small smile crept onto your lips. "I know, Wonwoo," you said softly. "And I trust you."
The tension melted away as the conversation turned lighthearted again. You grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and wrapped it around yourself, feeling the heat in your cheeks finally subsiding.
"Guess thatâs enough excitement for one night," you joked, earning a laugh from Wonwoo.
"Yeah," he agreed, standing up and stretching. "Next time, weâll be more prepared. Or⊠not let it get that far."
Wonwoo turned his head to you and found you fell asleep.
*
After that night, you and Wonwoo returned to your usual dynamic as if nothing had happened. Conversations flowed naturally, and you still found yourself knocking on his door whenever you had a fight with your mother. The kiss and everything that followed seemed to have been swept under the rug, left unspoken and untouched. Perhaps it was better that wayâa mutual, unspoken agreement to let it stay buried.
One afternoon, Wonwoo received a call from his half-brother, Jisoo, inviting him to lunch. Despite sharing the same father, Jisoo was the only person from that side of the family Wonwoo didnât dislike. Their relationship had started in his high school years when Jisoo visited him for the first time. Reflecting on it now, Wonwoo thought it was better that they met when he was mature enough to understand Jisooâs intentions were genuine. He wasnât there to mock or judge but to offer familial support.
The two met at a renowned high-class restaurant, a place Jisoo often frequented. As Wonwoo took a seat across from his older brother, he observed how composed Jisoo wasâevery bit the polished executive who worked as a director in their fatherâs automotive company.
Despite his disdain for anything related to their father, Wonwoo had to admit the bikes the company produced were unrivaled. He even used them for racing, albeit grudgingly.
"How's Y/N and her mother?" Jisoo asked, his tone genuinely curious. He knew how much your mother had done for Wonwoo, essentially raising him as one of her own.
"They're great," Wonwoo replied, leaning back in his chair. "Momâs still working, though. She doesnât want to stop."
Jisoo frowned slightly, setting down his glass of water. "I send them an allowance every month. Why is she still working?"
Wonwoo shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I give her money every month too, but I donât think she ever uses it. She says she prefers to stay busy."
Jisoo smiled knowingly, shaking his head. "Sheâs a remarkable woman. Your mom must be incredibly grateful to her for raising you so well."
Wonwooâs gaze softened, a rare warmth in his usually stoic expression. "She is," he said simply.
Their food arrived, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics as they ate. They caught up on life updates, with Jisoo regaling Wonwoo with stories of his complicated love life, which seemed to amuse the younger man.
But as the meal neared its end, Jisooâs tone grew more serious. "By the way, as I mentioned earlier, Father wants to talk to you."
Wonwoo paused mid-sip of his drink, his brow furrowing. "Whatâs that about?"
Jisoo tilted his head, clearly unsure. "Iâm not entirely certain. But I think he wants you to join the family company."
Wonwoo let out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair. "Itâs funny that he suddenly considers me family."
Jisoo didnât respond immediately, his expression neutral but thoughtful. "He knows youâre passionate about automotive engineering," he finally said. "And he knows you studied it for a reason."
Wonwooâs smile faded as he stared at his brother, trying to decipher the real meaning behind their fatherâs intentions. "Itâs not about passion, hyung. Itâs about control. Thatâs all itâs ever been with him."
Jisoo sighed but didnât push further. He knew better than to try to bridge the gap between Wonwoo and their father. Instead, he finished his drink, offering his brother a small, reassuring smile. "Whatever you decide, just rememberâyouâre not alone in this."
Wonwoo nodded, appreciating the sentiment even if he didnât fully believe it. As they parted ways, his mind lingered on the conversation, the idea of stepping into his fatherâs world stirring a mix of emotions he wasnât ready to comfort.
"You're daydreaming, man," Mingyu teased, nudging Wonwoo with his elbow. His words snapped Wonwoo out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the present moment in the workshop.
Hansol returned from the restroom, joining the duo as they worked on the hybrid and electric vehicle management system. Their lecturer had invited a professional from the field to guide the session, someone who, to Wonwooâs dismay, worked for N-Jeen, a subsidiary of his fatherâs company, Jeon Dynamics Automotive (JDA).
"If any of you are interested in joining us through an internship, please let us know," the professional announced. "Weâre currently running a program tailored to your major."
As the workshop concluded and the trio transitioned into their cleaning shift, Mingyu brought up the internship opportunity. "So, what do you guys think?" he asked, his mop sliding across the floor with ease.
Mingyu nodded, understanding. "Yeah, makes sense," he said before turning to Wonwoo. "How about you?"
Wonwooâs response was blunt, his tone laced with disdain. "I hate JDA."
Mingyu froze, taken aback. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill, dude! Itâs just N-Jeen. I know you hate JDAâyouâve mentioned it a thousand times. But you still race with their bikes!" he exclaimed, his voice rising in mock disbelief as he gestured dramatically.
Wonwoo chuckled, walking to the other side of the room to tidy up the supplies. "I race with them because I know what their products lack," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I wonât waste my time learning from a company that's lacking."
Mingyu groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. "So, Iâm the only one signing up for this internship? Just me? As always! No one cares about poor Mingyu," he whined, flopping onto a nearby stool with exaggerated defeat.
Hansol smiled, shaking his head as he resumed mopping. "Youâll survive, drama king. Think of it as your time to shine."
Mingyu pouted for a moment before perking up. "Youâre right! Iâll be the star intern they canât live without!" He grinned, clearly imagining a heroic montage in his head.
Wonwoo smirked as he glanced at his friends. "Have fun with that, Mingyu. Let us know if you discover anything groundbreaking."
*
You decided to put everything in the fridge as it became clear Wonwoo wasnât coming home tonight. You had tried calling and texting him. You even reached out to his college and racing friends, including Seungcheol, but none of them knew his whereabouts.
Settling into the quiet of his house, you decided to make the most of it by binging entertainment shows on his Netflix account. Hours passed, and just as you started to feel drowsy, the sound of the door opening startled you. Wonwoo was finally home.
But something was different. He wasnât wearing his usual racing suit. Instead, he was dressed in formal attire, his tie loosened, and his suit jacket slung over his arm. His expression was stormy, his brows furrowed, and he looked straight past you as he made his way to his closet.
You stayed silent, sensing his mood. After knowing him for almost 20 years, you had learned that asking him questions when he was upset would only make things worse. Still, you couldnât help but feel a growing curiosityâand concernâabout what had happened.
"Turn off the TV when you leave," Wonwoo said curtly, his voice clipped and final. Without another word, he stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Something had definitely happened.
You mustâve fallen asleep on the couch at some point, because the next thing you knew, sunlight streamed through the windows. Groggily, you checked the clock: 11 a.m. Thankfully, you didnât have class today.
Where was Wonwoo? Was he still home? You stretched and got up, heading to the kitchen. The food you had prepared last night was untouched, exactly where youâd left it in the fridge. You sighed, noting the little sticky note youâd left him, reminding him to heat it up before eating.
Curious, you made your way to his bedroom and knocked softly on the door. A muffled hum confirmed he was awake. Turning the doorknob, you peeked inside and saw him lying in bed under the covers.
"You didnât go to campus?" he asked, his voice groggy.
You shook your head as you walked in, heading straight for his bed. "Nope. Scoot overâmy backâs killing me from sleeping on the couch."
Wonwoo immediately shifted, making space for you without a word. You climbed into the bed, settling beside him. For a while, the two of you lay in silence, the room filled only with the soft sounds of breathing.
Then, out of nowhere, Wonwoo dropped a bomb. "I met my father last night," he said calmly.
The words jolted you awake. You sat up, staring at him in disbelief. His eyes remained closed, his tone too nonchalant for the weight of what heâd just revealed.
"You what? Why didnât you tell me?" you asked, your voice tinged with both surprise and frustration.
Wonwoo shrugged lazily, turning his back to you. "Too lazy," he muttered.
You smacked his arm, earning a groan of protest. "You shouldâve brought me along! I definitely wouldâve punched him in the face."
That made him chuckle, a rare sound given his current mood. "That wouldâve been funny," he admitted.
You pouted, watching him. His brief moment of amusement faded quickly, and the weight of whatever had happened during that meeting returned. Now it all made senseâwhy heâd been so distant and angry last night.
"Wonwoo," you said softly, the concern evident in your voice.
He didnât respond, but the way his shoulders tensed told you he was listening. Something about the meeting had clearly upset him, and though you knew better than to push, you couldnât help but worry.
"If you ever feel like talking about it, Iâm here," you offered, your tone gentle.
For now, youâd let him take his time, but deep down, you resolved to stick aroundâbecause no matter how much he tried to hide it, Wonwoo wasnât as unaffected as he pretended to be.
Jiseok had asked you to accompany him to the races tonight. It was only your second time attending one, and you still had no idea what to do while he raced. That was one of the reasons you always turned Wonwoo down whenever he invited you. Watching the chaotic speed and adrenaline-fueled madness wasnât your thingâyou could barely stand to be there.
Yet here you were, holding tightly to Jiseok as he rode his bike to the arena. The roar of engines filled the air, and the energy was electric as racers stood by their bikes, preparing for the event. Your gaze scanned the crowd, and a familiar face caught your eye.
Seungcheol, one of Wonwooâs closest friends, waved at you enthusiastically. But his expression quickly shifted to one of surprise when he saw who you were withâLee Jiseok. You didnât know much about Jiseok beyond the fact that heâd been trying to get closer to you these past few weeks.
Before you could dwell on Seungcheolâs reaction, you felt a tug on your arm. Looking up, you met Jiseokâs intense gaze.
âIâm racing tonight,â he said, his voice low but confident. âLetâs bet on something.â
You tilted your head, curious. âAlright⊠Whatâs the bet?â Youâd heard that races often came with bets, though youâd never been involved in one yourself.
Jiseok smirked, his confidence practically radiating off him. âIf I win, be my girlfriend.â
It took you a moment to process his words. He wanted to date you? A flush crept up your cheeks, and you found yourself studying his face. He seemed dead serious.
âAnd if you lose?â you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
He shrugged nonchalantly, throwing his hands in the air. âThatâs up to you. But I hope we can still be friends.â
You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Did you even like him? He was charming, sure, but your feelings were still unclear.
After a brief pause, you nodded, deciding to go along with it for now. âAlright. Deal.â You shook his hand, sealing the bet.
As you continued walking, the excitement in the air grew palpable. Your thoughts, however, were distracted when you spotted another familiar figureâWonwoo. He was leaning against his bike, looking as calm and collected as ever.
Your lips curled into a small smile at the sight of him. Despite the chaos around him, Wonwoo always had this steady presence that put you at ease.
By the end of tonight, it wasnât just about the race anymore. Whether Jiseok won or lost, you found yourself wondering whose victory youâd truly be rooting forâJiseok, the confident charmer, or Wonwoo, the friend who had always been there.
*
Wonwoo was adjusting his helmet when the murmured conversation of two nearby racers caught his attention. He wasnât one to eavesdrop, but the mention of your name made his ears perk up.
âSo Jiseok won? Thatâs why sheâs with him?â one of them said, loud enough for Wonwoo to catch.
The other racer chuckled in agreement. âI guess so. They were talking about herâthe prettiest broadcast student. I canât believe she fell for him.â
âI know, right? She doesnât even look like the type. I bet sheâs a wild one then.â
The first racer snickered. âShe slept with him. Of course. Thatâs why heâs so smug.â
Wonwoo froze, his jaw tightening as their words settled in his mind. Without hesitation, he turned to face them, his piercing glare cutting through their laughter.
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â he demanded, his voice low but menacing.
The two racers immediately looked intimidated, their smug expressions faltering under his stare. One of them stammered, âI-Iâm just saying⊠I heard from Jiseokâs crew. Theyâve been betting on her.â
âBetting on her?â Wonwooâs tone turned ice-cold.
The second racer swallowed hard. âYeah, uh⊠whoever sleeps with her first gets the newest JDA bike. Itâs just⊠a stupid bet, man. Jiseokâs been bragging that heâs already won.â
Wonwooâs fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he suppressed the urge to lash out. His mind raced, but one thing was clearâhe wasnât going to let this slide.
Without another word, he stormed off to where Seungcheol was sitting, scrolling through the lineup for tonightâs races on his phone.
âWhoâs in the lineup today?â Wonwoo asked, his voice sharp.
Seungcheol glanced up, sensing his friendâs tension. âA lot, man. Youâre always the last one, though. Why? Thinking of changing it up?â
Wonwoo patted Seungcheolâs shoulder, his expression unreadable. âTell a guy named Lee Jiseok I want to race him tonight.â
Seungcheolâs eyebrows shot up. âJiseok? Whatâs this about?â
Wonwoo didnât answer, his gaze fixed on the arena ahead. âJust make it happen.â
Seungcheol shrugged, sensing that this wasnât the time to ask questions. âAlright. Iâll let him know.â
As Seungcheol walked off to relay the message, Wonwoo took a deep breath, his mind replaying the racersâ disgusting words. This wasnât about the race anymore. It was about protecting youâfrom Jiseok, and his crewâs vile games.
The engines roared, and the air was electric with tension as racers lined up at the starting line. Wonwoo tightened his grip on the handlebars, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but his mind was anything but focused. The words he overheard earlier echoed relentlessly in his head.
Jiseok's been bragging that heâs already won.
Wonwooâs jaw clenched as he thought of you.
So you kissed me while you were dating someone else?
The memory of your lips on his played like a cruel taunt. He had thought that kiss meant somethingâthat it was real. But had you been with Jiseok all along? The idea of you lying about being inexperienced, only to give yourself to someone like Jiseok, made his stomach churn.
You were always so shy... was it all an act?
The flag waved, signaling the start, and the racers took off. Wonwoo accelerated, but his focus wavered. Every turn, every gear shift felt slower, heavier.
âGet it together,â he muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the whirlwind of emotions.
But it didnât help. With every lap, his thoughts consumed him.
Jiseok is a player, a nasty piece of work who uses girls and brags about it. Why would you be with someone like him?
He remembered asking you outright if you were dating Jiseok. You had avoided the question, brushing it off with a nervous laugh. That laugh haunted him now.
Why am I doing this?
Lap after lap, the internal conflict raged. Wonwoo kept telling himself he was racing for your safety, to put Jiseok in his place. But the more he thought about it, the more the hope drained from him.
Whatâs the point of protecting someone who doesnât want to be saved?
The finish line was in sight, and Wonwoo pushed the bike harder, trying to catch up, but his distracted mind had already cost him too much time. Jiseok crossed first, throwing his hands in the air in victory.
The crowd erupted, but Wonwoo barely registered it. He pulled off his helmet, his breathing laboredânot from exertion, but from the weight in his chest.
And then he saw you.
Jiseok ran straight to you, grinning like a king. Before Wonwoo could process what was happening, Jiseok pulled you into a kiss, right there in front of everyone.
Wonwooâs stomach dropped. The sight knocked the air out of his lungs.
So itâs trueâŠ
He watched as you smiled at Jiseok, your cheeks red, the kind of look he had only dreamed of seeing directed at him.
The crowd blurred, and the noise faded. Wonwoo turned away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He had lostânot just the race, but you.
And for the first time in years, he felt completely powerless.
*
Wonwoo leaned back in his seat on the flight from China to South Korea, staring out the window as the city lights below blurred into streaks of gold. He exhaled deeply, a weight he had carried for years pressing heavier as the plane descended. After nearly six years, he was finally going home.
His mind drifted back to the night it all changedâthe night he confronted his father for the first time in years. It had been an uncomfortable meeting, one where his father barely looked at him, keeping his tone clipped and professional.
âYou have two options,â his father had said, sitting across from him with a glass of whiskey in hand. âStudy business overseas or join the internship at N-Jeen.â
Wonwooâs stomach had churned. He didnât want either option. All he wanted was to keep racing, the one thing that gave him freedom, an escape from the heavy shadow of his family name. But his father had made it clear that freedom wasnât on the table.
âChoose between those two,â his father continued, his gaze piercing, âor stop racing altogether.â
It wasnât a choiceâit was an ultimatum. Wonwoo felt trapped, suffocated by the invisible leash his father had placed on him.
Wonwoo still remembered the moment he let his guard down and told Mingyu the truth about who he was. They had been in the middle of a grueling project late one night when Wonwoo casually mentioned, âMy father owns JDA.â
Mingyu had frozen, tools in hand, his jaw dropping. âWait. What?! Youâre⊠youâre a conglomerateâs son?!â
It took him a while to process. Mingyu had always wondered why Wonwoo had such a strong disdain for JDA, but after hearing how distant and controlling Wonwooâs father was, everything clicked.
âMan, your dad sounds awful,â Mingyu had said bluntly, his loyalty to his friend overriding any hesitation. Despite Mingyu eventually landing a marketing manager position at N-Jeenâa position Wonwoo applauded him forâhis opinion of Wonwooâs father never softened.
Wonwoo smiled faintly at the memory. Mingyu deserved every bit of success heâd earned. He had worked tirelessly, and when Wonwoo had given him a standing ovation at his promotion, it had been one of the few moments of genuine joy amidst the chaos of his life.
Meanwhile, Wonwoo had chosen a different path, one that took him far from South Korea and deeper into the family business he had always resented. Studying engineering overseas was his way of carving out a space in the empire without fully submitting to his fatherâs control. For the past three years, he had managed JDAâs branches in China, putting his skills to use while keeping a measured distance from his fatherâs world.
Now, as the plane touched down, Wonwoo couldnât shake the mix of dread and anticipation swirling in his chest. South Korea wasnât just homeâit was where everything had started. It was where the scars of his childhood lingered and where unresolved pieces of his life waited.
As Wonwoo stepped into the arrivals hall, a man in a tailored suit approached him, offering a polite bow. "Mr. Jeon, the car is ready to take you home," the man said with practiced precision, gesturing toward a sleek black sedan parked outside.
Wonwoo paused, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. Before he could respond, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a message from Mingyu:
"Hansol and I are on our way to pick you up. Donât let your fatherâs people drag you offâwe have better plans."
A small smile crept onto his face. Without hesitation, he turned to the driver. âIâll pass. Tell my father Iâll find my own way.â
The man blinked, momentarily stunned, but nodded curtly. Wonwoo didnât look back as he walked toward the pickup area, where Mingyuâs car soon pulled up.
The familiar beat-up car, with Hansolâs booming laugh spilling out before the door even opened, was a stark contrast to the polished image of his fatherâs world. Wonwoo slid into the back seat, greeted by Mingyuâs playful smirk and Hansolâs cheerful wave from the passenger seat.
âLook whoâs back from the dead!â Hansol exclaimed, twisting around to face him.
âYeah, yeah,â Wonwoo said with a chuckle. âMissed me that much, huh?â
âMore like missed having someone else to make fun of,â Mingyu quipped as he pulled the car onto the main road.
They fell into their usual banter, the kind that felt effortless and warm. Mingyu and Hansol werenât just friendsâthey were family, the kind he had found later in life. Wonwoo thought about how rare it was to meet people like them as an adult. Before Mingyu and Hansol, there had only been you.
How were you, by the way?
The thought hit him unexpectedly, his gaze drifting out the window. He had caught glimpses of you on TV over the years, presenting news on a Korean broadcasting channel with the same poise and determination he remembered. But beyond the polished facade, he had no idea how you were really doing.
He still regretted leaving without a word six years ago. Not explaining. Not saying goodbye. He wondered if you hated him for that.
His chest tightened as his thoughts turned to your mother. She had always treated him like her own, welcoming him into your home with warmth he rarely felt elsewhere. Mingyu had told him about the car accident that took her life. Wonwoo couldnât imagine how devastating it must have been for you.
He was ashamed to admit that while everyone else had been there for you, he hadnât been. He had been thousands of miles away, too wrapped up in his fatherâs plans and his own resentment to return when you needed him most.
âYou okay back there?â Mingyuâs voice broke through his thoughts.
Wonwoo blinked, realizing he had been silent for too long. âYeah, just... thinking.â
Mingyu glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression softening. âWell, stop overthinking. Youâre home now. Thatâs what matters.â
Home.
The word felt heavy. Because for Wonwoo, home wasnât just a placeâit was the people he had left behind. And as much as he didnât want to admit it, part of him hoped that somehow, some way, he could find his way back to you.
*
You stood in front of Wonwoo, your best friendâor at least, he used to beâthat you hadnât seen in six years. His expression was calm, his handshake professional as though he were meeting a stranger. You mirrored his demeanor, shaking his hand briefly before stepping aside to let your team brief him on the details of the interview.
You knew you were going to interview him today. Youâd read the script and his profile yesterday, preparing for this as if he were just another guest. As if you hadnât spent over 20 years knowing him better than anyone else. But with each passing moment, anger churned inside you. What are you even doing here, Wonwoo?
Wonwoo had just returned from China, now representing N-Jeen, a subsidiary of JDA. Your role in the interview was clear: help him gain recognition among students for a new program designed for engineering majors.
âNo personal questions,â the producer reminded you. âEverything should focus on his professional journey and the program.â
Wonwoo smiled softly, his demeanor composed as he took a seat beside you. You cleared your throat, trying to ignore how much he had changedâor how much you hated that he had.
âIâll go over the list of questions once more,â you said, scanning your notes.
âI already read them on the way here,â he replied, his tone casual but polite.
You blinked at his unexpected thoroughness and nodded, apologizing. âDo you have anything youâd like to add, Mr. Jeon?â
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at his watch. âLetâs converse for a bit,â he suggested, his voice dropping to the familiar, easy tone you used to know. âHow are you, Y/N?â
The question was kind, friendlyâeven gentleâbut it threw you off balance. You could hear Mingyuâs voice in your head, telling you how much Wonwoo had grown as a person. Yet, it didnât make his sudden reappearance in your life any easier to accept.
âIâm great,â you replied, your voice steady but clipped. âThank you for asking. I see youâre doing well, Mr. Jeon.â
Wonwoo chuckled softly, the sound painfully familiar. âMr. Jeon,â he repeated, amused. âItâs the first time Iâve heard you call me that. You used to hate that nameâŠâ His reference to your shared disdain for his father stung more than you wanted to admit.
You sighed deeply, reaching for your water as the producer motioned that the interview was about to begin. Thank God. Bowing to the crew, you quickly excused yourself and left the set the moment the interview wrapped up.
Wonwoo stayed behind, chatting amiably with everyone like the polished professional he had become. You, on the other hand, grabbed your bag and practically bolted from the room.
The sound of footsteps followed you to the elevator, and you knew without looking that it was him. When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped inside, hoping the ride down would be short and silent.
âAre you free after this?â Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice carrying the warmth of the boy you once knew. âLetâs grab some lunch.â
You stared ahead, your grip tightening on your bag. He still looked at you as though nothing had changed, as though the six years of silence between you hadnât happened.
âI have things to do,â you replied curtly.
The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the lobby. You stepped out quickly, eager to escape, but Wonwooâs long strides easily caught up to you. His hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks.
âAt least give me your number,â he said, pulling his phone from his pocket.
You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before snatching the phone and typing in a number. Handing it back without another word, you walked away, your heart pounding in your chest.
Sliding into your car, you let out a shaky breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Your phone buzzed in your bag, breaking your brief moment of reprieve. It was your boss.
âWhat now?â you muttered before answering, your voice polite despite your irritation.
âWhatâs your agenda tonight?â your boss asked without preamble. âJoin me for dinner with the chief of SKB.â
You sighed, closing your eyes as frustration bubbled to the surface. Since when had you accepted being treated like this? But you knew the answer. It was the same reason you had agreed to this interview in the first place. Because you always put duty first, even at the expense of your own peace.
âUnderstood,â you replied quietly, ending the call.
Staring out of the windshield, you couldnât help but wonder how much longer you could keep this up. And if youâd ever find the courage to tell Wonwoo exactly how much he had hurt you by leaving.
*
It was unexpected. Wonwoo had just stepped out of the restroom when he caught a glimpse of you through the slightly open door of the private dining room beside his. He froze for a moment, certain it was youâyour attire was the same as it had been this morning, leaving no doubt in his mind.
Curiosity pulled him in. As he returned to his own dinner with a board member, his thoughts lingered on the sight of you sitting among what appeared to be senior executives. So, this is what your life looks like now? He found himself wondering. Entertaining superiors... Is this normal for a presenter?
When his meeting ended, Wonwoo stepped out and waited near the entrance of your room, watching as you graciously bid farewell to the older men you had been dining with. You looked tired, but your professionalism didnât falter until the last of them left. As you turned to head out, his sudden presence caught you off guard.
âWonwoo?â you said, surprise flickering across your face.
He gave you a small smile and gestured to the room behind you. âI was in the one next door. I saw you.â
âOhâŠâ You hesitated before nodding. âItâs part of the job.â
âWanna grab a drink together?â Wonwoo asked, his voice soft but hopeful.
You glanced at your watch, shaking your head. âI have a morning show tomorrow.â
âFair enough,â he said with a nod. A small, awkward silence fell between you before he spoke again. âYou did great, by the way. Iâve seen you on TV a few times.â
âIn China?â you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. âYeah, sometimes.â
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words. Finally, Wonwoo broke it, his voice quieter than before. âIâm sorry⊠about your mom.â
Your expression faltered for a split second, but you recovered quickly.
âI wish Iâd been there for you,â he continued, the regret in his tone unmistakable.
You didnât respond immediately, your face unreadable. It was only after a moment that you quietly said, âThanks,â before shifting your weight, glancing at the time again. âBut I have to go.â
You bowed slightly before walking away, your steps hurried, as though putting distance between you and him was your priority. Wonwoo stood rooted in place, watching as you got into your car and drove off.
His chest felt tight as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. 10 PM. Too early to call it a night, especially with the emotions swirling in his chest.
Pulling out his phone, he dialed a number. âHansol,â he said when the call connected. âYou free?â
Because tonight, more than ever, he needed a drinkâand perhaps someone to help him figure out the mess of feelings he didnât know how to untangle.
âYou left, man!â Hansol exclaimed, his voice louder than necessary in the quiet space. His hands waved animatedly as he leaned across the table. âWhat the hell did you expect? You didnât even send a text when her mom died. You just⊠poofed!â He mimicked an explosion with his hands, his indignation almost comical if not for the weight of his words.
Wonwoo grimaced, holding the can of beer in his hand like it was his lifeline.
âI met Y/N,â Wonwoo murmured earlier.
Hansol snorted and leaned back in his chair. âYeah, and I bet she wasnât exactly thrilled to see you.â He took another sip of his beer before pointing at Wonwoo. âBut hereâs the real question, Wonwoo: why is she mad at you? What did you do to make her this angry?â
Wonwooâs gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tightening around the cold can.
âIf nothing happened, she wouldnât be this mad,â Hansol continued, his tone sharp and unforgiving. âAnd letâs face itâyou wouldnât be this much of an asshole, leaving her without a single word, text, or call.â
Hansol wasnât wrong, and that was what made it sting. Wonwoo knew there was something more, something unspoken, that had driven you both to this point. And he hated that Hansol could see through him so easily.
Two weeks after that fateful night when Jiseok beat him in a race, Wonwoo disappeared from the arena. It wasnât like him to skip races, especially after being undefeated for years. Rumors spread like wildfireâwas he too embarrassed to show his face? Beaten by someone with only two years of experience?
But the real reason wasnât embarrassment. It was you.
Wonwoo hadnât wanted to see Jiseok, and by extension, he hadnât wanted to see you. That night, when he saw you and Jiseok kissing after the race, something inside him shattered. He couldnât bring himself to face either of you. Instead, he texted Seungcheol.
âCan you keep an eye on Y/N for me?â
Seungcheol had questioned him, but Wonwoo offered no further explanation.
That same week, Jisoo approached him to discuss his career. âSo, whatâs next? Another championship?â
For the first time, Wonwoo hesitated. âI think Iâm done with racing, hyung.â
Jisooâs eyes widened in disbelief. âYouâve been racing for almost ten years. Youâre at the top of your game.â
But Wonwoo had already made up his mind. Heâd had enough. Between the weight of seeing you with someone else and his fatherâs relentless pressure to âgrow up,â he decided it was time to walk away. Following his fatherâs advice, he chose to pursue businessâwhile still holding on to his passion for automotive engineering.
Under Jisooâs guidance, Wonwoo applied for a program in China that combined engineering and business studies. What was supposed to be a two-week observation trip and a visit to JDA turned into something more.
He stayed.
Wonwoo let everyone know he was leavingâeveryone except you. After the argument youâd had before he left, he assumed you wouldnât care. But your mother... he couldnât bring himself to leave without telling her. He called her, explaining his plans and promising to visit soon.
That promise, like so many others, remained unfulfilled.
Months later, on the very day of his final test, Wonwoo received the news: your mother had passed away in a car accident.
The guilt was suffocating. Heâd failed you.
Heâd called Mingyu immediately. âCan you watch Y/N for me? I canât leave the test.â
Mingyu hadnât hidden his anger. âYou should be here, not me.â
Wonwoo sighed, his grip tightening on the phone. âI know. Just... please."
Now, years later, Hansolâs words echoed in his mind, each one a painful reminder of his mistakes. Wonwoo stared at the beer can in his hand, his reflection faintly visible on its surface.
âMaybe youâre right,â he muttered, barely audible.
Hansol raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. âOf course Iâm right. Now, the real question is: what are you going to do about it?â
*
You stared at the clock, watching the seconds tick by. Midnight was minutes away, and with it, your 32nd birthday. The thought filled you with a strange hollowness. Taking a sip of the wine in your hand, you let its warmth spread through you, but it did little to soothe the ache.
The buzz of your phone jolted you from your thoughts. The screen lit up with a name you recognized instantlyâMr. Park, the Chief of Broadcasting at EBS. You exhaled deeply, setting your glass down before answering.
"Good evening, Mr. Park," you greeted with a carefully polished tone, a professional smile forming on your lips despite the late hour.
"Good evening, darling. What are you up to?" His voice was warm, rich with the kind of charisma that made him magnetic in meetings.
You forced a small laugh, one that didnât quite reach your eyes. "Iâve got a morning show tomorrow, so I came home early tonight."
His laughter echoed on the other end, deep and indulgent. "Always the hard worker," he teased lightly. The conversation flowed effortlessly, the two of you exchanging pleasantries and updates until he decided to call it a night.
"Rest well, darling. Iâll send you a little something to thank you for listening to my day."
You hung up and sank back into the couch, the smile vanishing from your face as the weight of his words lingered. You rubbed your temples, feeling the heaviness settle in your chest.
What was all of this for? The spacious apartment, the expensive wine, the silk robe that felt like a second skinânone of it brought you happiness.
Six years had passed since your motherâs death, and youâd worked tirelessly to claw your way to the top. You had fought for everything, even compromising pieces of yourself you once held sacred. But now, as you sat in the quiet of your curated life, you couldnât help but wonder: What had all this hard work been for?
You had powerful men offering you money for a few minutes of conversation. You entertained your superiors, earning their favor and securing promotions. But at what cost? When had you become this person?
Each passing day seemed to erode the parts of you that once sparkled. The vibrant, hopeful version of yourself was long gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. A stranger. The weight of that realization was suffocating, the feeling of being submerged in endless blueâa deep, inescapable sadness that had consumed you entirely.
As you sat there lost in thought, your phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text message.
Happy birthday.
âWonwoo
Your heart stopped for a moment. Wonwoo.
After a month of silence, he had finally reached out.
You had told yourself not to expect anything from him, but deep down, you had waited. You had hoped. And yet, his simple message brought more pain than comfort. Six years ago, he had disappeared without a word, leaving you to pick up the pieces.
You sighed and set your phone down, determined not to let the message haunt you. But as the hours dragged on, exhaustion eventually overtook you, and you drifted into an uneasy sleep.
You woke with a start, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The image was still vivid in your mindâa shadowy figure looming over you, their weight pressing you down. It felt so real that your skin prickled, and your heart raced as if you had just escaped something dangerous.
Your hands fumbled for the lamp, flooding the room with light. You scanned every corner, your eyes darting to the shadows, but there was no one there. Just your empty room.
Another nightmare.
Your hands shook as you reached for the pills on your nightstand, swallowing one without hesitation. These dreams had been haunting you for years, each one more vivid and terrifying than the last. Sometimes it was a man chasing you, other times a car accident, or the suffocating sensation of being trapped. They felt so real, like memories etched into your subconscious, leaving you trembling long after you woke.
When was the last time you slept peacefully, without pills to dull the edges of your fear? You couldnât remember.
You wrapped up your morning show with a warm smile, thanking the crew and bowing deeply to the staff before heading backstage to gather your belongings. The long hours and early mornings had become second nature, but today felt slightly different, like something was lingering in the air.
As you walked down the hallway toward your office, your name was called. You turned to see your superior waving you over. "Y/N, come to my office, please."
Without hesitation, you changed direction, your heels clicking against the tiled floor as you made your way to the 6th floor. As you stepped into his office, your eyes immediately landed on a familiar figure sitting comfortably in a sleek suitâWonwoo.
Beside him sat one of his staff, equally polished and professional. Your superior greeted you warmly, gesturing toward the two men.
"Y/n, this is Mr. Jeon Wonwoo," he said, though you both already knew each other. "He wanted to personally thank you for the interview you conducted. Thanks to your efforts, the student selection process has run smoothly."
Wonwoo's lips curved into a polite smile, and you mirrored it with a carefully practiced business smile of your own.
Your superior, Mr Won, continued, oblivious to the tension. "The program will be broadcast nationally, and Mr. Jeon has specifically requested you to be the presenter."
"Me?" You raised your brows in surprise, masking the irritation bubbling beneath your surface. Of course, Wonwoo would pull something like thisâusing his influence to drag you into his orbit, all under the guise of professionalism.
You forced a polite response, your tone steady and composed. "If that's your decision, Mr. Won, Iâll follow your instructions. You know whatâs best for the me."
Once the meeting concluded, you exited the office, determined to shake off the encounter. But as you walked down the hallway, Wonwoo caught up to you, his voice low and teasing.
"Impressive communication skills," he remarked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
You stopped abruptly, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. His staff, preoccupied with a phone call, trailed behind before you motioned for him to go ahead. Wonwoo nodded subtly, dismissing his staff to give you two privacy.
"Youâve really changed, havenât you?" he said, his tone laced with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. "Who wouldâve thought the rebel Ji Y/N would be tamed by work? Following orders, smiling for the camerasâso unlike the opinionated girl I knew."
You froze mid-step, his words hitting a nerve. Slowly, you turned back to him, your voice cool but firm. "What do you mean by that?"
Wonwoo raised his hands slightly, feigning innocence. "I didnât mean to offend. Itâs just⊠the Y/N I remember wouldnât have played the corporate game so well. She had a mind of her own."
You glared at him, your patience wearing thin. What did he know about you now? Six years had passed since he left, and he thought he could waltz back into your life with snide comments about who you had become?
"And what about you?" you shot back. "Have you learned this condescending attitude from running family businesses or by charming people at dinner meetings?"
His smirk faltered, but you didnât care. This wasnât the time for his petty observations or thinly veiled jabs.
"I do what I need to do to survive," you said, your voice steady but heavy with meaning. "You can think whatever you want, but you donât have the right to judge me."
You turned to leave, the conversation clearly over in your mind. But just as you walked away, you stopped abruptly and looked back over your shoulder.
"Iâve worked harder than anyone these past six years because I didnât have the luxury of a family supporting me. I didnât have someone handing me opportunities or funding my dreams. Everything I have, I earned. So donât act like you know me, Wonwoo. You donât."
*
Back in high school, you and Wonwoo often spent time talking about your dreams, painting pictures of futures that felt so distant yet so vivid in your minds.
"I want to be a successful racer," Wonwoo had declared one afternoon, the confidence in his voice unwavering.
You grinned, leaning back on your elbows. "And I want to be like my mom. You know, get married to someone nice, have a family, maybe work part-time at a cute shop or something. It sounds simple, but it feels fun."
Wonwoo snorted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "With your attitude and behavior? Good luck with that."
Your eyes widened as you playfully swung your hand at him, but he dodged, laughing as he hopped out of reach.
"I'm serious, though," you said, letting your hand drop. Then, after a pause, you asked quietly, "Do you still hate your dad a lot, Wonwoo?"
He shrugged, the laughter fading as he glanced at the sky. "I donât even know what I feel about him anymore. Heâs been out of sight for so long that⊠heâs kind of out of mind."
You nodded thoughtfully. "Thatâs probably for the best, right? Itâs less tiring that way. You donât have to waste energy hating him." Then, with a teasing grin, you added, "But if you ever need someone to hate him more on your behalf, call me, okay?"
Wonwoo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Youâre such a weirdo."
"Sometimes I hate my mom, though," you admitted, your voice softening. "Every time she dotes on you like youâre her real son and Iâm just⊠there. But I donât hate her all the time. I guess thatâs just how emotions work, right? They come and go, like waves."
He laughed at that, nudging you with his shoulder. "Of course, Iâm her favorite. Who wouldnât love me?"
Wonwoo sat at the dining table with Jisoo and his father, the atmosphere heavy with an unspoken irony. At the end of the day, it was just the three of themâWonwoo and Jisoo, the two sons his father had once abandoned, now seated by his side.
The clinking of cutlery was the only sound for a moment until his father broke the silence. "Howâs the production plan for N-Jeen coming along? I heard youâve decreased the credit allocation." Even outside office hours, his fatherâs mind never strayed far from work.
Wonwoo leaned back slightly, meeting his fatherâs gaze. "The reduced allocation is intentional. Most of our budget is spent compensating for inefficiencies caused by a lack of skilled personnel. Iâm planning to recruit professionalsâpeople who genuinely know what theyâre doing."
Jisoo nodded in agreement, his voice calm but encouraging. "That sounds like a solid plan. Do you have specific candidates in mind?"
"Iâve already extended offers to a few people I know who have proven expertise in their respective fields," Wonwoo replied, his tone confident but measured. "Iâve also been looking into recruiting experienced racers. Theyâve used our products firsthand and understand our shortcomings better than anyone else."
His father paused mid-bite, considering the proposal. "Itâs good that youâre involving people who understand the industry from the ground up. Make sure the contracts are watertight. We canât afford any liabilities."
Wonwooâs lips quirked slightly. Even a compliment from his father was veiled with caution. "Of course, Iâve consulted with the legal team about that already."
Jisoo interjected, his voice lighter, diffusing some of the tension. "Itâs interesting how youâre integrating practical experience into production strategies. Maybe weâll finally see N-Jeen at its full potential."
Wonwoo glanced at Jisoo, appreciating the support. Despite everything, Jisoo had always been the steady bridge between him and his father. It felt strangeâalmost bittersweetâsitting here now, discussing plans for a company that had been both a family legacy and a source of familial discord.
His father set his fork down and studied Wonwoo for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Youâve come a long way from being the reckless kid who only cared about racing."
Wonwoo didnât flinch, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "I'm not the only one who was reckless."
In the quiet ambiance of the restaurant, Wonwoo sat across from Seungcheol, who casually sipped his coffee. As their lunch ended, Wonwoo handed over a proposal, his tone calm but professional.
âThis is for the new product launch next year,â Wonwoo explained. âIâd like you to join the production team as part of the assessment division. With your expertise, youâd oversee racer recruitment and have them test our samples.â
Seungcheol glanced at the document and nodded. âInteresting. Iâll need some time to think it over. Is the end of the week okay?â
âPerfect,â Wonwoo replied.
The conversation shifted, and Wonwoo leaned forward slightly. âDo you have any recommendations for racers? Someone with the experience weâre looking for?â
Seungcheol thought for a moment, then nodded. âThere are a few people I could suggest. Itâs hard to find real talent these days, but Iâll introduce you to some promising names. Drop by when you have time.â
âSounds good,â Wonwoo said with a faint smile. âBy the way, what about Lee Jiseok? He used to be quite skilled.â
At the mention of Jiseok, Seungcheol froze, his brows furrowing. He placed his coffee down carefully, his expression growing serious. âLee Jiseok?â
âYeah,â Wonwoo said, sensing the shift in Seungcheolâs demeanor. âWhat about him?â
Seungcheol let out a deep breath, leaning closer. âYou donât know, do you? He was jailed a few years ago.â
Wonwooâs brow furrowed. âJailed? For what?â
âFor a sex crime,â Seungcheol said bluntly, his tone laced with unease.
Wonwooâs eyes widened in shock. âWhat? That doesnât make sense. Jiseok was dating Y/n at the time.â
Seungcheol shook his head, his voice heavy with seriousness. âNo, Wonwoo. They werenât dating. Jiseok made a bet with his crew to sleep with her. When she refused, he forced himself on her.â
Wonwooâs heart sank, and his fists tightened on the table. âY/n?â he whispered, his voice barely audible.
âYes,â Seungcheol confirmed grimly. âIt happened not long after her mother passed away. She was vulnerable, and he took advantage of that. I assumed you knew. You and Y/n were close. I canât believe no one told you.â
Wonwoo sat back, stunned. He hadnât heard from you in years, and now this revelation was unraveling everything he thought he knew.
âNo one told me,â Wonwoo said, his voice trembling with anger and regret.
Seungcheol studied him carefully, his expression softening slightly. âI thought you knew. Thatâs why I was surprised when you brought up his name.â
Wonwoo stared at the table, a storm of emotions raging within himâanger at Jiseok, guilt for not being there for you and regret for how distant you had become.
âShitâŠâ he muttered, the word slipping out as the weight of the truth bore down on him. You, his once-close friend, had endured unimaginable pain, and he hadn't been there to support you.
Wonwoo loosened his tie as he sank into the passenger seat of his car, his mind racing. His secretary, seated behind the wheel, glanced at him with concern.
âSir, are you alright?â the secretary ventured, but Wonwoo waved him off, his jaw clenched.
The ride back to the company felt agonizingly slow. The moment the car stopped in front of the building, Wonwoo threw the door open and strode in with determined steps. His heart pounded, not from exertion, but from the tumult of emotions threatening to spill over.
He stormed into Mingyuâs office without knocking, startling his friend, who was seated behind his desk.
âWhoa, whatâs going on?â Mingyu asked, his eyes widening at Wonwooâs flushed face and labored breathing. âBro, are you okay? You look... upset.â
Wonwoo ignored the question and closed the door firmly behind him. He turned to Mingyu, his voice low but sharp. âTell me the truth. Was Y/n a victim of sexual violence?â
Mingyu froze, his mouth opening as though to deny it. But he hesitated, his expression faltering. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair.
âWonwoo, listenââ
âAnswer me!â Wonwoo bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. His hand clenched into a fist, trembling at his side.
Mingyu swallowed hard, then nodded reluctantly. âYes... itâs true. But let me explainââ
âWhy the hell didnât anyone tell me?â Wonwoo shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. In a fit of frustration, he kicked the sofa beside him, sending a loud thud through the room. He turned away from Mingyu, his back heaving as he tried to control the whirlwind of anger and betrayal consuming him.
âWonwoo, we didnât mean to keep it from you,â Mingyu began, his tone pleading. âIt wasnât our decision to hide it from you. You didnât want you to know. She didnât want anyone to know.â
Wonwoo spun around, his eyes blazing. âI was her friend! I shouldâve been there for her. You all knew, and I was left in the dark like some outsider.â
Mingyu stood, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. âAnd what would you have done, huh? You were in China, handling your own life. She didnât want to drag you into her pain!â
âThat wasnât your choice to make!â Wonwoo roared, slamming his fist against the wall. His chest heaved as he struggled to process it allâthe betrayal he felt, the pain You must have endured, and the guilt clawing at him for not being there.
Mingyu softened, his voice quieter now. âWonwoo... she didnât want you to carry this burden. But if youâre this upset, imagine how she felt, going through it alone.â
The words hit Wonwoo like a punch to the gut. He sank onto the sofa he had kicked moments earlier, his head in his hands.
âShe didnât deserve that,â he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
âNo, she didnât,â Mingyu agreed, sitting across from him. âBut she survived. Sheâs still here, Wonwoo.â
Wonwoo looked up, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and determination. âI need to see her.â
Mingyu gave a small nod. âThen do it. But donât come at her with guilt or anger. Just... be her friend.â
Wonwoo clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would find you. And this time, he wouldnât fail you.
Wonwoo drove his own car to your broadcasting company, the hum of the engine a constant reminder of the tension that had been building between the two of you. You were in the middle of your last schedule when he arrived, but as soon as he caught sight of you, he immediately rose from the sofa, his eyes searching yours.
You were caught off guard by his sudden appearance. For a moment, you froze, unsure of how to react. But you quickly regained your composure, as you always did. The years of learning to keep your emotions hidden were not wasted.
"Follow me," Wonwoo said, his tone firm but pleading. You hesitated, instinctively preparing to decline.
"I'm busy," you replied, though the words felt hollow in your mouth.
He didnât give up. "I know itâs your last schedule. Come with me."
His grip on your arm tightened just enough to remind you that he wasnât going to take no for an answer. The heat of his hand on your skin made it hard to pull away. Reluctantly, you gathered your things and followed him.
As he drove, you tried to break the silence. "Where are we going?"
But he said nothing, his gaze focused on the road ahead. The world outside the window seemed to blur as your thoughts spiraled. You knew he wasnât the type to drag you around without a reason. Something was clearly bothering him, but you couldnât make sense of it.
Eventually, the car slowed, and you recognized the familiar stretch of road. The sound of the waves in the distance grew louder.
You were at the beach.
A sense of unease filled you as memories flooded back. This was the same beach where he had brought you years ago, after your father's funeral, when you felt like your world had crumbled around you. You could feel the weight of time, the shifting of your past and present, all converging in this one place.
The car came to a stop, and he stepped out, his movements purposeful, as though he already knew what he needed to do. You sat frozen for a moment before instinct kicked in. You quickly took off your heels and followed him, your steps leaving imprints in the sand.
"Wonwoo!" you called, your voice rising above the sound of the crashing waves. "Whatâs going on? What are you doing?"
But he didnât answer, walking farther away, his back turned to you. You couldnât make sense of it. Why was he acting like this? Why now, after all this time?
You quickened your pace, calling his name again. "Jeon Wonwoo, whatâs wrong with you?"
As you reached him, you tried to grab his arm, desperate to get his attention, to force him to explain himself. But before you could, he suddenly turned to face you. His expression was soft but strained, and before you could process what was happening, he pulled you into his embrace.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice breaking the silence between you like a cracked dam.
The words were simple, but they carried so much weight. You stood still for a moment, the shock of the gesture leaving you breathless. His arms felt like a refuge, but you couldnât shake the confusion swirling in your mind.
You stiffened in his arms, the warmth of his embrace both comforting and overwhelming. For a moment, you simply stood there, unsure how to react, your body frozen in his grasp. The familiar scent of himâthe cologne you remembered from years ago, the scent that somehow always felt like homeâfilled your senses. But there was also something else: regret, a deep, aching remorse in the way he held you.
"I'm sorry..." Wonwoo repeated, his voice softer now, as though the weight of his apology had finally found its place in his heart.
You both stood there in the silence, the crashing waves behind you and the setting sun painting the sky with colors of hope.
*
You saw Wonwoo running through the school corridors toward you during lunch break. You were taken aback when he suddenly pulled you into an embrace, his grip tight on your shoulders, his breath uneven, and his eyes brimming with tears.
"Promise me you'll remain calm," he whispered through his breathless words, his hands trembling as they held you tighter. You were stunned, your heart racing as you looked up at him, confusion flooding your mind. What was happening?
"Father..." His voice cracked, and his gaze flickered with a mix of fear and anguish.
"He had a heart attack," he continued, his voice strained, "and now he's being rushed to the hospital."
The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, and despite your shock, you immediately nodded, swallowing your panic. You couldn't let yourself crumble in the school cafeteria.
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs as Wonwoo took your hand and led you into a run. His steps were hurried, his determination pulling you along with him as he rushed toward the parking lot. The sound of your shoes pounding against the floor seemed to mirror the racing of your thoughts.
In a blur of motion, you both arrived at his bike, and without wasting a second, he revved the engine and sped toward the hospital.
But it was too late. By the time you arrived, the hospital doors felt like an insurmountable distance between you and the unbearable reality. The news hit like a thunderclap. Both you and Wonwoo had lost your fathers that day.
Wonwoo, in the midst of his own grief, stepped into a role you never thought youâd need him to. He became your rock, your father in ways you never imagined. He stayed by your side through the funeral, comforting you and your mother while silently bearing his own pain. He served everyone, trying to keep a stoic face, but you saw the cracks, the weight of the loss bearing down on him. He had seen your father as his own, a mentor, a second father.
And just like him, you buried your grief deep inside, unable to break down in front of your mother. You had lost your father, but she had lost everything. You couldn't bear to add more sorrow to her heart.
Wonwoo, ever the steadfast presence in your life, took you away from the heavy emotions of the funeral. He brought you to a beach near Incheon, one that your father had taken both of you to when you were just six years old. It was the first time either of you had ever seen the sea, a small, secret escape when your parents had fought. You hadnât been there in years, but the memories flooded back instantlyâthe sound of the waves, the salty air, and the way your father had held your hand, guiding you along the shore. It was a place you hadnât even realized you missed.
Standing behind Wonwoo as he faced the sea, the sound of the waves crashing in the distance, you felt the weight of everythingâyour father's absence, your motherâs pain, and your own silent grief.
"Just cry. Mom isnât here," Wonwoo said softly, his voice low and soothing, his broad shoulders unmoving as he looked toward the horizon.
The permission to break, to let go, was what you needed. Your tears came suddenly, unbidden, falling down your cheeks like a river, each one a memory, a piece of the pain you had held back. You sobbed quietly at first, but soon the floodgates opened. The grief you had kept hidden for so long poured out, carried away by the wind and the sea.
As your sobs became harder, more uncontrollable, you leaned your head against Wonwoo's back. His presence, so solid and unshakable, gave you the comfort you desperately needed. You felt his hand on your shoulder, a silent support, as you cried for everything you had lostâand for everything you were still holding on to.
You woke up to the sound of your own sobs, the remnants of tears still streaking down your cheeks. Blinking, you wiped your face with the back of your hand as you sat up on the edge of your bed. The room was dim, and the weight of the night pressed heavily around you. You hadnât even realized you had fallen asleepâeverything felt hazy, as if the moments between waking and dreaming blurred into one.
Wonwoo's words from earlier that afternoon echoed in your mind. "I'm sorry for leaving you..."
The words felt like a haunting whisper, lingering long after he had said them. Despite the years that had passed without any communication between you two, despite the distance that time and silence had created, his apology still had the power to stir something deep within you. The ache that you had buried for so long resurfaced, raw and tender, as if it had never left.
You let out a soft sigh, running a hand through your hair. After all these years, it was strange how much of an effect he still had on you. Even after everything, even after all the distance, he still found a way to worm his way into your heart.
"I like you," you confessed to Wonwoo, just weeks before he disappeared without a trace.
The memory of that night felt sharpâtoo sharp. You could still remember the heat of the argument, the first time you had seen Wonwoo lose control, shouting at you after days of silence. Whatever sparked the fight, you couldnât recall. But you did know one thing for sure: he was jealous.
Jealous of Lee Jiseok, who had won the race that day.
At first, you had thought it was childishâuntil you realized that the jealousy ran deeper. It wasnât just the race that had sparked his anger. It was the kiss. Jiseok had kissed you in front of everyone, and thatâs what really set him off.
The argument escalated, and before you could even process it, you found yourself grabbing his collar, pulling him toward you, and kissing him. For a moment, he froze, but then his lips moved against yours, answering you in the only way he knew how. He pushed you back against the wall of his apartment, lifting you so that your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.
"You kissed Jiseok, and now youâre kissing me?" His voice was low, almost dangerous, but there was something else behind itâdesire, frustration, longing.
The kiss deepened, and before long, you found yourselves shedding clothes, your breaths coming in quick, heated gasps. But in the midst of it, you stopped.
"I like you, Wonwoo," you said, your voice trembling but steady.
He paused, his lips lingering against yours, searching your eyes. "Yeah?" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
"I like you," you repeated, your heart racing. The truth had finally spilled from you, the words you had been holding in for months, or maybe years.
For a moment, you both just stared at each other. And then, without speaking, he closed the distance between you again, pulling you back into the storm of kisses and touches.
But in the middle of it all, as you looked into his eyes with burning desire, your thoughts spoke louder than anything else. "Fuck me," you thought.
Wonwoo pulled back suddenly, his expression unreadable. He grabbed your shirt, hastily putting it back on you, his movements sharp and cold. Before you could even understand what was happening, he was pushing you out of the door. The finality of it hit you hard as he slammed the door in your face without a word.
That night, you waited. But there were no apologies, no explanations, nothing. He didnât show up the next dayâor the day after that. Weeks passed, then months. You started to wonder if something had happened to him. If he had vanished entirely from your life.
Then Jisoo informed youâhe had gone to his father's house.
Three months later, you discovered the truth. Everyone knew he had gone abroad, except for you.
The silence, the absence, it stung more than you could have ever imagined. And now, here you wereâleft with only the memories of a night that had changed everything, wondering if he had ever felt the same.
*
"What?!" Both Mingyu and Hansol shot up from their seats in surprise as Wonwoo casually dropped the bombshell.
He had invited Mingyu and Hansol over for a warm housewarming gatheringâhe had just moved into a new apartment. It was spacious, well-lit, and definitely something Wonwoo could afford with all his success. The minimalist decor, the clean lines, the neutral tonesâit was a perfect reflection of Jeon Wonwoo himself, according to Hansolâs personal opinion.
Mingyu and Hansol had brought a variety of food and drinks: fried chicken, spicy tteokbokki, beer, soju, and even a bottle of expensive whiskey Mingyu had been saving for a moment like this.
"Should we invite Y/N? She's next door," Wonwoo said, causing Mingyu and Hansol to freeze mid-bite. The words hung in the air like a shockwave.
"You moved next door to her?!" Hansol blurted out, disbelief written all over his face.
"You're crazy, man!" Mingyu groaned, slapping his palm to his face in frustration.
Wonwoo shrugged nonchalantly, refilling his drink with ice from the fridge before taking a seat beside them. "You weren't this surprised when I told you I lived with her until I was 20."
Hansol, still processing the information, shook his head in disbelief. "But you saw her as a sister. What about now, dude?"
Wonwoo nodded, his expression calm, his eyes steady as he sipped his beer. "She's still a sister."
Mingyu snorted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Sister my ass."
Wonwoo shot Mingyu a knowing glance, his gaze sharp. He knew Mingyu was onto something, but it seemed Hansol, the one who usually got tipsy first, was completely oblivious to the crucial piece of the puzzleâsomething he had been wondering about for a while now.
The tension hung in the air, and Hansol, now furrowing his brow, leaned back in his chair. He didnât quite understand what was going on, but whatever it was, it felt like there was more to this story than they were letting on.
"You two are something else," Hansol muttered, still trying to wrap his head around it all. "I thought I knew everything."
The weight of those words lingered in the room, and for a brief moment, all three of them were lost in their own thoughts.
A day before his flight to China for "observation," they had drunk heavily. Hansol passed out first on the couch, leaving Wonwoo, who had definitely overdone it with the soju, still awake. Mingyu, ever the drinker, kept refilling his glass as if there were no alcohol limit for him.
"I kissed Y/N," Wonwoo mumbled, his voice slurred.
Mingyu froze mid-motion, his hand half-raised with the soju glass still hovering in the air. "What?" he asked, disbelief in his tone.
"I kissed Y/N. Twice," Wonwoo continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. "We made out. We almost... We almost... I donât know! I messed up everything!"
Frustration laced Wonwooâs voice as he threw the squid snack in his hand across the room. Mingyu blinked, processing the words before his lips curved into a smirk.
"You what?" Mingyu laughed in disbelief. "You made out with Y/N? Almost...?" His voice trailed off, then he put his glass down and fully turned to face Wonwoo, his interest piqued. "But you told me she was like a sister to you?"
Wonwoo sighed deeply, slumping back into the chair, clearly lost in his own confusion. Mingyu, on the other hand, was looking at him like a curious childâamused and expecting to hear it all.
Mingyu had never bought into the idea that Y/N was just a sister to Wonwoo. Hansol? He believed whatever he heard, but Mingyu always knew there was something more beneath the surface.
"She was," Wonwoo muttered, his voice barely audible. Mingyu suppressed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
"But thenâ" Wonwooâs words grew heavier, full of bitterness. "She slept with Jiseok... They kissed that night I lost the race... Fuck, I donât care about her anymore."
Wonwoo grabbed Mingyuâs glass and downed it in one swift motion, the burn of the alcohol momentarily distracting him from the tangled mess of emotions inside him.
Mingyuâs face fell, no longer amused. The atmosphere shifted, and for the first time that night, the weight of the situation truly sank in. He watched as Wonwooâs facade of indifference faltered, the frustration and hurt clear in his eyes. Mingyu knew then that this was more than just a drunken confessionâit was a broken heart, disguised by anger and too much soju.
*
Your eyes widened at the sight of Wonwoo and Mingyu struggling to support a completely drunken Hansol as you stepped out of your apartment door. The three of them looked like a chaotic trio, Hansol barely conscious, his head lolling from side to side, while Wonwoo and Mingyu worked together to keep him upright. They must have been drinking together.
Mingyu, ever friendly and cheerful, greeted you with a grin as if nothing was out of the ordinary. âHey, Y/N,â he said casually, as though hauling around a passed-out Hansol was just another day for him. Wonwoo, on the other hand, gave you a nod, his expression calm but tinged with slight annoyance as Hansol slumped more heavily against him.
Your finger instinctively pressed the elevator button, and you stepped aside, allowing the three of them to enter first. Hansol let out a groggy mumble, which made Mingyu chuckle as they maneuvered him inside. Once they were settled, you followed, glancing at Hansol with concern.
âIs he always like this?â you asked, your voice laced with curiosity and a hint of worry.
Mingyu nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. âYeah, heâs kind of a lightweight compared to us. This happens a lot, donât worry. Heâll be fine once he sleeps it off.â
You raised an eyebrow, amused but still skeptical, as you watched Hansol mumble something incoherent before his head drooped onto Wonwooâs shoulder. Wonwoo sighed, adjusting his grip to keep him from sliding to the floor. Despite his slightly irritated demeanor, you could tell Wonwoo was used to this.
When the elevator doors opened, you followed them outside to the street, where they carefully loaded Hansol into a waiting cab. Mingyu climbed in after him, ensuring he was seated properly. Before the door closed, Mingyu leaned out and waved at you and Wonwoo.
âGoodnight, Y/N! Take care of this grumpy guy,â he teased, jerking a thumb in Wonwooâs direction.
You chuckled softly, waving back. âGoodnight, Mingyu. Drive safe.â
As the cab pulled away, you turned to Wonwoo, who stood beside you with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the car disappear into the night. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
Wonwoo let out a sigh before turning to you, his gaze steady. âWhere are you going this late?â he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern.
Where were you going? Nowhere, really. You had stepped out because of all the commotion outside your door, curiosity getting the better of you. But you couldnât exactly say that, could you?
âConvenience store,â you replied with a casual nod, trying to sound convincing. âTo grab some ramyeon. Or beer.â
Wonwooâs eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as he studied you. âYou donât eat ramyeon,â he pointed out, raising an eyebrow as if calling your bluff.
Well, that was true. You didnât. But you werenât about to explain yourself. âI eat it now,â you retorted, crossing your arms and raising your chin slightly.
Wonwoo stared at you for a beat longer before nodding in quiet acknowledgment. âFine. I have some at my place. Come on, Iâll cook it for you.â
You stepped into Wonwoo's apartment for the first time in years. It felt oddly familiarâstill carrying the same understated charm that mirrored Jeon Wonwoo himself. However, the living room was a bit of a mess, likely remnants of their drinking session earlier. Empty bottles and snack wrappers lay scattered across the coffee table.
"Donât mind that," Wonwoo said casually, gesturing toward the clutter before leading you toward the kitchen. You followed him, settling on one of the bar stools by his kitchen island.
âItâs past midnight. Donât you sleep?â he asked, his voice low as he filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove.
You sighed softly. Sleep wasnât something you got much of these days. âI was awake already.â
Wonwoo glanced over his shoulder at you. âWas it because of us? Sorry if we were too noisy,â he said with a faint look of guilt.
You shook your head quickly. âNo, itâs not that. I woke up about an hour ago.â
âAnd youâre suddenly craving ramyeon?â His eyebrow quirked slightly, and his tone was teasing.
You nodded with a small, embarrassed smile. âYes. Craving ramyeon.â
Wonwoo chuckled softly as he opened a cabinet, pulling out a packet of ramyeon. He began preparing it with an easy confidence, adding a few extra ingredients here and there. As the water boiled, he glanced at you. âYou never liked ramyeon before. What changed?â
You hesitated, unsure how to respond. You stayed quiet, watching him cook.
A few minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl of ramyeon in front of you, along with a small plate of kimchi from his fridge. Then he settled beside you on a stool, leaning back slightly.
Tentatively, you picked up your chopsticks and spoon, giving the food a cautious taste. You never liked ramyeon because it was always too salty or heavy for your taste. But the moment the soup touched your lips, you froze, surprised.
âItâs not salty,â you said, looking at him in shock.
Wonwoo smiled knowingly. âI figured. You never liked ramyeon because itâs salty and ruins your diet. So, I adjusted it a bit.â
Your eyes widened further. He remembered. He always remembered the little things about you, even things you had forgotten.
âItâs really good,â you admitted softly before taking another spoonful.
Wonwoo stood up, his hand brushing lightly over the top of your head in a familiar, comforting gesture. âFinish it and go get some sleep,â he said gently. âIâll clean up the living room.â
You watched him walk away, your chest tightening slightly. For someone so stoic, Wonwoo had always had a way of making you feel seen, even in the smallest moments.
You woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed the next morning. However, the moment you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a groan escaped your lips. Your face looked a little puffier than usualâa direct result of finishing that bowl of ramyeon last night. You made a mental note to stick to your usual late-night snacks moving forward.
Shaking off your regret, you took your time getting ready, thankful you didnât have a morning show to rush to. After slipping into a work attire, you grabbed an apple from the kitchen and bit into it as you headed out the door.
The timing couldnât have been more perfectâor awkwardâas you stepped into the hallway and found yourself face-to-face with Wonwoo. He was already dressed sharply in his work attire, his tie perfectly knotted and his expression calm yet focused.
âMorning,â he greeted you with a warm smile.
You nodded in acknowledgment, the apple still held between your teeth, muffling any verbal response.
Wonwoo glanced at the time on his watch, then back at you. âRunning late?â he asked casually as the two of you stepped into the elevator together.
You shook your head, taking another bite of your apple as the elevator descended.
âGood. Let me drive you,â he offered, leaning against the wall of the elevator. âWe can grab some proper breakfast on the way.â
You blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. âThis is my breakfast,â you replied, holding up the half-eaten apple.
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and disapproval. âThatâs not breakfast. Come on, I know a good place nearby. My treat.â
Before you could protest, the elevator doors opened, and he stepped out confidently, already heading toward his car. You followed reluctantly, wondering how he managed to convince you so effortlessly.
As Wonwoo navigated the early morning traffic, the soft hum of the car engine filled the silence between the two of you. You sat quietly, gazing out the window, your hands resting on your lap. The city streets blurred past, but your thoughts were elsewhere.
âI never really told you what I was doing in China, did I?â Wonwoo suddenly broke the silence, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of vulnerability.
You blinked, startled by his openness, and turned to glance at him. He kept his eyes on the road, but you could see the tension in his jaw.
âI spent the first six months there working on a project my father insisted I take over. It was⊠exhausting. But it wasnât just work that kept me there,â he began. âI wanted to find a way to clear my head. To figure out what I really wanted in life.â
You didnât respond, unsure of what to say, so you simply listened.
âI went back to school,â he continued, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. âEnrolled in a business program. It was something my father had always pushed for, but I never really considered it until⊠well, until I left.â
Your brow furrowed slightly, but you stayed silent, letting him continue.
âI wanted to prove I could handle myself. That I wasnât just running away. So, I worked during the day at my fatherâs company, managing operations and learning the ins and outs of the business. And at night, I studied.â He let out a dry laugh. âIt was brutal at first, balancing everything. But I needed to do it.â
Wonwoo glanced at you briefly before continuing. âI kept thinking about all the things I left behindâwhat I left unresolved. And when I said I wanted to fix things, I meant it.â His tone was firm now, as though he wanted to leave no room for doubt.
You shifted slightly in your seat, still unsure how to respond. The weight of his words hung in the air, and you could feel your chest tighten. It wasnât like you hadnât thought about him during his absence, but hearing him say it out loud made it all too real.
âI know it might sound selfish,â Wonwoo added after a moment, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, âbut I needed that time to sort myself out. To come back and face youânot as the guy who walked away, but someone who could try to make things right.â
You turned back to the window, your reflection staring back at you. The raw sincerity in his voice was undeniable, but the wound he left behind was still there, faint but persistent.
The light turned green, and the car moved forward, but the heaviness of his words stayed between you.
âI donât know if youâll ever forgive me for leaving the way I did,â he added, his voice hesitant. âBut Iâm serious about fixing things. And Iâm starting with myself.â
You didnât know how to respond. His confession felt like a wave, crashing against the wall you had built over time. So, instead of speaking, you nodded faintly, letting the silence settle.
âI just want you to know,â he said, his voice softer now, âIâm not asking for anything from you. Iâm just⊠trying to do better this time.â
You managed a weak smile in return, unsure what to make of everything he had just shared.
*
Once you stepped out of his car, Wonwoo sat motionless in the driverâs seat, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The faint sound of the car door shutting echoed in his ears, and an overwhelming sense of failure washed over him. He had messed up everything. Again.
Wonwoo replayed the conversation in his mind, cringing at how he had rambled, explaining and justifying himself like a desperate man trying to prove he wasnât in the wrong. The realization hit him like a freight trainâhe had become exactly what he swore heâd never be.
Just like his father.
Your parting question lingered in the air like smoke.
"Do you still hate your dad?"
He had frozen at the sound of it, his mind scrambling for an answer he couldnât give. Did he still hate his father? No, not anymore. But that realization didnât bring him peace. If anything, it made him uneasy.
He didnât hate his father. He disliked him. He resented the ways his father had molded him, the expectations, the cold lectures disguised as wisdom. But the anger that used to burn so fiercely had faded, replaced by something he couldnât name.
And now, here he was, mimicking the very behaviors he had once despised. He had told himself for years that he would never turn out like his father. That he would live on his own terms, follow his own passions. Yet here he was, no longer a racer, no longer the man you had known. He had left you.
He became the kind of person he hated the mostâexplaining his mistakes, trying to rationalize them, as if that would make them disappear. He hated it.
But what he hated more was the possibility that you could see it too. That you could see how much heâd changed, and not necessarily for the better.
Wonwoo leaned back in his seat, staring blankly at the dashboard. He was different now, there was no denying that. He had done the opposite of everything he had once vowed to do. The boy who had once been so sure of his dreams, of you, was long gone.
He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. What was he now? And was this change something he could ever come back from?
As you disappeared into the distance, Wonwoo sat there, feeling like a stranger in his own skin.
*
Wonwoo leaned casually against the railing, observing the bustling set of the N-Jeen program shoot. It had been over a month since the icy tension between you two began to thaw. You had started talking to him again, and on occasion, when his schedule allowed, he would drive you to work. It was a small gesture, but it felt like progressâa step toward mending the fractured relationship.
He had arranged a lunch meeting nearby that day and decided to drop by the shoot when he heard it was close. As you stood a few meters away, chatting with one of the students involved in the program, Wonwoo motioned for his assistant to distribute the energy drinks he had brought for the crew. His gaze softened when it landed on you. Though he quickly redirected his attention, the fleeting smile didnât go unnoticed.
"Mr. Jeon," the producer spoke up cautiously, pulling Wonwoo out of his thoughts. "May I ask you something? I hope you wonât take it the wrong way."
Wonwoo turned to face him, his expression calm and polite. "Of course. Go ahead."
The producer hesitated briefly, glancing at you before continuing. "Are you and our presenter, Ji Y/N, in a relationship? Forgive me if Iâm overstepping."
A faint smile tugged at Wonwooâs lips. "Why do you ask?" he replied, his tone measured, though the question amused him.
The producer scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Well... some of the crew have noticed you driving her to work pretty often. And, well, you seem... a bit affectionate toward her."
Wonwoo hummed thoughtfully, letting his gaze wander back to you for a moment. You were laughing at something the student said, your eyes sparkling under the afternoon sun. He looked away, his expression unreadable.
"Iâve known her for a long time," he finally said, a small, almost imperceptible smile lingering. "Maybe that explains it."
The producer nodded, though he still seemed curious. Wonwoo, however, didnât elaborate. Instead, he shifted the conversation back to the shoot logistics, steering it away from personal matters.
"PD, there's something I need to show you," the assistant producer said urgently, stepping closer with an iPad in hand. His face was pale, and his tone carried a weight of concern.
Wonwoo watched as the producer took the device and stared at the screen. At the same moment, Wonwoo's secretary approached, holding out her own phone with a grim expression. "Mr. Jeon, you should see this."
Wonwoo frowned and glanced down at the article. His jaw tightened as he scanned the bold headline splashed across the screen:
"KBC's Presenter, Ji Y/N, Rumored to Be a Call Girl."
His eyes flicked over the detailsâa damning accusation from the wife of a high-profile broadcasting executive. The article claimed that you had been involved with her husband for years, presenting call logs, text history, and alleged money transfer records as evidence. Though the photo of you was clear, the man in question was conveniently blurred.
The producer let out a heavy sigh as he finished reading. "This is serious. I'll need to speak to the chief about this immediately," he said, his voice laced with urgency.
Wonwooâs secretary leaned in closer. "What should we do, sir?"
For a moment, Wonwoo said nothing, his eyes fixed on you. You were completely unaware of the storm brewing around you, laughing and chatting with the students during the break. That carefree smile made his stomach twist.
"Weâre facing an internal issue," the producer announced suddenly, his voice carrying across the set. "Letâs call it a day. Weâll reschedule once this matter is resolved."
The cast and crew exchanged confused glances, murmurs rippling through the set. You turned to look, your brow furrowing at the sudden decision. But one by one, everyone began to pack up their equipment and bid each other goodbye, leaving the scene scattered with uncertainty.
Wonwooâs jaw clenched as he stalked toward the exit, his secretary trailing behind him. Anger simmered beneath his composed exterior, and his usually calm demeanor was replaced with an edge of frustration.
"Cancel the rest of my day," he barked at his secretary without looking back.
"Sirâ" he began hesitantly, unsure how to proceed.
"Just cancel it," he snapped, his tone sharper than usual.
As he stepped into the car, Wonwoo slammed the door shut, his fists clenching on his lap. The driver cast a wary glance in the rearview mirror before silently starting the engine.
Wonwoo stared straight ahead, his mind swirling with questions and accusations. He didnât know who to blameâwas it you for not telling him about this mess? Was it himself for thinking things between you could finally settle? Or was it the faceless person behind this rumour?
The image of you laughing with the students earlier flashed in his mind, your carefree expression so out of place in the chaos now unfolding. He felt a pang of guilt for walking away without saying anything, but his anger was louder than his regret.
"She didnât even know," he thought bitterly. "And I still left without a word."
The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the sound of the tires on the road. Wonwoo refused to look at his phone or even acknowledge the world outside the vehicle. For now, he let the anger consume him, unsure of where it would take him next.
*
You spent the day trapped in a whirlwind of complicated emotions. The producer and his assistant had immediately pulled you aside, sliding the damning article across the table. The moment your eyes skimmed the headline, your heart sank.
So, this is how it ends?
âIs it true, Y/n?â the producer asked, his voice tense but steady.
Your breath hitched as you forced yourself to read the article againâevery word, every comment, every accusation. It all stared back at you, cruel and unrelenting. The headline screamed louder in your mind than any voice in the room.
âWe canât continue the show, Y/n. You know how critical this project is for us and for N-Jeen. Having your name associated with this... itâs the last thing we need,â the producer said, his tone tinged with regret but firm.
You nodded slowly, the weight of his words crashing down on you. Of course, you understood. How could you not?
âItâs true,â you murmured, barely audible.
Both men froze, exchanging uneasy glances before focusing on you again.
âItâs true that I received money from him,â you clarified, your voice trembling as you gestured toward the executive mentioned in the article.
The producer let out a weary sigh, leaning back in his chair. âAlright, thatâs all we need for now. Weâll discuss this with the production team and let you know how weâre proceeding.â
You nodded again, too numb to respond.
Later, the call from KBC News came, pulling you into yet another interrogation. They asked the same questionsârelentless, prying, cold. But no matter how many ways they asked, you couldnât bring yourself to say more.
They didnât want the truth. They didnât care about your side of the story. At the end of the day, they only wanted to see you fall.
By the time they summoned you to the office that afternoon, the thought of stepping inside filled you with dread. Would this meeting be about finding answers, or would it be the final nail in the coffin of everything you had worked so hard to build?
You struggled after everything fell apart. Life had been cruel to you, but the hardest blow came when your mother passed away in a tragic car accident. She was simply passing by when a speeding car lost control and crashed into her. Grieving alone, you felt the crushing weight of loss, with no one to lean on.
In the midst of your sorrow, Jiseok and his crew appeared, trying to make you smile, to pull you out of your misery. For a fleeting moment, you thought maybe they cared. But their kindness came with a hidden motive.
You didnât realize the truth until that fateful night. You found out they had been betting on who would sleep with you first. The revelation hit you like a punch to the gut, and it didnât stop there. That night, Jiseok tried to take things furtherâhe got you drunk and pushed you to the edge of your limits.
You tried to escape, head pounding, your senses clouded by the alcohol. You donât remember how it all unfolded, but you woke up in a hospital bed days later, disoriented and broken. The doctors said youâd been there for a week. The psychological scars, however, would last much longer. They sent you to a psychologist, and for months, you worked to piece yourself back together.
Life took an unexpected turn when you met Mr. Park, a director at EBS. He had noticed you at a university campus event and approached you with an offer. At first, you were skeptical, but when he said he wanted to meet with you, you knew this could be the break you had been praying forâa chance to pursue your dream of becoming a presenter, a dream you had long buried under the weight of your circumstances.
At dinner, Mr. Park offered to pay for your tuition and even helped you secure a spot at KBC. The only condition? Talking. Just talking.
Conversations with him were nothing like what people would imagine. There were no ulterior motives, no inappropriate behaviorâjust the words of a man who missed his late wife and longed for the daughter he never had. He said you resembled his wife in her youth, and he found comfort in your presence.
But you understood why the rumors spiraled. Who would believe your story? Who would believe that Mr. Parkâs intentions were purely paternal? That all he wanted was someone to fill the void of a lost family?
In a world as harsh and unforgiving as the one you lived in, desperation was a language not everyone could understand. You and Mr. Park were kindred souls in your own wayâtwo people who found solace in the simplest connection. Yet, the world would never see it that way.
There were moments when you couldnât help but feel disgusted with yourselfâdisgusted with everything you had done to get to this point. No matter how much you tried to justify it, the weight of those choices hung heavy on you. You told yourself it was just you working harder than anyone else, sacrificing more, pushing further. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were desperate.
Not everyone understood what it meant to be this desperateâto fight tooth and nail just to survive, just to carve out a place for yourself in a world that never gave you a chance.
You thought your hard work, your sacrifices, would pay off. That they would see you as a Presenterâa voice, a face, someone who had earned her place. But now?
Now, they called you a Call Girl. Not a Presenter. Not a professional. Just a scandal waiting to be torn apart.
And no matter how much you had fought to rise above, that label felt like it would bury you alive.
*
Wonwoo realized he shouldnât have been like thisâcaught up in legalities and anger. He should have been by your side, supporting you through everything. That thought brought him to your door, hand hovering over the doorbell. He pressed it once and waited, feeling the seconds stretch into an eternity. When no one came, he pressed it again, this time hearing your voice call out, âWait!â
You opened the door moments later, wrapped in a towel with damp hair and wearing pajamas.
âCome in,â you said hurriedly, disappearing into the kitchen. The warm, aromatic scent of cooking greeted him as he stepped inside.
âYouâre cooking? Itâs almost midnight,â Wonwoo said, following the smell into the kitchen. He stopped to see a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, the rich aroma filling the air. It reminded him of the comfort food your mother used to make when times got tough. The thought tightened something in his chest.
âGo dry your hair,â Wonwoo said softly, stepping closer to tap your arm. âIâll take care of this.â
You hesitated but eventually nodded, leaving the kitchen. Wonwoo turned off the stove and carefully moved the pot to the dining table, preparing the side dishes and scooping out two bowls of rice. Once everything was set, he sat down and texted his lawyer, his phone in hand when you returned to the room.
âIâm fine, if thatâs what youâre wondering,â you said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Wonwoo looked up as you sat down, a faint smile crossing your face as you opened the pot. The fragrant steam curled up into the air, and you let out a small sound of delight.
âIt smells amazing,â you said, scooping some soup into your bowl.
Wonwoo watched as you took a bite, savoring the taste. For a moment, it felt like everything was normal.
âIâll help you sue them,â Wonwoo said quietly, placing his arms on the table. âYou donât need to act fine with me.â
You glanced at him but shook your head. âNo need. Mr. Park said heâll handle it.â
Wonwoo frowned, his brows knitting together. âYou mean itâs true? The rumors?â
You paused, setting your utensils down. âYes. I took money from him. This apartment? He paid the down payment.â
Wonwoo stared at you, his mind racing. What could have pushed you to this? You never used to take money from anyoneânot even from him. Back then, he had to secretly give money to your mother just to help you. Were you really that desperate?
âWhat happened to mom?â Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.
You froze, your hand hovering over your bowl. âI thought you were going to ask why I did it.â
âIâm not curious about that,â Wonwoo said firmly. âI know you have your reasons.â
There was a heavy silence before you finally spoke, your voice breaking the stillness. âIt was a hit-and-run. I was in the middle of work when I got the call. By the time I reached the hospital⊠she was gone.â
Wonwoo exhaled slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. âAnd after that?â he asked gently.
âI moved,â you said, your tone detached, as if recalling a distant memory. âBut Jiseok found me. He was there, but not really there. A lot happened after thatâI ended up in the hospital, had regular visits to a psychiatrist, and went through court proceedings. Jiseok was sentenced to ten years.â
You bit your lip, pausing before continuing. âI told Mr. Park everything. He promised to make sure Jiseok wouldnât bother me again, even after his release. Mr. Park⊠he cares for me like Iâm his daughter.â
Wonwoo sighed, leaning back slightly. âSo the rumors arenât true.â
You chuckled humorlessly. âI told youâI did take the money.â
âBut it wasnât anything like what the media is claiming,â Wonwoo said, his voice tightening with anger.
You shrugged, your tone calm but tinged with bitterness. âIt took me years to heal from what Jiseok did. I would never sell my body for money.â
Wonwoo clenched his fists under the table, anger surging through himânot at you, but at the world that had twisted your story into something it wasnât. He wished he could have been there for you sooner, to stop this from ever happening.
âYou have me now,â Wonwoo said softly, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of emotion.
You glanced at him briefly before turning your eyes back to your food. âBut youâll go,â you murmured. âYouâll have your own family one day.â
Wonwoo frowned, leaning closer. âYouâre my family.â
You shook your head with a faint, sad smile. âWeâre not kids anymore, Wonwoo. My mom was the one who took care of you, not me.â
âThen Iâll take care of you,â he said, his tone firm, almost defiant.
You chuckled bitterly, a sound devoid of joy. âItâs not as easy as that.â
Wonwoo leaned back slightly, studying you, the flicker of doubt and vulnerability in your eyes. âBut you said you liked me,â he said quietly, almost as if testing the waters. âDo you⊠not like me anymore?â
You froze for a moment, the question hanging heavily in the air. Then, with a deep breath, you looked up at him. âI do,â you admitted, your voice soft but steady.
His heart leapt, but the words that followed stopped him in his tracks.
âBecause of that⊠itâs not as easy as it used to be,â you continued, your eyes dropping to your hands. âBecause I still like you. And I donât know if itâs mutual or not.â
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken emotions. Wonwooâs gaze softened as he processed your words, a mix of relief and guilt flashing across his face.
âIt is,â he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. âItâs mutual.â
You looked at him, your breath hitching as his words sank in. But the weight of reality kept you grounded.
âThen you know itâs not simple,â you said. âNot after everything. Not with everything thatâs happened.â
Wonwooâs eyes didnât waver, determination replacing the uncertainty. âItâs not simple,â he agreed. âBut nothing worth it ever is.â
The two of you sat there in silence, the air between you heavy with the past and the possibilities of what could come next. For the first time in a long while, the tiniest glimmer of hope began to break through the storm clouds surrounding you.
*
Two years later, the air was filled with the gentle hum of a string quartet playing a soft melody as guests gathered in the garden of a picturesque villa nestled on a hillside. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the ceremony, making everything feel surreal.
Wonwoo adjusted his cufflinks nervously, standing at the altar. He looked every bit the dashing groom in his tailored navy suit, but his usually calm demeanor was tinged with impatience. Hansol, his best man, nudged him with a grin.
âSheâs coming, relax,â Hansol teased. âYouâve waited for years; you can handle a few more minutes.â
Wonwoo glanced at him, rolling his eyes. âEasy for you to say. Youâre not the one getting married.â
Hansol chuckled but didnât push further. Wonwooâs gaze returned to the aisle, where the chatter of the guests softened into a hush as the first notes of the wedding march played.
And then, you appeared.
The world seemed to stop for Wonwoo. You walked down the aisle in a simple yet elegant gown, its soft fabric flowing effortlessly with each step. Your veil framed your face, but it was your smileâradiant and genuineâthat captivated him most.
You caught his gaze, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. Memories of the past flashed in your mind: the struggles, the heartbreak, the nights spent wondering if happiness was meant for you. But now, here you were, walking toward the man who had stood by you through it all.
Jisoo, Wonwoo's half brother, walked you down the aisle, his arm steady as he whispered, âYouâll be happy.â You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
When you reached the altar, Wonwoo stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. He extended a hand, and when you placed yours in his, it felt like everything in the world had fallen into place.
âYou look beautiful,â he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
âAnd you look nervous,â you teased softly, earning a quiet laugh from him.
The officiant began, but neither of you could focus on the words. Your eyes were locked on each other, the vows exchanged feeling like an extension of the promises youâd made to each other in the quiet moments of the past two years.
âI promise to love you, protect you, and stand by your side no matter what,â Wonwoo said, his voice steady despite the tears glistening in his eyes.
âAnd I promise to trust you, support you, and never let the past define our future,â you replied, your voice trembling but firm.
When the officiant declared you husband and wife, the cheers from the guests were drowned out by the sound of your heart pounding as Wonwoo leaned in to kiss you. It was a kiss filled with relief, joy, and the promise of a new beginning.
As you walked back down the aisle hand in hand, laughter and petals filling the air, Wonwoo whispered, âSee? Not simple, but worth it.â
You smiled, squeezing his hand. âWorth it.â
The reception that followed was a lively celebration of your love, with speeches that had everyone laughing and crying in equal measure. Wonwoo danced with you under the stars, the twinkling lights above mirroring the warmth in his eyes as he held you close.
âHereâs to the rest of our lives,â he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.
You smiled, tears of happiness brimming in your eyes. âAnd to never giving up.â
The past may have shaped you, but together, you were ready to create a future filled with love, trust, and endless possibilities.
*
The soft evening light filtered through the living room windows as you sat cross-legged on the carpet, your small hands fiddling with one of Wonwoo's toy cars. Your mother was seated nearby, knitting a scarf while humming a soft tune. The atmosphere was warm, though a certain sadness lingered as you asked, âWhy did Wonwooâs parents leave him?â
Your mother paused for a moment, her knitting needles coming to a gentle halt. She looked at you with a thoughtful expression, carefully choosing her words. âItâs because adults sometimes have problems they donât know how to fix. They get overwhelmed, and instead of solving things together, they make decisions that affect everyone. Thatâs why they left Wonwoo with us.â
You furrowed your brows, your small mind trying to understand something so complex. âBut donât you and Dad have problems too?â
Your mother smiled softly, nodding. âWe do, Sweetheart. Every family has challenges. But having you helps us solve them in a better way. You remind us of whatâs most important.â
You huffed in frustration, your tiny fists gripping the toy. âWonwoo is a good kid, though! He even lets me borrow his toys. Why are his parents so mean to him?â
Your mother reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. âThatâs why you should always be kind to Wonwoo. What do you think about him? Donât you think heâd make a good brother?â
At that, your face lit up with excitement. âI like him! Heâs like Dad! I want to marry him when I grow up!â
Your mother laughed, the sound light and melodic. âThatâs sweet, my love, but marrying him will take a very long time. You have plenty of time to decide.â
Before you could protest, the front door swung open, and your fatherâs voice called out cheerfully, âWeâre home!â
Wonwooâs small voice chimed in, excitement evident in his tone. âY/N! I got your strawberry milk!â He dashed into the room, his little legs carrying him swiftly as he held the carton out to you, his grin wide and proud.
You gasped in delight, jumping to your feet to accept it. âThank you, Wonwoo! Youâre the best!â
Your mother watched the two of you, her heart swelling at the sight. As she exchanged a warm glance with your father, who had followed Wonwoo into the room carrying grocery bags, she whispered to herself, âMaybe she wasnât entirely wrong.â
Wonwoo beamed at you as you took a sip of the milk, your happiness evident. âSee? I told Dad to get this one for you.â
âWonwoo, youâre my favorite person ever!â you declared, earning a bashful smile from him.
Your mother chuckled, resuming her knitting. She couldnât help but wonder if, years from now, youâd look back on this moment and smile, the seeds of a bond already deeply rooted.