marks Bank account

I'm not a bot, pls don't block 😭 (20)

[abilouwrites]

NOT LIKE THE OTHER GIRLS

GO HOME AND WAIT FOR ME

MDNI +18 MFM, BOY KISSING, THREESOME themes! Drinking (all of legal age) no explicit smut.. yet…

There’s a reason you don’t 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, “come to the bar with me and mack? Come on- we never see you anymore! Remember BC” He begs, soft blue eyes pleading with your own, “you only exist behind the camera”

You turn in your chair, chewing at your thumb as you stare between the now two faces infront of you

“Fine” you agree, “just let me save this”

It’s how you end up in Macklins apartment, brain foggy and fuzzy with alcohol, staring at the two of them on the couch from where you’re standing by the counter, “I’m a much better kisser than you” Will shakes his head, you don’t know how you got to this topic, your head is fuzzy.

“There’s no shot. You’ve kissed like two girls” Macklin retaliates, frustratedly pointing at you, “y/n. You gotta be our deal breaker”

You raise an eyebrow, lips pursed together in sheer confusion, “you’re so drunk right now Mackie”

Will chimes in, “no- no he’s right. Only you can decide who’s the better kisser”

You shake your head. The sudden movement makes your head throb, “that’s stupid as hell. And breaks like soo many workplace rules and regulations”

Macklin bats his lashes, that lazy pleading look he’s used to throwing around. When he clenches his jaw and looks up at the cameras with those big green eyes, “please”

You snort, “you two kiss before I kiss. Then it’s fair” you shrug. You don’t expect them to do it, that’s why you say it. That’s the whole reason you say it, because you think it’ll 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 don’t 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. It’s 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.

It’s 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, “what do you think. Out of ten” he breathes, still softly gripping your face.

“Eight”

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 don’t 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, “what do you rate that?” Mack asks, hands joined together.

You shrug, “an eight”

Macklin groans, “what? No. There’s no tie in this” he complains.

You still shrug, “it was a good kiss, from both of you- you’re both good kissers.” You comment, “does that work?”

“No” they say in unison, “we need a tie breaker”

[applebrini]

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. 

Leather seats and a dark centre console. You felt weird sitting in his passenger seat. Not weird in a bad sense; you assume that’s 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 wouldn’t mind; besides, how many things have you done for their family? It’s 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 didn’t feel much about it then and hardly protested when Grace instead chose to drive. Protesting would require you to care about it; you certainly didn’t do that. 

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 wasn’t easy; after a while you couldn’t stop searching up plane ticket prices. 

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. 

I'm at the arrival lounge. Lmk when you land. 

Odd. Your friend did offhandedly mention how subtly her brother had changed since he was drafted into the league. A delusional part of you didn’t believe her, but maybe there was some truth to her words. You didn’t 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 didn’t 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 it’s pointless. You all end up in the same place anyway, and that place for you just feels a little different. It’s not like you're nervous or anything, right? 

Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s corrupt, but over the past few weeks your social media feed has been bombarded with the blond boy. You search his name once, and it’s like a cascade. You’d be lying to yourself if you said the edits with your favourite songs didn’t make you feel a certain type of way. You stay awake at night wondering what the fuck is wrong with you. You can’t 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 wasn’t something you anticipated; only a thin thermal sweater covers your form, and the old pair of sweatpants does nothing to harbour the cold air. 

It doesn’t 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. 

“Hey.” 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. 

"Hey," you respond back with an equally awkward tone. The silence that spans between you is horrifying. “Been a while, huh?” You continue quietly, moving to start your journey through the busy airport. He hums, steps falling into unison with yours. 

“How is Texas going?”

“Good. It's good. Big, but really good. What about you? How's California?”

He makes a strained sound, like it hurts to even choke out. That stumps you; he’s been doing amazingly with the Sharks. You hear about it all the time from Grace during your regularly scheduled Facetimes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You replicate the sound, eyes burning into the side of his face.

“I don’t know. It’s alright; it always feels like something's missing though.”

Oh. Homesickness—you understand it all too well. “That sucks. I get it though, it’ll be good to spend some time back home.”

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. Will’s 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. 

The interior of his Bronco is clean, cleaner than you’d 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 can’t 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.

“Your parents are out of town?” 

They’re somewhere west. It’s 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.

“Where are you staying?” 

“At your parents' place. Grace didn’t tell you?”

“She might have mentioned it. Don’t remember.” He confesses, hands grinding over the steering wheel. It’s bright in the city, luminous lights spreading as far as you can see down the busy streets. They’re 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. You’re 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. 

“What’s this?” 

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 doesn’t look pleasant in his hold; it appears more ugly and sinful the way he rotates the small device like it’s the television remote. 

“Where did you even find that?” 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. “Did you go through my bag?”

“It 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?”

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. He’s your best friend’s younger brother (only if it’s by a year). 

“What do you do with this, huh? How does it work?” he asks with a sarcastic lilt. He knows how it works; he’s 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. 

“You want to show me?” 

It’s safe to say that you’ve gone crazy when you find yourself in the spare bedroom with him, the door closed and locked behind you. 

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 it’s louder and faster. Will blinks and shucks his boxers down. It’s mostly quiet between the two of you, but you both are able to communicate what exactly is about to happen. 

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. 

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 you’re 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. “Don’t stop.”

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 it’s 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. 

You don’t 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.

[swiftie-seb]

Hey, sista!

macklin celebrini x sloane crosby au

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 boy’s 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 dad’s latest sourdough creation, her mother’s 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, RJ’s 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.

“It’s velvet thread, RJ. Look at the texture.” He would groan dramatically at her insistence, but every so often she would be rewarded with a reluctant admisson of his interest. 

Sometimes, Macklin would wander into the frame, grabbing tennis shoes before heading out for a run, or lingering in the background while correcting RJ’s 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. 

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.

“You know,” he had said once, squinting at her stitching, “I think I am finally developing an appreciation for the sparkle thread.” 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 RJ’s calls.

However, she could not quite forget his blasé attitude at the draft, the easy way he had lumped her in with all the other names and faces swirling around him that weekend. She had grown up around hockey boys her entire life, and she knew just as well as anyone that the chase was all that mattered to them. 

Still, these calls became something dependable those blistering months. And in a summer where everything in Sloane’s 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. 

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. 

2. Charlie

“I just cannot believe I thought it was any different. That this time was any different from all the other times. Why can’t he just let me in?" Sloane’s heart ached as Charlie’s anguish crackled through the phone.

“I feel like I have to walk on eggshells all the time,” the sixteen-year-old continued through tears. “One step out of line and he just so . . . cold. A shell of this person I've known my entire life.”

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 “cakes” 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.

“You are such a dick,” 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 Charlie’s room.

“Charlie” His voice cracked halfway through her name, and he immediately flushed with embarrassment. “Can I come in?”

There was a pause before the door creaked open. Macklin frowned the second he took in his little sister’s face - red and blotchy - her green eyes glassy with tears.

“Whoa, what happened? Are you okay? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” A small laugh tinkled from Charlie’s 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. Sloane’s laugh, albeit slightly resigned. Charlie could not help but smile at the sight of her brother hovering in panic.

“You could at least try to look a little less like you are about to lay an egg, Mack,” she teased wetly. “They are just tears.” 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.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,” he grumbled. “Laugh at the poor sucker who was concerned for his baby sister.” He focused on Charlie once more, his gaze narrowing as he took stock of her properly.

“What’s going on, Chuckles?” he asked softly. “Why are you so miserable?”

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 sister’s 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,” she whispered miserably. The word mean triggered something in Macklin. She sounded all of five years old again, complaining when the boys weren’t allowing her to play with them, fat tears falling down her face as she waddled off to their mom. Macklin’s jaw tightened as he looked at Sloane, cataloguing the close of her eyes and tilt of her head away from the camera.

“Charlie, honey,” Sloane began, her voice steady, “his 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.”

Macklin shifted slightly, tightening his arm around his sister unconciously. “Is he like… actually mean, mean?” he asked carefully, voice lower now. “Or just… stupid boy mean?”

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.

“I don’t know,” Charlie admitted. “It’s just… sometimes he acts like I am annoying him. And then other times he’s totally fine. And then if I am with other people - other guys - he gets weird about it. Mean weird."

Macklin’s 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.

“Truly a tragedy,” Sloanes eyes with steel, “because he is missing out on a pretty perfect human being.”

3. Robyn

Macklin’s 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 children’s 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.

“It’s so easy, Mrs. Celebrini, I promise! My dad and I got really into it over Covid, much to my Uncle Nate’s chagrin. Focaccia is super simple, you just have to let it rest.” The familiar chirp floated from the iPad propped against the counter, and Macklin felt an involuntary, boyish grin tug at his lips.

“Sup, Crosby,” he called as he entered the kitchen. “Is she bothering you?” 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 Rick’s genes had not even tried when mother and son stood side by side.

“Absolutely not. If anything, I was hassling your poor mom to try out this new olive oil I found,” Sloane admitted. “She 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.” Her eyes narrowed playfully through the screen.

“Hey, watch it,” Macklin replied, smirking as he pressed a kiss to his mom’s cheek. “I am plenty grateful for this lady.” Robyn’s 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.

“I fear I bothered her for nothing, though,” Robyn admitted with a small pout. “Apparently 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.”

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.

“I think maybe it’s 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.” Sloane let out a laugh at RJ’s indignation as his older siblings cackled.

“Well, I will let y’all get to it then. Send me a picture of whatever y’all end up making?” Sloane called. Rick smiled as he said,

“Thanks for trying to help out where you could, kid. We still on for next Tuesday?”

“Yes! Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Celebrini, I really appreciate it!” 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.

“Your dad ditch you?” Fraser asked dryly.

“Apparently,” Macklin muttered.

Jack looked up from where he was organizing resistance bands and immediately brightened.

“Hey Mack! Your dad is in his office,” he called. “He 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.”

The trio exchanged shrugs as they began walking up the stairs toward his office. As they got nearer, Mack heard Rick . . . speaking softly?

“It’s okay to not have it figured out right now. You are going to a great school, and you are going to gain great experiences. What’s important right now is gaining experience and seeing what you don’t like.” Macklin startled to a stop. Who was he even talking to?

“I 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. I’m just . . . overwhelmed, I guess?” came the familiar voice.

Sloane.

“I have always had a plan,” she admitted, “and this feels like a moment in which I don’t.” 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 didn’t notice Connor and Fraser catching up behind him until the latter knocked on the doorframe.

“One second Sloane, come in boys,” the doctor called. The trio stepped into the office, Connor and Fraser slightly startled to find Rick mid-call.

“Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Celebrini,” Fraser said quickly, ever polite. “We had no clue you were on a call.” Macklin barely heard him. He was focused on the blonde on the screen, cataloguing every expression flickering across Sloane’s 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.

“We were just wrapping up anyways,” Sloane said quickly, her voice a little too bright. Rick narrowed his eyes in concern, and Macklin felt his throat tighten, only half registering Connor’s elbow nudging him.

Is that who I think it is? Connor mouthed.

Macklin shot him a look. Yes. No. Shut up.

“Do you mind if we continue this conversation later next week, Sloane?” Rick asked gently. “And I do mean that. I just promised these guys we would talk through some stuff today.”

“Of course,” she said immediately, smiling again like she was trying to smooth over the moment. “Thank you for even making the time today. It was nice to meet you guys!” she added, glancing toward Connor and Fraser through the screen. Connor lifted a hand awkwardly in greeting.

Fraser nodded. “Yeah nice to meet you.”

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.

“Alright,” Rick said, crashing into Macklin's ruminations as he stood. “Target centers. Let’s get into it.”

+1 Mack

“I say you just ask him. The absolute worst thing he could say is no,” Anjani punctuated across the phone. Sloane groaned into her hands.

“But that is the problem. I do not want to ask,” she whined. “This feels like a humiliation ritual. And before you start, I know I signed up for it.” She cut off the beginning of Sophia’s inevitable “you joined a sorority to make friends” 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.

“First off, I am right about that, thank you very much. And you aren’t even asking a random stranger or new friend. You’re asking Macklin, who you have been flirting - ” Sophia began.

“Not flirting,” Sloane cut in immediately. Anjani and Sophia exchanged an exasperated look across the country.

“ - flirting with all summer,” Anjani continued without missing a beat. “He is into you. And if he isn’t, screw it. At least you go as friends and you show up with an NHL player as arm candy.”

“It is just the thought of even giving a hint that I find him attractive that is the problem here,” Sloane groaned.

“Well, you do, so what is the problem?” Anjani shot back.

“Yeah, but he does not need to know that!” Sloane shrieked as her friends erupted into peals of laughter. Sloane couldn’t 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.

“I personally think you should just try,” Sophia said more gently this time. “Because 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.” Sloane couldn’t help but pout, she truly had the best friends in the whole wide world.

“Aww, Soph, you big softie. I know you loved me deep down,” she needled. Sophia rolled her eyes with barely disguised affection and clapped her hands.

“Now chop-chop, I better get a text within this hour that this is a go,” 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.

“Sorry, I was at lift. What’s up?” Macklin frowned as he looked at her expression. Sloane closed her eyes and bit her lip.

Rip off the band-aid.

“WouldyouliketogotomydatepartywithmenextFriday?” she blurted.

“Woah, slow down.”

“I know you probably have a game or Will or something, so never mind, thanks, bye.”

“Hey, knock it off. Slow down and say it one more time,” he said calmly. “I could not understand a word you said.” Sloane took a deep breath, willing herself to be the outspoken young lady she normally was. She fixed him with a mildly haughty look.

“Would you like to come to my date party with me next Friday?”

A slow grin took over Macklin’s face.

Fuck.

fin.

[mack71n-celebrini]

chocolate milk || m.c. 71

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

ch 3 // william

a/n: school is almost over and that means im on writers block.. i have like two words written for chap 4 😬

wc: 1.5k

summary: Another shift, another day expecting Macklin’s 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 you’re 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 he’s 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. It’s 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 didn’t score and wasn’t 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 that’s not how it went.

Macklin didn’t 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 wasn’t yours to think about this much.

At 12:21, you hear the door chime ring. You glance up, thinking, finally he shows up.

You didn’t 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.

“Welcome!– in?” you said, slightly shocked from who was walking in from the door. It was Will Smith with no Macklin Celebrini, almost never seen before.

“Not expecting me alone?” Will chuckled slowly, almost as if he were testing the waters.

“Just a little,” you play it off, meeting him at the counter. “What can I get you on this…” you glance at the clock, “dark morning?”

He laughs softly. “Same thing as before, a BLT with extra bacon and non-toasted bread.”

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.

“You watch every game?”

You look up at him through your lashes as he watches you. “Why is he talking to me?” 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. “I do when they’re– you guys are on and keep up with basic stuff like the records, but I don’t intently scan over every statistic for every team and player to see how my team is doing.”

“I 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,” Will awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as his eyebrows scrunch up, making you giggle. “He talks about how the sandwiches here are like cocaine… Mack, that is. Yet he has never tried drugs that strong and neither have I.”

“That’s nice to hear,” you smile to yourself, feeling a rush of blood go to your cheeks. “Where is–”

“He told me to come get something for him but he went straight home after the game. He said to just ask you for the ‘usual win special,’ whatever that is.”

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.

“Coming right up!” you wrap up Will’s sandwich and bag it before moving back to the start area to start on Macklin’s. You were entirely locked in on the sandwich, you couldn’t notice Will checking his phone, texting someone hurriedly as he consistently glanced up at you, eventually setting on staring attentively at you.

“You should come to a game some time… of course, when your schedule permits. If you’ve never been, it’s something you can never replicate with any other sport. It truly is special,” Will says rather quickly, watching you finish up Macklin’s order as you move over to meet him at the cash register.

“I’ve 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.”

“Well, we hope to see you at the Shark Tank someday soon!” He smiled brightly. “Tip, come down for warm ups as soon as possible. Me or Mack can try snagging a puck for you then. Just a nice souvenir.”

The familiar rush comes to your cheeks again, as you look down at the total. “Sounds great… your total is $25.27.”

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.

“Thank you, have a good one!”

“You too!” 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 Will’s 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, he’ll 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 doesn’t 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 won’t 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 he’s 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.

[mack71n-celebrini]

chocolate milk || m.c. 71

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

ch.1 // late night encounters

wc: 1.6k

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 you’ve 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 weren’t 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 didn’t 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 Anaheim’s 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 “the usual” 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 “welcome in!” as he walks in. You can hear his heavy feet sliding on the tile, approaching the beginning of the counter.

“Hello, what can I get for you today?” you say as sweetly as you can, the patient customer service voice with empathy laced within it.

“Hi, um... the usual,” Macklin replies, trying to return the kindness but sounding rather blunt. You had seen his commercials and other acting gigs– 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 couldn’t 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 doesn’t treat himself with it. God only knows what he does when he exits the shop, but you’re sure it isn’t 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 it’s on the house. I should say he played well and deserves it because the team couldn’t 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. Don’t act like a stalker.

But it’s 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 can’t wait to finish my shift.

As you’re 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.

“Oh, I didn’t order that,” Macklin replies hollowly, still looking downward, his face entirely blank with no sign of a grin anywhere.

“I know it’s… it’s on the house.”

“Really? Thanks… why?” he questions, taking the bottle from your hand and lightly grazing the tips of your fingers.

“You deserve it after the game tonight. I-I mean obviously it didn’t go as you may have wanted but.. like, you know, you did well and without you– no offense to the team– but… they wouldn’t have made it to overtime without you.”

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 he’s realizing you actually have paid attention, even when it’s nearing midnight and he knows that you don’t want to be working until 4 again.

“Wow, um– thanks. Appreciate it,” Macklin gives you a small smile, tapping his card on the reader until he hears the ding that means the transaction went through.

“Of course, have a good rest of your night!” 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, he’s 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 Macklin’s visit. You grew to anticipate Macklin’s arrival after wins.

At 11:46 PM, you hear the door chime ring through the silent building. You’re 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, you’re greeted by a smiling Macklin and a talkative Will Smith.

“Hello, what can I get for you guys tonight?”

“Hey, can I get uhh… shit, I didn’t think about this. Too used to casual sandwich joints where I order the same thing,” Will laughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Go ahead, Mack.”

“Oh uh… the usual but less turkey and more salami, also with jalapeños, thanks,” he grinned at you, he grins at you, obviously in a happier mood than a week prior. “Add chocolate milk to that, too.”

“Of course,” you giggle. “Will you be paying together or separate?”

“Together, I got this,” Macklin says, walking down to the register while Will still seemed entranced by the unfamiliar menu.

“Sorry this is taking so long… uh, a number 3 but not on toasted bread with extra bacon. Please,” Will apologizes, pointing at the BLT sandwich above you.

“Coming right up.” As you finish wrapping Macklin’s sub, you start to get Will’s 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. That’s expected, they just finished a game, a great one for Macklin. Actually, for both. One of Macklin’s assists was for Will’s 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 Will’s love life, maybe you were inclined a bit about Macklin’s. 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 shouldn’t be listening in and should be doing my job and making Will’s 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. “Any drink for him?”

“I think he’s good… Will, drink?”

“Uh, no, thanks though.” 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 “Please Remove Your Card From the Terminal” simultaneously with the long sound, he grabs the bag with both sandwiches in it.

“Have a good one!”

“You too!” 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.

Holy shit.

Macklin Celebrini knew your name.

[mack71n-celebrini]

chocolate milk || m.c. 71

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

ch.1 // late night encounters

wc: 1.6k

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 you’ve 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 weren’t 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 didn’t 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 Anaheim’s 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 “the usual” 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 “welcome in!” as he walks in. You can hear his heavy feet sliding on the tile, approaching the beginning of the counter.

“Hello, what can I get for you today?” you say as sweetly as you can, the patient customer service voice with empathy laced within it.

“Hi, um... the usual,” Macklin replies, trying to return the kindness but sounding rather blunt. You had seen his commercials and other acting gigs– 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 couldn’t 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 doesn’t treat himself with it. God only knows what he does when he exits the shop, but you’re sure it isn’t 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 it’s on the house. I should say he played well and deserves it because the team couldn’t 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. Don’t act like a stalker.

But it’s 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 can’t wait to finish my shift.

As you’re 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.

“Oh, I didn’t order that,” Macklin replies hollowly, still looking downward, his face entirely blank with no sign of a grin anywhere.

“I know it’s… it’s on the house.”

“Really? Thanks… why?” he questions, taking the bottle from your hand and lightly grazing the tips of your fingers.

“You deserve it after the game tonight. I-I mean obviously it didn’t go as you may have wanted but.. like, you know, you did well and without you– no offense to the team– but… they wouldn’t have made it to overtime without you.”

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 he’s realizing you actually have paid attention, even when it’s nearing midnight and he knows that you don’t want to be working until 4 again.

“Wow, um– thanks. Appreciate it,” Macklin gives you a small smile, tapping his card on the reader until he hears the ding that means the transaction went through.

“Of course, have a good rest of your night!” 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, he’s 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 Macklin’s visit. You grew to anticipate Macklin’s arrival after wins.

At 11:46 PM, you hear the door chime ring through the silent building. You’re 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, you’re greeted by a smiling Macklin and a talkative Will Smith.

“Hello, what can I get for you guys tonight?”

“Hey, can I get uhh… shit, I didn’t think about this. Too used to casual sandwich joints where I order the same thing,” Will laughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Go ahead, Mack.”

“Oh uh… the usual but less turkey and more salami, also with jalapeños, thanks,” he grinned at you, he grins at you, obviously in a happier mood than a week prior. “Add chocolate milk to that, too.”

“Of course,” you giggle. “Will you be paying together or separate?”

“Together, I got this,” Macklin says, walking down to the register while Will still seemed entranced by the unfamiliar menu.

“Sorry this is taking so long… uh, a number 3 but not on toasted bread with extra bacon. Please,” Will apologizes, pointing at the BLT sandwich above you.

“Coming right up.” As you finish wrapping Macklin’s sub, you start to get Will’s 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. That’s expected, they just finished a game, a great one for Macklin. Actually, for both. One of Macklin’s assists was for Will’s 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 Will’s love life, maybe you were inclined a bit about Macklin’s. 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 shouldn’t be listening in and should be doing my job and making Will’s 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. “Any drink for him?”

“I think he’s good… Will, drink?”

“Uh, no, thanks though.” 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 “Please Remove Your Card From the Terminal” simultaneously with the long sound, he grabs the bag with both sandwiches in it.

“Have a good one!”

“You too!” 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.

Holy shit.

Macklin Celebrini knew your name.

[abilouwrites]

WHY ELSE WOULD YOU WANT ME?

I THINK IVE GOT A FUCKED UP FACE

Will smith is shooting himself in the foot. He’d been fucking around with Mack, playfully smacking pucks at each other as they wait for their photos to be taken.

He didn’t mean it. At all!

The puck slipped, that’s what he’s 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, “oh my god” he whispers, “oh my god im so sorry” he apologizes, skating over to where you’re standing

You’re 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, “fuck” you curse, you look over at will, “was that?”

His heart drops, “yeah- im so sorry I didn’t realize how much- force I’d passed that at I didn’t realize it at all I’m so sorry I’ll pay for it all” he promises

You look down at the broken camera that sits against your stomach; slowly and carefully pulling it off, “oh Dorothy” You frown, “it was nice to know you”

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 you’d been waiting for paychecks to hit before buying.

‘Again. So sorry for the damage. I hope this covers it. If not please please please contact me Will Smith #2’

You smile fondly, because he’d covered the camera and then some.

The camera lasts three weeks before it’s destroyed.

It happened during the Bruins vs sharks game. You’d been sat by the bruins net to capture the goals, or any moments. By some miracle; it’s Will who breaks your camera again. A puck deflected off the goalie; and right into your camera. And you’d gotten it all in photos .

You’re thankful you’d gotten this camera insured, and that only one lenses had been damaged; but the camera? Toast.

Will approaches you after the game, “how much do I owe you?” He asks, watching as you jump in fright, “sorry sorry- I thought you’d heard me”

“No- shit you scared me” you exhale shakily, “um. You don’t have to buy me a new one. I got this one insured after the last incident”

Will looks down as you open the uber app, “are you- do you have a ride home?”

You shake your head, “ah my cars in the shop. I’m fine”

“Let me give you a ride home” He begs, “please. I’ve destroyed your camera again. Please?”

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

‘Sorry for breaking the camera! I really hope this is the last time I break it! They’re expensive!! If I do.. or you wanted it.. here’s my number WS #2 - xxx-xxx-xxxx’

You text him that night

[puckslut4thehabs]

Vancouver Boys | Minten, Celebrini, Bedard (NSFW)

requested by anon

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.

'i wanna fuck her.' fraser said. 'you want that, baby?' he asked.

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.

[scelebrini]

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 didn’t care who was watching; it was always the same request for “back rubs” or “head scratches,” usually accompanied by him looking at me with the saddest, most pathetic puppy-dog eyes he could muster.

Today was no different. Connor’s mom, Melanie, had invited us out to an early dinner since we were back in North Vancouver, and of course, I said yes.

“Connor, we have to leave in like ten minutes! Are you ready?” I called out to him, slipping on a light coat and double-checking my purse. I’d opted for a pair of jeans with a nice top and heels—a rare effort that I hoped he’d appreciate.

“I’m ready, but you didn’t give me any scratches this morning,” 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.

“I’m sorry, baby. We woke up late and I needed to make sure we were on time. When we get back, I’ll make up for it, okay?” I reached upward to plant a kiss on his lips. Even in heels, I was still dwarfed by him—one of the perks of being so short, I suppose.

“Yeah, yeah,” 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 restaurant’s location into the GPS, glancing over at him. His "sad face" remained firmly in place for the entire drive, making guilt prick at me.

“Baby, don’t let a rushed morning ruin your mood,” 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.

“I’ll try, but it feels weird,” 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.

“What are you doing?” I giggled, bracing my hands against his chest.

“Need head scratches,” 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 mom’s car pulling into the lot. “Company's here,” 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.

“I love you,” I told him, kissing his plump lips one last time before we hopped out to greet his mom, dad, and Madi.

“What’s with the face, Connor?” Madi asked immediately, pointing at his lingering pout.

“Nothing,” he replied shortly, though he squeezed my hand significantly tighter as we walked into the restaurant.

“Connor just didn’t wake up on the right side of the bed today, that’s all,” 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.

“Oh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Hopefully, some good food will make you feel better,” 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 Connor’s 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. “My back,” he whispered urgently.

“What about it? Are you okay? Does it hurt?” I asked, leaning in, genuinely concerned he’d pulled something during practice.

“Needs rubs,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Connor, right here? At the table?” I questioned under my breath.

“Please,” he whined, his voice hitting that specific pitch that I could never say no to.

“Shh, okay, okay.” 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 neighbor’s dog.

The change was instant. Connor’s 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 mother—and mothers notice everything. She paused, her eyes drifting to where my arm disappeared under Connor’s shirt, and a knowing smirk spread across her face.

“Oh, I see some things never change!” she laughed, turning her gaze to me. “Growing 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.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly through her gallery before sliding it across the table. “Look at this.”

It was a photo of a tiny, toddler-aged Connor, leaning his back against his mom’s legs while she was trying to cook, his face wearing that exact same pouting expression he’d had in the car.

“Awww,” I cooed, leaning over to kiss his burning red cheek. “You’re so cute. You've always been a velcro baby.”

“Stop,” 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.

okay but baby connor was actually the cutest.

[pretty-g1rl-avenue]

Wrong Turn

Macklin Celebrini x physio!Reader

wc: 0.7k

Summary: You’re 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.

You’re standing in a concrete hallway that looks identical to the last three concrete hallways you’ve walked down. Your internship badge is clipped to the front of your shirt crookedly, and your phone is telling your that you’re somewhere near Section 127, which means nothing because you’re not here for hockey.

You’re here because you’re 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 “MEDIA”, then another that says “LOCKER ROOM”. It all feels wrong. You turn a corner and immediately run into a very solid human being. You stumble backwards and he doesn’t move an inch.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry–”

“It’s okay!” He says immediately, hands hovering out in front of him like he’ll steady you if you fall. “I’ve been hit harder.”

You look up and see the guy, standing with messy dark hair, Sharks logo printed on his gray hoodie. It’s Macklin Celebrini, of course it is. Your brain short circuits.

He looks down at you, surprised. “You good?”

You open your mouth, close it, open it again. “I’m looking for the physio room.”

He just stares. So you continue talking, because what else are you supposed to do.

“I’m starting my internship today. In, like…ten minutes. And I think I just walked into media? And then like, a storage closet? I don’t know anymore.”

There’s a moment of slience and then he grins. Not in a mean way, just absolutely delighted about this.

“Okay. So…funny thing.”

Your stomach drops at his words.

“You are heading,” he points behind you, “in the exact opposite direction.”

Now it’s your turn to stare in shock.

“Like,” he continues, smiling, “the straight wrong way.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. “Cool. That’s great. That’s really– really awesome.”

He laughs. “First time in the building?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He shrugs. “I did the same thing my first week here. Couldn’t find the locker room for shit. This place is like a maze designed to test rookies.”

That information settles something in you, and the embarrassed flush in your face is starting to fade.

“Do you know where the physio room is?” You ask, hoping for clear directions this time.

“Yeah, I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I know.” He grins. “But if I let you wander you might end up in the zamboni garage.”

You drop your head, groaning. He laughs.

“Okay, thank you.” You accept.

He falls into step beside you like it’s nothing.

“You nervous for your first day?” He asks.

“A little.”

“That’s normal.”

And you nod, hiking your bag back up your shoulder. You turn down another identical hallway, but Macklin seems to know where he’s going, so you don’t question it. But you’re thinking that they’re really gonna need to start putting more signs up.

“So, what year are you in?” Mack asks.

“Second, doing clinicals. I’ve worked mostly in hospital setting so this is– different.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s intense. But the physio team here is the best. Super smart. They’ll love you.”

“You don’t know that.” You argue lightly.

“Well, you’re about to see for yourself.” He stops, gesturing to a door. “Physio.”

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.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“Anytime.” He pauses. “Also, welcome to the Sharks!”

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 won’t be so bad after all.

[smithusiast]

𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩 → 𝐰.𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡²

summary: after walking away from will, y/n was convinced that everything will be fine but she can’t help but think about him when he doesn’t 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 i’ll 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.

-

it’s later that night when it starts to feel too loud in your head. you’re 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 doesn’t.

you keep thinking about cat’s 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.

it’s not just missing him.

it’s worse than that.

it’s the feeling that you didn’t just walk away from a person. you walked away from something that could have been real and you did it because you didn’t believe you’re 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. what’re you waiting for?

but your head is still there too.

don’t, 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.

“hey.”

and that’s 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.

“y/n? hey—hey are you okay?”

you try to answer but it’s like you forgot how to speak.

“i— will.”

the line goes quiet for a second, “where are you?”

“i don’t- i don’t know what im doing.”

“okay, okay. hey, just breathe for me alright?”

you try and listen to what he’s saying, taking a breath but it comes out broken. “i can’t will— i can’t stop thinking about it.”

“about what?”

“you.”

there’s another beat of silence over the phone, then you can hear some rustling of keys. “where are you?”

“at home.”

“i’m coming.”

-

it doesn’t 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.

“hey,”

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. “i’m sorry will, i’m so sorry.”

“hey, none of that. don’t apologize, just talk to me.”

you angrily laugh through your tears, frustrated at yourself. “i don’t know how to be normal. be enough, be someone who doesn’t mess everything up before it even starts.”

he takes a step closer, making sure to not overwhelm you in any way.

“you didn’t mess anything up.”

“but i did though, i keep doing it. i keep pushing you away and i don’t even stop myself because i— i don’t think i deserve it.”

he goes quiet before shaking his head.

“y/n..”

you wipe away at your tears, “you don’t 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 can’t—i can’t make it make sense in my head.”

you run your fingers through your hair stressfully, trying to find something to do with your shaking hands. “because i’m not someone people stay for. i’m not someone’s person.”

silence fill the room again but this time it feels different.

he exhales slowly, “you don’t get to decide that for yourself,” he says quietly.

“i do though will, it’s me. i know me.”

“no,” he says, stepping closer now, finally close enough that you have to look at him. “you know what you think about yourself, that’s not the same thing.”

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 don’t want that.

“i’m trying,” you whisper. “i swear i am. i just don’t know how to be someone you can love without ruining it.”

his expression softens completely.

“you already are someone i love,” he says.

you freeze at that, letting his words sink in.

“don’t say that,” you mumble.

“it’s true.”

“will—”

“hey no, seriously look at me.”

you slowly up at him, and he nods in satisfaction. “i love you, okay? i’m not trying to fix you, i’m trying to be with you.”

you feel your throat close completely and this time when the tears come, you don’t 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.

“cmere, i’ve got you. i’m here now.”

his lips come to press up softly against your forehead causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. you were so gone now, you’re in. there’s no backing out of this.

he pulls away taking your face in his hands, thumbs swiping away the smudged mascara under your eye.

“i don’t need you to be perfect,” he murmurs. “i don’t need you to be fixed. i don’t need you to earn anything alright? i just need you to stop running from me,”

“i dont know how.” you admit

“then start here,” he says softly, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face. “stay.”

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.

[littlesecrets712]

the notes can wait | ws2

in your touch au | requests are open/closed

word count: 0.6k

warnings: soft physical affection, kissing, clingy behavior, light distraction from responsibilities (studying avoidance), established relationship dynamics, quiet intimacy

it’s late enough that your dorm feels like its own little world.

lights dim.

music playing low from your phone.

notes spread out across your bed in a way that says you tried.

you’re sitting cross-legged, pen tapping against your notebook, staring at the same line you’ve read five times.

“you’re not reading that.”

you don’t even look up, “i am.”

will’s lying on his stomach across the top of your bed, hoodie bunched at his elbows, watching you like he has been for the past ten minutes.

“you’ve been on the same sentence,” he says.

you finally glance at him.

“stop monitoring me.”

“i’m not,” he shrugs, “i’m observing.”

you roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.

“that’s worse.”

he smiles a little.

doesn’t argue.

just keeps looking at you like that.

you try to ignore it.

you really do.

pen taps again.

page doesn’t turn.

“will,” you say, quieter now.

“yeah?”

you meet his eyes.

“you’re distracting.”

he tilts his head, “i’m not doing anything.”

“exactly.”

he huffs a soft laugh, pushing himself up onto his elbows, a little closer now.

“come here,” he says.

you blink.

“i’m studying.”

“no you’re not.”

you hesitate.

he raises his eyebrows slightly.

waiting.

not pushing.

just… there.

you sigh.

but it’s not annoyed.

not really.

so you close your notebook.

“this is your fault,” you mutter, sliding up the bed toward him.

“i know,” he says easily.

you settle next to him, leaning back against your pillows.

he shifts immediately, turning onto his side so he’s facing you, one arm tucked under his head.

close.

“hi,” he says.

you look at him.

“hi.”

there’s a second where neither of you says anything.

just… looking.

he reaches out without thinking.

tucks a curl behind your ear.

slow.

gentle.

like he’s done it a hundred times.

your breath catches a little.

still.

“what?” you whisper.

he shakes his head slightly.

“nothing.”

then softer -

“you’re pretty.”

you roll your eyes.

but it doesn’t land.

“you’re annoying.”

“you like me.”

you don’t answer.

just smile a little.

his hand doesn’t drop.

it slides instead -

fingers brushing your jaw.

cupping it lightly.

your voice goes quieter.

“will…”

he leans in.

slow enough that you could stop him.

you don’t.

the kiss is soft.

like it always is with him.

not rushed.

not dramatic.

just… warm.

familiar.

like something you’ve both learned by heart.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

forehead resting lightly against yours.

“you were stressed,” he murmurs.

you let out a small breath.

“i was.”

“better?”

you nod, “a little.”

he smiles.

small.

“good,” he says.

your hand finds the front of his hoodie without thinking, fingers curling there like you need to hold onto something.

he notices.

of course he does.

“you’re clingy,” he says quietly.

you squint at him.

“i am not.”

he just raises his eyebrows.

you pull him a little closer by his hoodie anyway.

“okay maybe a little.”

he laughs softly.

leans in again -

another kiss.

this one even softer.

like he’s not trying to distract you anymore.

just… be close.

you sink into him a little more, your head finding that space just under his chin like it fits there.

his arm wraps around you automatically.

hand resting warm against your back.

“you’re not going back to studying,” he says.

“no,” you mumble into his hoodie.

“good.”

your notes sit abandoned at the edge of the bed.

your pen rolls onto the floor.

neither of you notices.

because right now -

you’re exactly where you want to be.

and he is too.

[abilouwrites]

White mustang

You’re why I’m staying

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. You’d quietly slipped out of the media. Left your life behind.

That’s where you met Will Smith. Not at Sonoma. But during a weekend you’d driven down to see the penguins play against the sharks. He’d backed into your car and you’d about cussed him out in every language you could think of, “are you actually stupid? Do they not teach you how to drive in Boston? Or are you just stupid hockey player? Shoot puck in goal?” You make a disgruntled sound, “ah- can’t even score goal. Blue is for winners, not loser” you shake your head

“Damn. I’m sorry I just wasn’t thinking” 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 he’s just backed into Malkins daughter’s car and he wants to eat himself alive. As if being chewed out by the coaches wasn’t bad enough, now he’s getting yelled at in Russian and now English

“No.” You raise your hands, “ah. Is not scratched badly. You already lost very sad, you maybe want to go home and cry” you’re 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 it’s not that noticeable. But when English isn’t exactly your first language.

Will looks at your car. Because it is scratched. The paints chipped off and the headlight is cracked, “you sure? I mean I can pay for it”

You tsk, “if they do not send you to AHL before you go home”

Wills expression drops, “you’re mean”

“You back into my million dollar car! You have reverse camera no?”

You make a fair point, “at least let me take you to dinner. Y’know. Payback” Will offers

You pout your lips, mulling the idea over in your mind before saying, “I was raised by hockey player. I’m not cheap”

“Probably cheaper than fixing your car” he reasons.

“Oh. And I drive” you nod to yourself as you slip into your car, rolling down the passenger window and pat at the seat, “get in pretty boy”

It’s 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.

You’re 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 don’t need him. And then you’re out.

You’ll find him in the parking lot after a game, mock him for losing. Then you’ll press him against the side of his car and kiss him until he’s breathless.

It’s like that again tonight, you’d mocked and teased and now he’s pressed against the range rover as you kiss his neck, “why can’t we put a label on it?” He murmurs, “I like you”

You pull away, “I said no labels. Just sex- is all I want you for”

Will leans back, “there’s no way you think we can’t be something serious” his grip on your bicep tightens. You flee back even more

“I am. I told you- I keep telling you. No labels” you sigh softly, looking up at him as his grip relaxes

“At least- like. I dunno can I cook you dinner?” He offers, brushing his hands through his hair.

You pull your hair over your shoulder, “you’re going to cook me dinner? And then what?”

Will leans back in, “I lick whipped cream off you” he whispers in your ear.

Your breath hitches, “confident”

“I know what I want.”

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. It’s domestic, and it’s 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, “be honest” you start, “how many times have you seen home alone?”

Will exhales, “like a million times”

“Remote”

He hands you the remote, you flick onto Netflix. Opening the movie ‘Endless love’ and playing it, “I thought we were watching home alone”

“You are not home alone? You are with me. We watch what I want”

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 can’t control. You’d 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 it’s the one thing you can’t have

[angeltees]

When Winter Comes Around Again

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 there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s running away.

pairings macklin celebrini x fem!singer!crosby!reader x platonic! will smith warnings hidden identities (ish), Sydney Crosby isn’t really mentioned a bunch but he’s an absent dad here, fluff, angst wc 14.6k notes don’t ask me how long this took to write. I don’t 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, you’d admit that it made for a nice change to the humid air you used to subject yourself to in Pittsburgh. It’s 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. 

You loved San Jose, you truly did. It’s been three years since you first landed with your mom’s teary eyes still reflecting through the hot summer heat waves, an oasis of what you were leaving behind. 

But it’s also been three years since you’d spent your last summer cooped up in a room too big, too unfamiliar. Only this time, this type of unfamiliarity wasn’t 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 you’ve 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. 

But that was before. It was before your world tilted on its axis, the one it’s 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 wasn’t. 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 you’ve 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 didn’t know about her. Every relationship in your life circled back to your dad, and they all ended the same. Only this time you didn’t 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 wasn’t fueled by the tears you’d spilled. 

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 didn’t 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 you’d spent perfecting your albums and pushing yourself to perfection, you lost everything.

It’s 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 you’ve been forced to carry your entire life. 

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. 

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 didn’t flinch at the sight of every happy family you couldn’t 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 weren’t 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. 

Your hands cramped with each swirly “Y” 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. 

It wasn’t 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 who’d 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. “–closing in a few minutes, dear.” You blinked once, your body relaxing when you realized what this was. Or wasn’t, about.

“Thank you, ma’am.” You nodded your head to show your thanks, your voice quiet with lack of use. The lady lit up, her warm smile growing – which you almost thought wasn’t 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 didn’t fall, but she didn’t have a chance to trip – 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.  “Whoa, I got you.” 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 she’d just met gleamed unashamed, her irises bright as if she’d been staring into the sun for too long. 

Her eyes carried deep lines, ones that branched down her cheeks and joined together at the bends of her mouth. It was obvious she’d 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 weren’t 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 didn’t recognize. You spoke back in a voice soft enough to combat her, but you couldn’t 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.

You’ve been coming to this cafe for all three years at every possible time you could, yet you’ve never met her before. But you couldn’t dwell on it now, not when your hands began shaking, your palms burning as you tried to feel something human-like again. 

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?  

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. 

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. 

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 – 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. 

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 – it was daunting. 

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. 

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 wasn’t 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 couldn’t do that to yourself, not after you barely survived the last one. 

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, “a secret drink for our favourite regular,” 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 she’d met you today, on a day when the world seemed a bit easier to hold.

The condensation that’s 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. 

It was folded open on the page you’d 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 weren’t 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 – too honest.

The world doesn’t 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 – different ones than last time – as a mask, and your cup as a shield. When one of their eyes began sweeping across the seats you almost wished you’d grabbed your red hat instead of your same crimson shade of glasses. But when her eyes didn't linger, you exhaled a deep breath. 

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 wasn’t easy going unnoticed, not when the entire world was watching. But here, in this very cafe, it’s been the only place you could breathe without it being baited into being more. But it didn’t mean you didn’t flinch every time someone who looked a little too much like someone who’d listen to your songs walked in. 

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 wasn’t until they spoke that you jumped, until you thought your safe space was corrupted for good.

“I like your jacket, is the leather real?” 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? 

“Dude, what kind of person asks that?” This time green eyes blinked owlishly at you, the strikingly beautiful colour almost enough to make you want to write a song about – 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 man’s face, your mind already memorizing the arch of his eyebrows and his cute gummy smile – ok, so you were definitely not about to ogle some man who decided to come ruin your favourite cafe for you.

“I mean, by her silence I'm assuming she’s too embarrassed to admit it.” 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. There’s no way he thought your Miu Miu leather jacket was fake, right? 

“Will!” The green-eyed man backhanded the blue-eyed man, who you now know is “Will”. 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 you’ve 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 men’s attention to be drawn towards it. They shared an amused look, Will looking almost triumphant to get a reaction out of you.

“I wouldn’t be talking this much if I were you.” 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 boys’ eyes down at it, confusion reflecting across both of their eyes. “Hopefully you didn’t pay more than a few bucks for that fake denim…” Will’s eyes shot back at yours. “It’s tacky, really.” You kissed your teeth.

The other boy laughed out loud, his eyes shining with amusement as he cupped his hand around the other man’s shoulder. Will looked from him, to you, down to his jacket that suddenly felt too heavy, then back up to you. “I–“ he stammered, “I got this from that one vintage store.” That one vintage store… very descriptive.

You shrugged cold enough for his eyes to narrow, “Dumpster diving must be competitive this time of year.” A scandalized gasp left his lips, “I’ll have you know I paid like what… fifty bucks for this?” He pretended to think even though you’d bet money on the fact that he knew exactly how much he paid. 

“If you say so.” Will, still trying to explain himself, nudged his friend. “Mack, tell her it’s real.” “Mack” just shrugged, his eyes moving down to take in your messy table. And as if he’d 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 Mack’s eyes, your own following his line of vision. You hesitated when they met yours once again with a questioning look. Usually, you wouldn’t 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, Will’s 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 didn’t have to endure it long because he suddenly shot up as if he’d been struck with a thought, probably the first one he’d 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, you’d give him that.

“I have an idea.” You raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Mack – which was odd considering the fact he couldn't see your eyes – who was currently playing with your pencil that rolled across the table when he accidentally knocked into it while sitting down. “I sense you don’t have those often, huh?” 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, “first ever, actually.”

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, Will’s voice bringing you back once more.

“Hear me out, ok?” You nodded as best as you could with your drink nearing your lips. Will continued, “What if…” You raised an eyebrow high enough for them to see under your glasses, “You come hang with us,” his pointer finger gestured between him and Mack with a laziness to it that proved it was purposeful, “And help me choose a new jacket. Since mine is so “tacky”.” He bunny-eared the last word, his voice mocking yours a bit too accurately. 

You froze, uncertainty bubbling across your skin. This wasn’t 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. 

Your tour was grovelling, and long enough for you to have no time to hang out with any of your so-called friends – 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 won’t hurt, and your favourite cafe will still be here tomorrow for when you’re back in at the same time as yesterday. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to add a few more jackets to your collection. 

“Fine.” Both boys lit up, matching smiles growing more excited. “But…” You leaned forward, your eyes carrying an emotion you usually never allowed yourself to feel around strangers. “Only if you buy me a macaroon first. I’m famished.” Both boys sprang to their feet, their shoes loud enough to pull looks. 

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.

“Done.” 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 Mack’s path.

His eyes furrowed at the sight of your heels lying beneath his and Mack’s seats, “I knew I smelled gloves.” He winked at you with the same look he’s been giving you since he met you (five minutes ago). You shook your head and almost smiled. Almost. After all, he’s still the reason you have to abandon your warm… perfect spot.

You didn’t realize he said ‘gloves’ 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 didn’t 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 you’ve never met before, two guys who don’t 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. 

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. 

Will whistled low, “gotta say, fake leather suits you veryyyy well.” He smirked when Mack hit him again, only for it to fade into something softer when your nose wrinkled up shyly. “For, uh… Butthead?” Will perked up and Mack groaned low enough for just the three of you to hear. 

He looked at you and rolled his pretty eyes, “Don’t know why Butthead over here got his order first, I clearly ordered it before him.” 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, “for the pretty lady.”

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. “For Beavis?” When Mack lit up, you let out a genuine laugh. Perhaps your realest one in months. Will’s eyes flickered down to it right away.

“Beavis and Butthead?” Will nodded seriously, “our parents loveddd us.” He dragged on the word the usual way he does, as you’ve been learning. When Mack returned, both yours and Will’s jaws dropped. In his hand was a clear container, easily twelve inches long, and filled with macaroons.

“Dude…” 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, “Nope. Now I have to buy two of those.” 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. 

You didn’t 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 didn’t show it.

You’d 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. 

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. “Dude, it’s so hot.” 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.” Both boys rode off each other’s 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, you’ll 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 – you only chimed in when it got too silent and both of their expectant gazes turned to you. 

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 didn’t 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 wasn’t necessarily as soft as it appeared, but it definitely wasn’t scratchy. With hands gentle enough to pluck it from its spot, you held it up in front of you.

Typically, it wasn’t 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. You’d processed the action too late, but for some reason, you didn’t care as much as you anticipated. Maybe it was Will’s 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 Mack’s eyes was. 

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. You’d think he’s only ever seen his jacket by the way his eyes sparkled at the sight of another, “in the wild denim jacket.” he’d 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 couldn’t find it in yourself to turn around and walk back over when Will’s proud smile beamed bright at you.

“So?” 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.

“It will look really good on you, Will.” For the first time in a while, you were honest. “Really?” 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 he’d 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. 

Small talk was forgotten, and louder giggles were exchanged. For once, you weren’t yourself. You were just a girl out shopping with friends, a budget that only existed when you thought about it. 

You spent hours twirling in front of them with a boost of energy you haven’t experienced in a while, each article of clothing having its own fashion show. While your joints still argued, they didn’t 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 you’d 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. 

It wasn’t 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 you’ve said today. You weren’t exactly sure where to go from here. You were all aware that you’d only gotten to one location, and the day had already passed enough for the sun to set.

“Um…” 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, wasn’t shocking to you. You were quite surprised you’d laughed at all today. And as if it’d 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 didn’t 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 weren’t any leading questions, no words that came out disguised as something else.

But you were cautious. You didn’t have time for real friends, for people like them. There wasn’t room for heartbreak, you weren’t sure if you’d 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, Mack’s eyes wide with eager anticipation, if you'll meet them again tomorrow, to continue what you couldn’t finish today.

7am, he said. A cafe you’d never forget the name of, following after. You’d never heard of it before, but you knew your brain wouldn’t allow you to forget it. Not when you’ll 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 weren’t sure you’d be able to keep. Yes, you’ll be there, that's what you said. But did you mean it? You weren’t sure yet. 

And you weren’t 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 it’s 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 didn’t walk with a pep in your step on your way to your car, and you didn’t 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 didn’t have time to dwell in the wave of self-pity when the cafe came into sight. 

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 Will’s 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. 

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. 

To other people, your outfits didn’t 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. 

You picking Will’s tracksuit, Mack choosing his top – his voice sly when he made a joke too low for you to hear, but funny enough for Will to cackle at.

Will finding Mack’s baggy pants, you throwing in the shirt that you pretended didn’t 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.

“Dressed up just for us, huh?” 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, “‘course she did.” You now regret having forgone bringing your notebook, your brain sparked with inspiration. Lyrics built up with the melody you’d already fine-tuned, letters coming apart in jumbles that actually made sense now.

Before standing in front of them you’d felt confident enough to leave your glasses on top of your hat. But now you weren’t sure. You’d been around enough people to read the look in their eyes, your mind distinguishing between each flash of colour, nitpicking every micro twitch.

They weren’t nervous, but relaxed. The opposite of you. You didn’t know it now, but they too had experienced similar scrutiny. Being in the public eye made them realize quite early on that some people didn’t mean what they said, or say what they meant.

But they couldn’t 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. 

You’d finally spoken your observations aloud, the same type of people you’ve 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 you’d 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 he’d made these exact chocolate bars a hundred times. You found out he didn’t when your chocolate came out better than his, accusations of beginner's luck echoing off the walls in his kitchen. He’d done it a dozen times more than you, Mack barely matching half his attempts. 

Dubai chocolate never tempted you to break your strict diet before. But Will’s begging eyes, and Mack’s 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. “I know a spot.” 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 couldn’t make out with your naked eyes. But with Mack’s warm breath wafting against your cheek each time he turned towards you to explain what Will was trying to point out, it wasn’t 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?

Will’s voice was low enough to match the ambience, “See? This one is the small dipper.” 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 didn’t feel real. Down here you were everything you’ve ever wanted to be. Famous, rich, everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But out there, you would be nothing. You’d be as free as the next dying star, as bright as the supernova you’d become.

Planets wouldn’t 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 weren’t anything, not really. It spooked you, the cool air awakening goosebumps across your arms. Was this really what you wanted? You’d spent your life being a secret, something unshared beyond the people who already knew. 

Was that your purpose? To push everyone away in fear of being linked back to your absent dad? No, it wasn’t. 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 Will’s chosen cafe, but you knew you’d 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 Will’s radio, was distracted. His eyes flickered to you every few minutes, his body buzzing like a life-sized kitten. 

You looked happy. Actually happy. He’d 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 couldn’t help it. And when he looked away between the time the song ended and the next started, he saw Will’s 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. “Is it possible to get your number?” His cheeks warmed when he realized what he said, so he tried backpedalling far enough to explain himself. “I- well- for my day tomorrow.” 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. 

“‘Cause we’re on for tomorrow, right?” 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 you’d 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 didn’t hum this time, didn’t drown the thoughts in loud music. Instead, you wrote until you couldn’t, 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 “photos”, then with himself for “memories”. Then finally with Mack, for “his fridge.”

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 didn’t know until now.

When you finally put your phone down and closed your eyes, a dream of a boy named Macklin unpaused. It’s only been two days now, and you were addicted. 

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 wasn’t touching you, but it was there. It didn’t feel romantic, but almost brotherly. 

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)  when she almost tripped over the cord. You giggled remembering the chaos that ensued. Sure it wasn’t 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 you’d only met them days ago. “Three guitars? Dang, you must’ve been happy.” Will gurgled between loud slips of his milkshake. 

You shrugged and picked at a croissant, “not really. Three guitars didn't make up for his absence.” You weren’t trying to trauma dump this early on, but their comforting presence made it feel welcomed. After all, they’d already spoken about their childhoods, hockey coming up now and then. You still weren’t aware what their jobs were, but you didn’t 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. “I used to see him every summer.” Your eyes burned, but tears weren’t beaded yet. “I’d 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.” The ghost of his touch caressed your body, a cruel chill stemming up from your bones.

“He would decorate my room with cheesy toys and clothes that didn’t fit right. But the walls stayed the same. Drawings I did when I was barely a toddler showcased around wherever I could reach.” You could see the squiggles you proudly named “Daddy and Me.” 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 couldn’t stop.

“I loved it at first. But then I got older and realized what it meant. The clothes didn't fit me because he didn’t know what size I was, only the size kids my kids were expected to be. The toys weren’t my thing, not when I was in my movie phase.” You spent at least twenty minutes stuck in nostalgia, both boys hanging off your every word and chiming in with small awed comments.

“I loved my dad until winter came around.” You tried to finish it off there, to no avail. “What happened when winter came around?” Macklin’s curiosity won. You looked at him with glassy eyes and a thinned smile, “He was gone.”

The silence didn't have time to make itself known before a familiar voice came from the end of your table. “For you, dear.” 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 you’d 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. “Do you know the owner here?” 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.

“I met her a few days ago when she almost fell.” You smiled at the worry on their faces and clarified, “Don’t worry, she’s okay.” You didn’t 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 didn’t come around often, but something must’ve 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 he’d 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 wasn’t 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.

“I’ll tell ‘em one by one, show ‘em one by one, twist my wrist.” Mack sang badly on purpose, completely off tune and in a way that you wish you’d recorded just to listen to again. Will piggybacked off of his friend and in a voice just as bad he continued, “Goes like this, start with the track, eyes on me, archin’ my back.” They alternated between lines, surprisingly not messing up. 

You didn’t join in until the next song, Revolving Door. You were barely halfway through the song when Macklin laid information on you, “When this song came out Will probably listened to it thirty times in the first two days,” You gasped and looked at Will, who nodded with enthusiasm. “Gotta rep Boston.” 

Right, his birth town. Your mouth opened in an O, you already forgot that they both went to school there. Still, you teased Will. “Aw! Are you my fan, Will?” He nodded the same way as before and dragged out his responses the way he did when you’d met him, “biggesttttt fan!”

“He’s not lying.” Mack solidified it, and he wasn’t lying. He had to endure many hours listening to your songs on loop. It wasn’t that he didn’t like your music, it’s 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. You’d 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 – 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.

“You okay?” You almost reverted to your prior self, barely stopping your flinch before it happened. You fixed your face and nodded with an unconvincing smile, “Yep.” 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 must’ve 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, you’d come during early summer mornings, your eyes closed as you dreamt about your chalk waiting for you to get back to your dad’s house. Because while p it wasn’t rare that your dad brought you to early practices, you’d 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 wasn’t 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. 

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 would’ve 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. “For a snug fit.” 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. “For you, Miss Singer.” He playfully bowed as he passed it to you, which made all three of you lose your composure and laugh like little kids. 

By the time the three of you were on the ice – 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 weren’t even sure if you’d ever skated outside of your yearly school friend trips.

You wobbled on the ice once before Macklin was already holding your hands – which he grabbed after getting your permission. Will skated circles around your slowly moving figures, chirps falling from his lips. “Lookin’ real professional, miss singer.” You weren’t sure what made him start calling you that today, but you weren’t hating it as much as the first time he said it.

You scoffed, your hands tightening around Macklin’s when he rotated your body too fast – to which he apologized for with a soft look, “As if you’re a professional, Will.” 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. “What?” You nervously bit your lip, did you say something wrong? You were so prepared to make new friends on your own terms you’d forgotten about the fact that they’d need to feel the same. Did you ruin it already?

“Did you…” Will skated up to you, his shoulder pressing against Macklin’s. “Do you not recognize us?” Now you were confused, enough for it to bleed onto your face. “Oh my god?” Will wiped his hand across his face before slapping Macklin’s shoulder. “Dude, she doesn't know.”

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 you’d arrived at the arena.

“Y/n, we’re professional hockey players,” Macklin said it so gently you almost missed it, what? “You’re what?” They both nodded, “Yep, for the San Jose Sharks.” Will shook his head, his eyes still in awe. “I didn’t know.” Your voice shook, your hands trembling enough for Macklin to feel from his hold in you.

“Hey, that’s okay. You’re okay.” He was quick to reassure you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hand. But it wasn’t 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, “It doesn’t change anything, right? We’re still Will and Macklin, the boys you've been hanging out with for days,” You nodded and said okay, but you didn’t 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, you’d already gotten over it. They weren’t your dad, they probably never talked to him more than a few seconds, maybe a chirp or two landing. When it was Macklin’s turn to play the goalie, you basked in victory. He deflected all of Will’s 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 Will’s 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 wasn’t about your dad.

The next few days flew by too fast. You’d spent all hours of the day with the boys, your bonds strengthening with time. The day after Macklin’s day was the first time you spent the night, your body too tired to love, your stomach full with oven-made s’mores – 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 they’d never heard of it besides the times you’d 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 s’mores – Will sometimes trying to sneak in his pistachio mix that he had memorized by now. 

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. You’d spam their phones with congratulations, or soft encouragements after each game. 

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. “Hey, Mackie.” 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 Will’s numbers – one on each arm. “Hi, pretty.” Also a new nickname, one that Will always mocked without fail. 

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, “Mack! Don’t call little Miss singer until after my shower!” Macklin didn't try to hide his laugh when he saw the expression on your face, which meant you heard it.

Will’s groan was loud enough to get caught by Macklin’s 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. “I miss you.” He was earnest, his voice barely louder than his room's AC. 

You melted into his soft words and reciprocated the saying. But knowing you had a secret, you weren’t as sad as he was. “Are you excited for summer break?” He already knew you were, but he still asked. Just to see the way you’ll 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, “super excited! I’ve never been a fan of winter.” 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. “I’ll change your mind.” Your head tilted with a half-confused smile, “What?”

Macklin looked more serious than you've ever seen him, and he nodded again. “When winter comes around again, you’ll love it.” You laughed like it was a joke, a quiet sure thing coming from your lips. But he doubled down, “You won’t be alone next time. You’ll have me.” Before it could get too serious, Will gasped from the door. “Um… and me?”

Will sat down beside Macklin, his bare chest exposed. He waved with a vigour he never failed to pretend didn’t exist. “I miss you more than Mack.” Macklin rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, and you smiled and playfully whispered back, “I believe you.”

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 didn’t realize.

Your phones stayed connected through the night and into the morning, them hanging up only when they met Tyler Toffoli, whom you’d 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 weren’t 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 weren’t a regular fan. You were invited by the other team to sing the national anthem long before you’d 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. You’ll wear the Blackhawks one for all public appearances, but change into your Sharks one after making it to your private suite.

Your manager’s 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. 

Specifically, you talked to Connor Bedard. You knew of him for a few different reasons, one being the fact that he’s friends with Macklin. Your conversation lasted around five minutes before your manager beckoned you over. You’d 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 weren’t 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 weren’t sure where you were going, but it was in the opposite direction so it must’ve been the right way. Because that’s 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 Macklin’s. 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. “So now Mack is too good to play with us, huh?” You paused, your chest filling with a weird defensive energy. You knew his teammates were joking, but you didn’t know the context so you were offended on his part. Sure his season was good, but that doesn’t mean he was suddenly too good for them?

Then the heartbreak followed. Another teammate laughed, “Too busy kissing on Crosby’s daughter–“ he said more, but you couldn’t hear it. Crosby’s daughter? Betrayal burned like the lava that filled your eyes and you staggered back on weak ankles. 

Like you were the butt of a joke, another person added, “First, 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?”

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 he’d hurt you. He sat there and pretended like he cared, pretending that he didn’t already know. 

He almost let you love him. All these almost’s 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 wasn’t a coincidence, was it? Somehow they knew you’d be there at that exact time, knew you’d be alone. They pretended that you were a stranger, a random girl who sat with a leather jacket that you’d 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 would’ve 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. 

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 didn’t just dislike winter, you hated it. And you were sure that the next time it came around, you weren’t going to be here.

There wasn’t 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 you’d be the fool they thought you were by running away, but it’s what you did best. 

You've become a pro at packing your bags and leaving without a trace, ask anyone who’s 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 didn’t leave the group chat, not when you knew they were both huddled around Will’s phone waiting for a response, 

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 you’d enter from. The room was bare except for the snacks you’d 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 don’t touch it, it doesn't exist in your mind.

After a few years of rushing between short outfit changes you’d 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 weren’t 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t name.

They both tried to smile at you discreetly enough to be unseen by the crowd, but you didn’t react. Your blank eyes were worse than whatever anger they could’ve 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. They’d 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 Macklin’s.

He didn’t 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 Macklin’s 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.

“I’m sorry–“ 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 today’s 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, “Don’t apologize for trying your best, Celebrini.” Mack’s frown didn't lift, so Sydney tried to distract him by admitting something he’s never told anyone besides his closest friends, and teammates.

“You remind me of someone.” Macklin tilted his head when Sydney started, his eyebrows furrowing at the ss look that crossed the older man’s eyes, “Of my daughter.” 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.

“I haven’t seen her in years, she moved to San Jose early spring in 2022, almost four years ago.” Macklin stayed silent, and Sydney’s 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 Mack’s he asked the thing he's been sitting in.

“She’s amazing, Macklin. But she’s alone.” This wasn’t the best time to ask such a thing of a heartbroken boy, but Sydney Crosby was a man who lived in milliseconds. “I think you’ll be able to help each other. You with the loss, and she with her loneliness.” 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 they’d begun hitting them, two a day. 

But when he agreed he expected a singular day with you, a fleeting memory that would fade with time. He didn’t 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 didn’t know that he was blocked earlier, then unblocked for just enough time for you to leave a voicemail. You knew he wouldn’t 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 Macklin’s car – Will driving because Macklin hasn’t stopped shaking since you blocked them. Your place was empty, and you were gone. And he and Will wouldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 you’d left. The voicemail, and the realization that he’d lost the only person he’d ever be able to love as much as he loved you, even if it was only for a few months.

And even thought Will wasn’t 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.

“You 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 you’re just like everyone back at home. You’re not special to me anymore, Macklin. You’re just mean. You’re 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 I’m still hiding behind him.” 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 weren’t just crying, you were sobbing. “Even now I just wish you guys would’ve told me the truth from the start, or even from the day you told me you were hockey players. Because maybe we could’ve 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. Don’t tell anyone that you knew me, because I never knew you.”

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.

[pearlandemerald]

drop dead - mc⁷¹

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 that’s just me.

Boredom caused this. 

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 you’re the only girl in the whole place, you can’t bring yourself to anything but smile. 

“So you really do know anything about hockey?” Mack asks, taking a sip of his beer. The same one he’d been nursing all night, lukewarm and half full. 

“No, never been around it much.” You lean a little closer to him. “But I’m not opposed to learning more. Especially if you’re teaching me.”

“I’ll teach you. Happily.” His face flushes pink as the soft sounds of “Just Like Heaven” mingle with the conversations around you. 

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Last calls!” The bartender yells, and you tap on your phone. 

“It’s so weird this bar closes at 11.” You shake your head, and Macklin agrees. 

“We can go somewhere else? Or I can take you home? I’m not sure I want this to end yet.” 

“I’m good with that.” 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.

“So you really found me on Instagram and decided to stalk all of my pictures?” He looks over at you with a grin on his face. 

“I was half drunk and in bed, not my best decision-making, but have you seen your face?” You shrug, walking through the door he’s holding open for you. 

Macklin’s face goes redder than before as he falls into step with you. He clears his throat, “So you sent me a message? How did you know I would respond?”

“Call it intuition.” You grin cheekily. 

“Sure.” He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t question it. “Can I give you a ride? Or walk you home?”

“My place isn’t too far from here, we can walk.” You nod in the direction of your apartment. 

“Okay.” Macklin hesitates for a second, looking like he’s contemplating something. 

“Everything alright?” You place soft fingertips on the back of his hand. 

“Yeah, would it be alright if I held your hand?” His words come out a little rushed. 

“Of course.” 

“Okay, good.”  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. 

You didn’t 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. 

“Favorite trip you’ve ever taken?” 

“That’s a hard one, umm…majority of the time I’ve traveled it’s been for hockey. But probably Italy."

“Have you ever been to Japan?” You look over at him. “That’s my favorite place I’ve ever been.”

“No, not yet.” He shakes his head. “It seems really cool though.”

“It’s amazing there. Or the UK, I even took the train from England to France, it was amazing.” You gush, and Mack smiles more. 

“That seems really cool. I need to go somewhere fun for the offseason this year.” 

“I can give you plenty of recommendations.” You squeeze his hand. 

“I look forward to them.” He looks down at you, and your eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth briefly. 

“Good.” You turn your head away, trying not to shamelessly glance at his lips again. 

Your walking pace is slower than normal, almost like you don’t want the night to end just yet. Cars pass by as the start of the next day ticks closer. 

“Why’d you respond to my DM?” You ask, tilting your head. “You probably get hundreds of DMs every day, so why respond to me?”

“Maybe it was the bad grammar.”

“Hey! It was not that bad. I was half drunk and half asleep when I sent them.” You nudge his shoulder slightly. 

“Fine, I could read them, but I also thought you were pretty.” You blush at his confession. 

“Is that all I’m good for? My looks? Oh, the tragedy!” You say and place the back of your hand against your forehead. 

“You are ridiculous.” Mack laughs at your antics, “But no, your looks are not all that you are good for. Your humor is another one of your great qualities.”

“You’ve known me for four hours and yet you’re already appealing to my comedic ego. Do you think I should start doing stand-up?”

“I’ll be there if you decide to.” 

“Sounds like a plan. I become a world-famous comedian, and you quit hockey to follow me on my comedy tours.” You joke.

“Why do I have to quit hockey?” He chuckles, a slightly confused look on his face. 

“Shhh…don’t question it.”

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. 

“Fine, I won’t. But I expect a cut of the money for encouraging your career change.” He barters over your fake job. 

“Deal. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Celebrini.”

“You as well.” He gives you a fake business-like handshake before the two of you start laughing. 

“You’re pretty funny too, Mack.”

“Thanks, I try to be, but I think the only person I amuse more than myself is my best friend Will.” He looks over at you, and you notice his eyes moving from yours, down to your lips, and back up again. 

He’s thinking about the same thing as you.

“Well, you can add me to the list. Who knows, we might just become a comedy duo.” Your eyes make a similar path over his features. Again. 

“We might.”

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 wasn’t 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. 

Macklin’s eyes keep flicking back to you. The hesitation that was present when he wanted to hold your hand was evident again. 

“Something on your mind?” 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. 

“A few things.”

“Wanna share?” You both slow to a stop, moving to stand under a street lamp. “I’m a great listener.”

“Just thinking about how well this is going.” He says honestly, and you lean against the base of the streetlight. 

“Yeah, it is going really well.” You agree, and your heart begins to beat faster.

“And I was also thinking about how much I want to kiss you.” Your heart leaps to your throat. 

“Yeah? Can I say that I was thinking the same thing?” You peer up at him through your eyelashes. 

“Yes, yes, you can.” Mack breathes out a sigh of relief. “So can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

Mack’s 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. 

“You can’t just do that.” You pull away, face flushed, and lip gloss slightly smudged. 

“Can’t do what?” He asks, and you want to wipe the grin off his face. 

“Smirk into a kiss, asshole.” You softly smack his shoulder.

“Now you’re calling me names?” He raises an eyebrow, hands squeezing at your hips. 

“Yes.” You deflect eyes, looking away to watch your thumb rub circles on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, can I give it a second shot? To make it up to you?”

“I guess you can.” 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. 

“A little eager are we?” You tease and try to wipe the lip gloss from his mouth. 

“Don’t leave it.” He bats your hand away, and you chuckle. 

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” He nods and looks down at his watch, “I guess we should finish this walk.”

“I guess we should.” You agree much to your chagrin. 

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.

“This is me.”

“Will I see you again?” Mack asks, not letting go of your hand.

“Do you want to see me again?” You walk back closer to him. 

“Is that even a question?” He looks at you incredulously. 

“I guess that’s a yes then.”

“It’s a yes.” Mack squeezes your hand one last time. 

“So…I’ll see you sometime soon?” You ask. 

“I’ll text you. Or call. You’ll hear from me.” He nods.

“I look forward to it.” You beam and quickly press a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Mack.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.” 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 can’t see Mack anymore. 

You can’t 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.

But you wouldn’t mind forever with him.

[pearlandemerald]

amore mio aiutami - mc⁷¹

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 doesn’t know italian and didn’t want google translate to do anything incorrectly, so all “italian” 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 “m” 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 couldn’t always get back during long breaks or holidays was heartbreaking to him. 

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. 

“What if they don’t like me?”

“They will, Mack. Stop stressing.” 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. 

“My darling girl!” Her fast Italian didn’t register in Macklin’s ears. “Does he speak Italian?”

“No, he doesn’t.” You respond in English, and your mother nods in understanding. 

“It is fine. It is very nice to meet you, Macklin.” She gives him a hug.

“You as well.”

“You will have to excuse the family, the majority do not speak English. Some very broken, others nothing at all.”

“That’s alright, I’ll manage.” He shakes his head. 

“I’ll translate for you. Most of my nieces and nephews don’t speak English. And Nonna Francesca doesn’t speak any English.” You place a gentle hand on his arm. 

“Good to know.” Macklin leans a little closer to you. 

“Come on in, please!” Your mother opens the door wider and lets the two of you in. “We have the guest bedroom set up for you, Macklin. Right across from Y/N’s room.”

“Oh…alright.” Mack’s face falls. 

“Sorry, we are a traditional household since you are both still young and unmarried. So no sleeping in the same bed.” Your hand travels down his arm and laces through his fingers. 

“Alright, Mamma. Let me take you up there, amore.”

“You two are too young to make me a nonna!” Your mother calls after you as the two of you move up the tiny stairwell. 

“Mammina, please stop!” You huff and continue to lead Mack up the stairs. “This is embarrassing.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Don’t lie, amore.” You get to the second floor and turn to look at him pointedly. 

“I would never.” He trails after you, hand still holding yours. 

“This one is mine,” You push open the door.

Mack feels like he’s 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. 

“Welcome home, little sister.” Your older brother walks through the door.

“Gio.” You smile and walk over to hug him. 

“Who is this boy in your room?” Macklin feels the piercing gaze of your older brother on him, and his nerves vibrate beneath his skin.

“My boyfriend, Macklin, I told you he was coming.” 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. “He doesn’t speak Italian.”

“I see. So Macklin,” His accent is far thicker than yours, all the time living in North America must have softened it. “What are your intentions?”

“My intentions?”

“Yes, from what my sister has said, you are an athlete, you tend to be…how you say…a player.” Giovanni looks at Mack, trying to size him up, and you roll your eyes.

“No! 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.” Mack shuts down any idea that he would ever choose anyone besides you.

“I told you, Giovanni, very loyal.” You cross your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him.

“We’ll see, Nonna will test him for sure. Now, if you are done unpacking, the rest of the family is downstairs waiting for you two.” Giovanni nods down to the back patio.

“Lead the way.” You reach out and lace your fingers through Mack’s, the two of you follow after Giovanni back down the stairs and to the patio, where the rest of your family is waiting. “He thinks he’s intimidating because he is older than me. But, we're just the two babies of the family, and I really run this place.”

Mack laughs and presses a kiss to the side of your head, “I can hear you.” 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.

“Do you really know everyone here?” His eyes grew wider at the sight of over 50 people mingling and walking throughout the yard.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“Yes.”

“There you go.” You squeeze his hand.

You walk around the patio and introduce Macklin to the aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some speak English, and others don’t, 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.

“He’s a good one, Y/N.” You smile at your cousin, Valencia. “I was skeptical of the boys you would find in North America, but you found a keeper.”

“I know. Should I save him from Antonio and Luca?” She laughs at your question.

“Probably.” You say goodbye to her and walk over to Macklin.

“So you do all of that on ice skates.” Luca has a bewildered look on his face. “When I played football, most guys would fall to the floor with even a slight scratch.”

“Yeah, we would get fined for that. Embellishment.” Mack smiles at the feeling of your hand on his back. “Hi, baby.”

“Hello, amore. Mind if I steal him?”

“Not at all Y/N, find us later, I have more questions.” Antonio claps his shoulder.

“Doing alright?” You rest your chin on his shoulder.

“I am, your family is nice. I wish I could understand more of what they are saying. It makes me feel bad that I can’t speak to them properly.” Mack rests his cheek against the top of your head.

“They like you though, everyone is telling me how good you are.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“She’s here!” A tiny stampede of children runs towards you as you turn your head, their hushed Italian floating through the air.

“Oh no. It’s the nieces and nephews.” 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. It’s really just six kids, but it feels like more.

“Y/N! Y/N! You’re home!” The six children swarm you, hands grabbing for yours, little faces looking up at you. 

“I am!” The Italian flows seamlessly, and you ruffle a few heads. 

Mack looks at you in awe. You’re 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 doesn’t notice a nephew of yours is staring up at him, confused at the unfamiliar person standing in your room. 

“Who are you?” The boy, who must have been no more than 4 years old, blinked eyes wide and doe-like. 

Mack is at a loss for words. He doesn't know what the boy said, and you are preoccupied with the other five kids. 

“Umm…hi.”

“You look funny.” The boy giggles, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“Y/N.” Mack calls to you, and you look over at him. 

“Oh, Marco, that is my boyfriend, Macklin.” The boy, named Marco, nods his eyes widening in recognition. 

“Boyfriend?” One of the smaller girls speaks up, and you nod. The kids suddenly swarm him. “Does he speak Italian?”

“No, but I will tell him what you say.” You look at him.

“Can we ask him questions?” Another girl speaks up.

“They want to ask you some questions, is that alright?” You tilt your head and look at him.

“Of course, ask away.”

“You can ask him your questions.” 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 wasn’t sure, the kids weren’t happy), his favorite season (winter), how many siblings he has (three), and Mack’s favorite question: if he loves you (yes).

“Y/N! Macklin! Nonna Francesca wants to speak to you both.” Your mother calls, “Come on, children, I have panna cotta in the kitchen.”

The kids run off after your mother and her bribe of dessert.

“Time to meet my nonna.”

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.

“I’ll let the three of you talk.” Sofia stands up unoccupying the bench for the two of you.

“Y/N, darling, how are you? Is this the boy your mother has been telling me about?” Her Italian is very soft spoken, the words weathered with age and wisdom, even if he doesn't know what she is saying.

“Yes, Nonna, this is Macklin.” You place a hand on his back. “You can say hello.”

“Hello, it is very nice to meet you.”

“He says it is nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Macklin, it is very nice to meet the boy who is making my granddaughter so happy.” Your nonna smiles at him. “He is a very nice-looking boy, good for a girl as beautiful as you.”

“I know.” You grin, and your nonna squeezes your hand with a cheeky smile on her face.

“What did she say?” Mack asks you.

“She's telling me she thinks you’re handsome.” You watch as his cheeks flush a blotchy pink.

“Oh, thank you.” He gives a bashful smile.

“He is very good with the children, and I can tell how happy you both make each other.” 

“She says you are good with the children, and she can see how happy we make each other.” You translate for him, and Mack feels his heart start beating faster. A flush creeping to his ears.

“Thank you.”

“I like him. He’s good for you.”

“You’ve been nonna-approved, Mack.” 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.

“Welcome to the family.”

“Welcome to the family, Mack.” 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.

[thedensworld]

Complexity of Us | J.Ww

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. That’s just how close the two of you were. At first, they might ask a few questions,

“Are you two dating?”

“You’re only friends?”

“You lived together?”

“How could you never like each other?”

But then they would realize that Wonwoo was like a brother to you, and you, a sister to him. That was your relationship—a 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 didn’t 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 didn’t get your way—like 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 didn’t understand, but later, you learned the truth. Wonwoo wasn’t just some random boy your mother decided to help—he 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 couldn’t help but feel both pride and worry. For the first time, you truly understood why your mother used to nag him about his racing.

"He’s an adult, Mom. Stop worrying so much," you’d say, trying to ease her concerns every time she brought up his dangerous hobby.

"It’s reckless! I don’t 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."

You’d always dismiss her concerns, but deep down, you knew your mom’s worries weren’t unfounded. Wonwoo’s relationship with his father had always been strained, at best. His father, a cold, distant man, had barely acknowledged Wonwoo’s existence after his mother’s 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 Wonwoo’s escape—a 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 you’re here. What are you doing?"

Wonwoo’s 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 racing—so why now?

"She’s 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 Jiseok’s type—a classic playboy who treated girls like trophies. And he knew you better than anyone. You wouldn’t 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 Jiseok’s words. You really came with him?

Wonwoo clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his composure. You’re my best friend, he thought bitterly. I’ve invited you to my races so many times, but you never came. And now you’re here—with him?

The next morning, Wonwoo stood outside the front door—his 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.

"I’m 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, I’m sure she’ll skip it. Please wake her up for me, Wonwoo?"

Wonwoo nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Sure, Mom. Don’t worry—I’ll 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 knock—he knew you well enough to predict you’d 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. Right—when you were both six, taking a bath together at your mom’s insistence because “it saved water.” 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 didn’t seem fazed by the earlier incident, casually scrolling through your phone between bites, but Wonwoo couldn’t 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. "Don’t you have a boyfriend for that?"

You looked up, startled by his tone. His words were sharp, laced with pettiness. He still couldn’t let go of last night—the sight of you at the race, with Jiseok.

You sighed, already tired of explaining. "He’s 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 I’m just your personal driver, huh? Always at your service when it’s 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 don’t 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 were—bickering like siblings one moment, laughing at your ridiculousness the next.

Moments like this were why you didn’t understand why so many people mistook the two of you for a couple. How could they? This was far from romance—it was chaos.

*

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, phone buzzing on the desk beside him. He glanced at the screen—another 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, that’s 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 he’d 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 energy—whether 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 couldn’t suppress his curiosity. He sighed, grabbed his headphones, and positioned himself comfortably in his chair. He clicked on the folder labeled “12,” 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!"

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in realization.

Days before, you’d asked him to help you pick out new broadcasting supplies, and like the idiot he sometimes was, he’d 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 couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, couldn’t 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 close—

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.

Wonwoo’s 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 weren’t just looking at him masturbating—you 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.

“Oh… fuck,” 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, “Don’t do it, this is a terrible idea,” 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: “The Psychology Behind Bizarre Friend Behavior: Why Did They Do That?”

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: “Hey, you look pretty in your new profile picture.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Pretty?” 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: “Jiseok, want to help me grab some broadcasting supplies?” 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.

“Do you find it?” Jiseok asked, looking at you expectantly. You shook your head and sighed. “They don’t have it until next week. We have a podcast this Thursday, though.” You added, your voice tinged with frustration.

Jiseok nodded, an idea forming. “Let’s try another store. We’ll find it.” 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 up—of 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 couldn’t 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 forehead—only you could see them, though.

“Y/N, how are you? Nice to see you here!” Mingyu’s friendly voice pulled you back into the moment. You forced a smile, saying the usual pleasantries, before introducing Jiseok.

“Wonwoo’s a racer too. You know him?” Mingyu pointed to Wonwoo, who, to your amusement, now seemed to be avoiding eye contact with everyone.

You internally scoffed. He acted like he didn’t 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. “Sure. Who doesn’t know him? He’s the best.”

Mingyu turned his gaze to you, a puzzled look on his face. “Then why did you want to do the podcast with me, rather than Wonwoo? He’s got more achievements.” 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 Mingyu’s lack of awareness when it came to reading a room.

You forced a smile. “We’ll have the podcast later, but right now, we have to go. We’re in a hurry. Bye, Mingyu!” You grabbed Jiseok’s hand and pulled him in the opposite direction, away from Mingyu and Wonwoo’s destination.

“Why did she only say bye to me? Do you guys fight or something?” 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. “You really don’t know how to read a room, Mingyu.”

Mingyu blinked, still not quite understanding, and then shrugged. “Well, whatever.”

*

Wonwoo heard a knock at his door while he was unpacking the late-night snack he’d ordered to accompany the game he was streaming. He immediately ran to the door, expecting it to be your mother, perhaps returning something she’d 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 you’d fought plenty before, never had there been such a long stretch of silence. And definitely never because he had—well, 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. I’m... I’m 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 time—it was just another night—but 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 holding—the 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 haven’t had dinner yet. You shouldn’t 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, “Please?”

Wonwoo sighed in defeat, his resolve weakening. He looked at the food he’d ordered and then back at you, who was now practically bouncing on your toes in excitement.

"Alright," he relented, “Eat first.”

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 wasn’t often he had to deal with this kind of energy from you, and the contrast to last week’s... incident was striking. But still, it was good to have you here again—even if things were a little weird—and he wasn’t 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 beer—clear 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 monster—something Wonwoo had often referenced before, claiming alcohol was your “serum truth.” You never could hold back when tipsy.

"Now, tell me," Wonwoo began, eyes narrowing, "Are you dating Lee Jiseok?"

You didn’t 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, "Haven’t dated in a while. And I’m loyal too."

You gestured with your hands, mocking his serious tone. "Blah blah blah, whatever, Mr. Jeon Playboy," you teased, clearly having fun with this back-and-forth. "I saw you with that pretty junior, walking to the café next to my campus."

Wonwoo’s 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?"

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in shock, and he gasped, flustered. "When was I? You think I’m 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.

Wonwoo’s 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 I’d ever make you an object? That’s completely the opposite!"

You stood abruptly, the alcohol fueling your indignation. "Yeah? What do you mean by that? Are you saying I’m 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 hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Your jaw dropped, and you hissed at him, “Oh, really?” fueled by liquid courage and your mounting irritation. Without thinking, you plopped down onto his lap, challenging him with your eyes. "Let’s see if that’s true.”

You grabbed the hem of your T-shirt and, in one swift motion, pulled it over your head.

There you were, sitting on Wonwoo’s lap, your black lace bra on full display. He froze, his brain short-circuiting as his eyes instinctively dropped.

Sure, he’d accidentally caught a glimpse of you changing once before—an 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 don’t know. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I’m curious... Can you kiss me?"

Wonwoo’s 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 you’d 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 stop—he 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 couldn’t bring himself to care.

*

The kiss, once soft and tentative, quickly turned into something deeper, more passionate. Wonwoo’s 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 aren’t you touching me? Isn’t that what you’re 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 don’t know. I told you—I’ve 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, "Isn’t 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 couldn’t quite place. "Wait. You’ve never had sex before?"

You scoffed, the tiniest smirk tugging at your lips. "I’ve never even kissed anyone before tonight. What do you think?"

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "You’re serious?"

"I’m 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 doesn’t matter," he said finally, low and steady. "I just don’t want to push you into something you’re 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.

"I’ll go slow," he murmured against your lips.

And you, already captivated, whispered back, "I trust you."

Wonwoo’s 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, "don’t 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. "What’s wrong?" you asked, your voice breathless.

Wonwoo sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sat back slightly. "I… don’t 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.

"Well…" you finally broke the silence, your voice softer than you intended. "Maybe we should stop here. I don’t want to… you know… end up pregnant."

Your words hung in the air, blunt yet honest, making you cringe inwardly. Wonwoo’s 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 wasn’t awkward. It was filled with an unspoken understanding, a mutual acknowledgment that what just happened meant something—something worth protecting.

He shifted, reaching for his discarded shirt and slipping it back on. "You know," he began, glancing at you, "I’m 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 that’s enough excitement for one night," you joked, earning a laugh from Wonwoo.

"Yeah," he agreed, standing up and stretching. "Next time, we’ll 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 way—a 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 didn’t 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 Jisoo’s intentions were genuine. He wasn’t 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 was—every bit the polished executive who worked as a director in their father’s 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. "Mom’s still working, though. She doesn’t 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 don’t think she ever uses it. She says she prefers to stay busy."

Jisoo smiled knowingly, shaking his head. "She’s a remarkable woman. Your mom must be incredibly grateful to her for raising you so well."

Wonwoo’s 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, Jisoo’s 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. "What’s that about?"

Jisoo tilted his head, clearly unsure. "I’m 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. "It’s funny that he suddenly considers me family."

Jisoo didn’t respond immediately, his expression neutral but thoughtful. "He knows you’re passionate about automotive engineering," he finally said. "And he knows you studied it for a reason."

Wonwoo’s smile faded as he stared at his brother, trying to decipher the real meaning behind their father’s intentions. "It’s not about passion, hyung. It’s about control. That’s all it’s ever been with him."

Jisoo sighed but didn’t 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 remember—you’re not alone in this."

Wonwoo nodded, appreciating the sentiment even if he didn’t fully believe it. As they parted ways, his mind lingered on the conversation, the idea of stepping into his father’s world stirring a mix of emotions he wasn’t 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 Wonwoo’s dismay, worked for N-Jeen, a subsidiary of his father’s company, Jeon Dynamics Automotive (JDA).

"If any of you are interested in joining us through an internship, please let us know," the professional announced. "We’re 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.

Hansol paused, leaning on his mop handle. "I think it’s a great opportunity, but it’s not for everyone," he said thoughtfully. His tone hinted at his own limitations, given his part-time job at his parents’ café.

Mingyu nodded, understanding. "Yeah, makes sense," he said before turning to Wonwoo. "How about you?"

Wonwoo’s response was blunt, his tone laced with disdain. "I hate JDA."

Mingyu froze, taken aback. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill, dude! It’s just N-Jeen. I know you hate JDA—you’ve 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 won’t waste my time learning from a company that's lacking."

Mingyu groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. "So, I’m 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. "You’ll survive, drama king. Think of it as your time to shine."

Mingyu pouted for a moment before perking up. "You’re right! I’ll be the star intern they can’t 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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 couldn’t help but feel a growing curiosity—and concern—about 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 must’ve 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 didn’t 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 you’d left it in the fridge. You sighed, noting the little sticky note you’d 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 didn’t go to campus?" he asked, his voice groggy.

You shook your head as you walked in, heading straight for his bed. "Nope. Scoot over—my back’s 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 he’d just revealed.

"You what? Why didn’t 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 should’ve brought me along! I definitely would’ve punched him in the face."

That made him chuckle, a rare sound given his current mood. "That would’ve 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 sense—why he’d been so distant and angry last night.

"Wonwoo," you said softly, the concern evident in your voice.

He didn’t 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 couldn’t help but worry.

"If you ever feel like talking about it, I’m here," you offered, your tone gentle.

For now, you’d let him take his time, but deep down, you resolved to stick around—because no matter how much he tried to hide it, Wonwoo wasn’t 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 wasn’t your thing—you 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 Wonwoo’s closest friends, waved at you enthusiastically. But his expression quickly shifted to one of surprise when he saw who you were with—Lee Jiseok. You didn’t know much about Jiseok beyond the fact that he’d been trying to get closer to you these past few weeks.

Before you could dwell on Seungcheol’s reaction, you felt a tug on your arm. Looking up, you met Jiseok’s intense gaze.

“I’m racing tonight,” he said, his voice low but confident. “Let’s bet on something.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Alright… What’s the bet?” You’d heard that races often came with bets, though you’d never been involved in one yourself.

Jiseok smirked, his confidence practically radiating off him. “If I win, be my girlfriend.”

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.

“And if you lose?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

He shrugged nonchalantly, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s up to you. But I hope we can still be friends.”

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. “Alright. Deal.” 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 figure—Wonwoo. 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 wasn’t just about the race anymore. Whether Jiseok won or lost, you found yourself wondering whose victory you’d truly be rooting for—Jiseok, 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 wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but the mention of your name made his ears perk up.

“So Jiseok won? That’s why she’s with him?” one of them said, loud enough for Wonwoo to catch.

The other racer chuckled in agreement. “I guess so. They were talking about her—the prettiest broadcast student. I can’t believe she fell for him.”

“I know, right? She doesn’t even look like the type. I bet she’s a wild one then.”

The first racer snickered. “She slept with him. Of course. That’s why he’s so smug.”

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.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice low but menacing.

The two racers immediately looked intimidated, their smug expressions faltering under his stare. One of them stammered, “I-I’m just saying… I heard from Jiseok’s crew. They’ve been betting on her.”

“Betting on her?” Wonwoo’s tone turned ice-cold.

The second racer swallowed hard. “Yeah, uh… whoever sleeps with her first gets the newest JDA bike. It’s just… a stupid bet, man. Jiseok’s been bragging that he’s already won.”

Wonwoo’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he suppressed the urge to lash out. His mind raced, but one thing was clear—he wasn’t going to let this slide.

Without another word, he stormed off to where Seungcheol was sitting, scrolling through the lineup for tonight’s races on his phone.

“Who’s in the lineup today?” Wonwoo asked, his voice sharp.

Seungcheol glanced up, sensing his friend’s tension. “A lot, man. You’re always the last one, though. Why? Thinking of changing it up?”

Wonwoo patted Seungcheol’s shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Tell a guy named Lee Jiseok I want to race him tonight.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows shot up. “Jiseok? What’s this about?”

Wonwoo didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the arena ahead. “Just make it happen.”

Seungcheol shrugged, sensing that this wasn’t the time to ask questions. “Alright. I’ll let him know.”

As Seungcheol walked off to relay the message, Wonwoo took a deep breath, his mind replaying the racers’ disgusting words. This wasn’t about the race anymore. It was about protecting you—from Jiseok, and his crew’s 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 he’s already won.

Wonwoo’s 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 something—that 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.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the whirlwind of emotions.

But it didn’t 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.

What’s the point of protecting someone who doesn’t 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 labored—not 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.

Wonwoo’s stomach dropped. The sight knocked the air out of his lungs.

So it’s true…

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 lost—not 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 changed—the 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.

“You have two options,” his father had said, sitting across from him with a glass of whiskey in hand. “Study business overseas or join the internship at N-Jeen.”

Wonwoo’s stomach had churned. He didn’t 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 wasn’t on the table.

“Choose between those two,” his father continued, his gaze piercing, “or stop racing altogether.”

It wasn’t a choice—it 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, “My father owns JDA.”

Mingyu had frozen, tools in hand, his jaw dropping. “Wait. What?! You’re… you’re a conglomerate’s son?!”

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 Wonwoo’s father was, everything clicked.

“Man, your dad sounds awful,” Mingyu had said bluntly, his loyalty to his friend overriding any hesitation. Despite Mingyu eventually landing a marketing manager position at N-Jeen—a position Wonwoo applauded him for—his opinion of Wonwoo’s father never softened.

Wonwoo smiled faintly at the memory. Mingyu deserved every bit of success he’d 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 father’s control. For the past three years, he had managed JDA’s branches in China, putting his skills to use while keeping a measured distance from his father’s world.

Now, as the plane touched down, Wonwoo couldn’t shake the mix of dread and anticipation swirling in his chest. South Korea wasn’t just home—it 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. Don’t let your father’s people drag you off—we have better plans."

A small smile crept onto his face. Without hesitation, he turned to the driver. “I’ll pass. Tell my father I’ll find my own way.”

The man blinked, momentarily stunned, but nodded curtly. Wonwoo didn’t look back as he walked toward the pickup area, where Mingyu’s car soon pulled up.

The familiar beat-up car, with Hansol’s booming laugh spilling out before the door even opened, was a stark contrast to the polished image of his father’s world. Wonwoo slid into the back seat, greeted by Mingyu’s playful smirk and Hansol’s cheerful wave from the passenger seat.

“Look who’s back from the dead!” Hansol exclaimed, twisting around to face him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wonwoo said with a chuckle. “Missed me that much, huh?”

“More like missed having someone else to make fun of,” 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 weren’t just friends—they 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 couldn’t imagine how devastating it must have been for you.

He was ashamed to admit that while everyone else had been there for you, he hadn’t been. He had been thousands of miles away, too wrapped up in his father’s plans and his own resentment to return when you needed him most.

“You okay back there?” Mingyu’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Wonwoo blinked, realizing he had been silent for too long. “Yeah, just... thinking.”

Mingyu glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression softening. “Well, stop overthinking. You’re home now. That’s what matters.”

Home.

The word felt heavy. Because for Wonwoo, home wasn’t just a place—it was the people he had left behind. And as much as he didn’t 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 friend—or at least, he used to be—that you hadn’t 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. You’d read the script and his profile yesterday, preparing for this as if he were just another guest. As if you hadn’t 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.

“No personal questions,” the producer reminded you. “Everything should focus on his professional journey and the program.”

Wonwoo smiled softly, his demeanor composed as he took a seat beside you. You cleared your throat, trying to ignore how much he had changed—or how much you hated that he had.

“I’ll go over the list of questions once more,” you said, scanning your notes.

“I already read them on the way here,” he replied, his tone casual but polite.

You blinked at his unexpected thoroughness and nodded, apologizing. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Mr. Jeon?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at his watch. “Let’s converse for a bit,” he suggested, his voice dropping to the familiar, easy tone you used to know. “How are you, Y/N?”

The question was kind, friendly—even gentle—but it threw you off balance. You could hear Mingyu’s voice in your head, telling you how much Wonwoo had grown as a person. Yet, it didn’t make his sudden reappearance in your life any easier to accept.

“I’m great,” you replied, your voice steady but clipped. “Thank you for asking. I see you’re doing well, Mr. Jeon.”

Wonwoo chuckled softly, the sound painfully familiar. “Mr. Jeon,” he repeated, amused. “It’s the first time I’ve heard you call me that. You used to hate that name…” 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.

“Are you free after this?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice carrying the warmth of the boy you once knew. “Let’s grab some lunch.”

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 hadn’t happened.

“I have things to do,” you replied curtly.

The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the lobby. You stepped out quickly, eager to escape, but Wonwoo’s long strides easily caught up to you. His hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks.

“At least give me your number,” 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.

“What now?” you muttered before answering, your voice polite despite your irritation.

“What’s your agenda tonight?” your boss asked without preamble. “Join me for dinner with the chief of SKB.”

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.

“Understood,” you replied quietly, ending the call.

Staring out of the windshield, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could keep this up. And if you’d 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 you—your 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 didn’t falter until the last of them left. As you turned to head out, his sudden presence caught you off guard.

“Wonwoo?” you said, surprise flickering across your face.

He gave you a small smile and gestured to the room behind you. “I was in the one next door. I saw you.”

“Oh…” You hesitated before nodding. “It’s part of the job.”

“Wanna grab a drink together?” Wonwoo asked, his voice soft but hopeful.

You glanced at your watch, shaking your head. “I have a morning show tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a nod. A small, awkward silence fell between you before he spoke again. “You did great, by the way. I’ve seen you on TV a few times.”

“In China?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, sometimes.”

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. “I’m sorry… about your mom.”

Your expression faltered for a split second, but you recovered quickly.

“I wish I’d been there for you,” he continued, the regret in his tone unmistakable.

You didn’t respond immediately, your face unreadable. It was only after a moment that you quietly said, “Thanks,” before shifting your weight, glancing at the time again. “But I have to go.”

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. “Hansol,” he said when the call connected. “You free?”

Because tonight, more than ever, he needed a drink—and perhaps someone to help him figure out the mess of feelings he didn’t know how to untangle.

Hansol slammed his hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the quiet cafe. He was definitely more drunk than Wonwoo at this point, his frustration spilling over with every word. They were seated in the dimly lit interior of Hansol’s closed café and bakery, Vernon’s. The place was a stark contrast to its usual bustling charm, now filled with an air of tension between old friends.

Wonwoo glanced around, his mind drifting briefly to the thought of how much Hansol had changed. Once the rebellious kid who scoffed at the idea of business studies, Hansol had chosen engineering instead. Yet here he was now, managing a family-owned café—a surprising turn of events. Wonwoo recalled Mingyu mentioning it had taken Hansol three months just to start his first day of part-time work. But people did change, didn’t they?

“You left, man!” Hansol exclaimed, his voice louder than necessary in the quiet space. His hands waved animatedly as he leaned across the table. “What the hell did you expect? You didn’t even send a text when her mom died. You just… poofed!” 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.

“I met Y/N,” Wonwoo murmured earlier.

Hansol snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, and I bet she wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you.” He took another sip of his beer before pointing at Wonwoo. “But here’s the real question, Wonwoo: why is she mad at you? What did you do to make her this angry?”

Wonwoo’s gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tightening around the cold can.

“If nothing happened, she wouldn’t be this mad,” Hansol continued, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “And let’s face it—you wouldn’t be this much of an asshole, leaving her without a single word, text, or call.”

Hansol wasn’t 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 wasn’t like him to skip races, especially after being undefeated for years. Rumors spread like wildfire—was he too embarrassed to show his face? Beaten by someone with only two years of experience?

But the real reason wasn’t embarrassment. It was you.

Wonwoo hadn’t wanted to see Jiseok, and by extension, he hadn’t wanted to see you. That night, when he saw you and Jiseok kissing after the race, something inside him shattered. He couldn’t bring himself to face either of you. Instead, he texted Seungcheol.

“Can you keep an eye on Y/N for me?”

Seungcheol had questioned him, but Wonwoo offered no further explanation.

That same week, Jisoo approached him to discuss his career. “So, what’s next? Another championship?”

For the first time, Wonwoo hesitated. “I think I’m done with racing, hyung.”

Jisoo’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve been racing for almost ten years. You’re at the top of your game.”

But Wonwoo had already made up his mind. He’d had enough. Between the weight of seeing you with someone else and his father’s relentless pressure to “grow up,” he decided it was time to walk away. Following his father’s advice, he chose to pursue business—while still holding on to his passion for automotive engineering.

Under Jisoo’s 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 leaving—everyone except you. After the argument you’d had before he left, he assumed you wouldn’t care. But your mother... he couldn’t 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. He’d failed you.

He’d called Mingyu immediately. “Can you watch Y/N for me? I can’t leave the test.”

Mingyu hadn’t hidden his anger. “You should be here, not me.”

Wonwoo sighed, his grip tightening on the phone. “I know. Just... please."

Now, years later, Hansol’s 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.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered, barely audible.

Hansol raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Of course I’m right. Now, the real question is: what are you going to do about it?”

*

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 instantly—Mr. 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 didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I’ve 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. I’ll 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 skin—none of it brought you happiness.

Six years had passed since your mother’s death, and you’d 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 couldn’t 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 blue—a 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.

—Wonwoo

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 mind—a 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 couldn’t 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 suit—Wonwoo.

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 this—using 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, I’ll follow your instructions. You know what’s 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.

"You’ve really changed, haven’t you?" he said, his tone laced with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. "Who would’ve thought the rebel Ji Y/N would be tamed by work? Following orders, smiling for the cameras—so 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 didn’t mean to offend. It’s just… the Y/N I remember wouldn’t 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 didn’t care. This wasn’t 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 don’t 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.

"I’ve worked harder than anyone these past six years because I didn’t have the luxury of a family supporting me. I didn’t have someone handing me opportunities or funding my dreams. Everything I have, I earned. So don’t act like you know me, Wonwoo. You don’t."

*

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 don’t even know what I feel about him anymore. He’s been out of sight for so long that… he’s kind of out of mind."

You nodded thoughtfully. "That’s probably for the best, right? It’s less tiring that way. You don’t 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. "You’re such a weirdo."

"Sometimes I hate my mom, though," you admitted, your voice softening. "Every time she dotes on you like you’re her real son and I’m just… there. But I don’t hate her all the time. I guess that’s just how emotions work, right? They come and go, like waves."

He laughed at that, nudging you with his shoulder. "Of course, I’m her favorite. Who wouldn’t love me?"

"Shut up!" you shot back, rolling your eyes. "If I hadn’t been so nice to you when we were kids, you and your Pokémon bag would’ve been stranded with nowhere to go. You better thank me for being such a kind-hearted kid back then."

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 them—Wonwoo 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. "How’s the production plan for N-Jeen coming along? I heard you’ve decreased the credit allocation." Even outside office hours, his father’s mind never strayed far from work.

Wonwoo leaned back slightly, meeting his father’s gaze. "The reduced allocation is intentional. Most of our budget is spent compensating for inefficiencies caused by a lack of skilled personnel. I’m planning to recruit professionals—people who genuinely know what they’re doing."

Jisoo nodded in agreement, his voice calm but encouraging. "That sounds like a solid plan. Do you have specific candidates in mind?"

"I’ve already extended offers to a few people I know who have proven expertise in their respective fields," Wonwoo replied, his tone confident but measured. "I’ve also been looking into recruiting experienced racers. They’ve used our products firsthand and understand our shortcomings better than anyone else."

His father paused mid-bite, considering the proposal. "It’s good that you’re involving people who understand the industry from the ground up. Make sure the contracts are watertight. We can’t afford any liabilities."

Wonwoo’s lips quirked slightly. Even a compliment from his father was veiled with caution. "Of course, I’ve consulted with the legal team about that already."

Jisoo interjected, his voice lighter, diffusing some of the tension. "It’s interesting how you’re integrating practical experience into production strategies. Maybe we’ll 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 strange—almost bittersweet—sitting 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. "You’ve come a long way from being the reckless kid who only cared about racing."

Wonwoo didn’t 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.

“This is for the new product launch next year,” Wonwoo explained. “I’d like you to join the production team as part of the assessment division. With your expertise, you’d oversee racer recruitment and have them test our samples.”

Seungcheol glanced at the document and nodded. “Interesting. I’ll need some time to think it over. Is the end of the week okay?”

“Perfect,” Wonwoo replied.

The conversation shifted, and Wonwoo leaned forward slightly. “Do you have any recommendations for racers? Someone with the experience we’re looking for?”

Seungcheol thought for a moment, then nodded. “There are a few people I could suggest. It’s hard to find real talent these days, but I’ll introduce you to some promising names. Drop by when you have time.”

“Sounds good,” Wonwoo said with a faint smile. “By the way, what about Lee Jiseok? He used to be quite skilled.”

At the mention of Jiseok, Seungcheol froze, his brows furrowing. He placed his coffee down carefully, his expression growing serious. “Lee Jiseok?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo said, sensing the shift in Seungcheol’s demeanor. “What about him?”

Seungcheol let out a deep breath, leaning closer. “You don’t know, do you? He was jailed a few years ago.”

Wonwoo’s brow furrowed. “Jailed? For what?”

“For a sex crime,” Seungcheol said bluntly, his tone laced with unease.

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in shock. “What? That doesn’t make sense. Jiseok was dating Y/n at the time.”

Seungcheol shook his head, his voice heavy with seriousness. “No, Wonwoo. They weren’t dating. Jiseok made a bet with his crew to sleep with her. When she refused, he forced himself on her.”

Wonwoo’s heart sank, and his fists tightened on the table. “Y/n?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Seungcheol confirmed grimly. “It 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 can’t believe no one told you.”

Wonwoo sat back, stunned. He hadn’t heard from you in years, and now this revelation was unraveling everything he thought he knew.

“No one told me,” Wonwoo said, his voice trembling with anger and regret.

Seungcheol studied him carefully, his expression softening slightly. “I thought you knew. That’s why I was surprised when you brought up his name.”

Wonwoo stared at the table, a storm of emotions raging within him—anger at Jiseok, guilt for not being there for you and regret for how distant you had become.

“Shit…” 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.

“Sir, are you alright?” 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 Mingyu’s office without knocking, startling his friend, who was seated behind his desk.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” Mingyu asked, his eyes widening at Wonwoo’s flushed face and labored breathing. “Bro, are you okay? You look... upset.”

Wonwoo ignored the question and closed the door firmly behind him. He turned to Mingyu, his voice low but sharp. “Tell me the truth. Was Y/n a victim of sexual violence?”

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.

“Wonwoo, listen—”

“Answer me!” Wonwoo bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. His hand clenched into a fist, trembling at his side.

Mingyu swallowed hard, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes... it’s true. But let me explain—”

“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?” 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.

“Wonwoo, we didn’t mean to keep it from you,” Mingyu began, his tone pleading. “It wasn’t our decision to hide it from you. You didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want anyone to know.”

Wonwoo spun around, his eyes blazing. “I was her friend! I should’ve been there for her. You all knew, and I was left in the dark like some outsider.”

Mingyu stood, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “And what would you have done, huh? You were in China, handling your own life. She didn’t want to drag you into her pain!”

“That wasn’t your choice to make!” Wonwoo roared, slamming his fist against the wall. His chest heaved as he struggled to process it all—the 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. “Wonwoo... she didn’t want you to carry this burden. But if you’re this upset, imagine how she felt, going through it alone.”

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.

“She didn’t deserve that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No, she didn’t,” Mingyu agreed, sitting across from him. “But she survived. She’s still here, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo looked up, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and determination. “I need to see her.”

Mingyu gave a small nod. “Then do it. But don’t come at her with guilt or anger. Just... be her friend.”

Wonwoo clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would find you. And this time, he wouldn’t 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 didn’t give up. "I know it’s your last schedule. Come with me."

His grip on your arm tightened just enough to remind you that he wasn’t 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 wasn’t the type to drag you around without a reason. Something was clearly bothering him, but you couldn’t 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. "What’s going on? What are you doing?"

But he didn’t answer, walking farther away, his back turned to you. You couldn’t 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, what’s 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 couldn’t 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 him—the cologne you remembered from years ago, the scent that somehow always felt like home—filled 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 you’d 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 hadn’t been there in years, but the memories flooded back instantly—the 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 hadn’t 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 everything—your father's absence, your mother’s pain, and your own silent grief.

"Just cry. Mom isn’t 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 lost—and 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 hadn’t even realized you had fallen asleep—everything 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 sharp—too 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 couldn’t 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 childish—until you realized that the jealousy ran deeper. It wasn’t just the race that had sparked his anger. It was the kiss. Jiseok had kissed you in front of everyone, and that’s 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 you’re kissing me?" His voice was low, almost dangerous, but there was something else behind it—desire, 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 didn’t show up the next day—or 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 you—he 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 were—left 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 gathering—he 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 tones—it was a perfect reflection of Jeon Wonwoo himself, according to Hansol’s 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 puzzle—something 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 didn’t 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 don’t know! I messed up everything!"

Frustration laced Wonwoo’s 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 child—amused 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 then—" Wonwoo’s words grew heavier, full of bitterness. "She slept with Jiseok... They kissed that night I lost the race... Fuck, I don’t care about her anymore."

Wonwoo grabbed Mingyu’s glass and downed it in one swift motion, the burn of the alcohol momentarily distracting him from the tangled mess of emotions inside him.

Mingyu’s 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 Wonwoo’s facade of indifference faltered, the frustration and hurt clear in his eyes. Mingyu knew then that this was more than just a drunken confession—it 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. “Hey, Y/N,” 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.

“Is he always like this?” you asked, your voice laced with curiosity and a hint of worry.

Mingyu nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. “Yeah, he’s kind of a lightweight compared to us. This happens a lot, don’t worry. He’ll be fine once he sleeps it off.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused but still skeptical, as you watched Hansol mumble something incoherent before his head drooped onto Wonwoo’s 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.

“Goodnight, Y/N! Take care of this grumpy guy,” he teased, jerking a thumb in Wonwoo’s direction.

You chuckled softly, waving back. “Goodnight, Mingyu. Drive safe.”

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. “Where are you going this late?” 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 couldn’t exactly say that, could you?

“Convenience store,” you replied with a casual nod, trying to sound convincing. “To grab some ramyeon. Or beer.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as he studied you. “You don’t eat ramyeon,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow as if calling your bluff.

Well, that was true. You didn’t. But you weren’t about to explain yourself. “I eat it now,” you retorted, crossing your arms and raising your chin slightly.

Wonwoo stared at you for a beat longer before nodding in quiet acknowledgment. “Fine. I have some at my place. Come on, I’ll cook it for you.”

You stepped into Wonwoo's apartment for the first time in years. It felt oddly familiar—still 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.

"Don’t 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.

“It’s past midnight. Don’t you sleep?” he asked, his voice low as he filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove.

You sighed softly. Sleep wasn’t something you got much of these days. “I was awake already.”

Wonwoo glanced over his shoulder at you. “Was it because of us? Sorry if we were too noisy,” he said with a faint look of guilt.

You shook your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I woke up about an hour ago.”

“And you’re suddenly craving ramyeon?” His eyebrow quirked slightly, and his tone was teasing.

You nodded with a small, embarrassed smile. “Yes. Craving ramyeon.”

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. “You never liked ramyeon before. What changed?”

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.

“It’s not salty,” you said, looking at him in shock.

Wonwoo smiled knowingly. “I figured. You never liked ramyeon because it’s salty and ruins your diet. So, I adjusted it a bit.”

Your eyes widened further. He remembered. He always remembered the little things about you, even things you had forgotten.

“It’s really good,” 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. “Finish it and go get some sleep,” he said gently. “I’ll clean up the living room.”

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 usual—a 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t have been more perfect—or awkward—as 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.

“Morning,” 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. “Running late?” 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.

“Good. Let me drive you,” he offered, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “We can grab some proper breakfast on the way.”

You blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. “This is my breakfast,” you replied, holding up the half-eaten apple.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and disapproval. “That’s not breakfast. Come on, I know a good place nearby. My treat.”

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.

“I never really told you what I was doing in China, did I?” 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.

“I spent the first six months there working on a project my father insisted I take over. It was… exhausting. But it wasn’t just work that kept me there,” he began. “I wanted to find a way to clear my head. To figure out what I really wanted in life.”

You didn’t respond, unsure of what to say, so you simply listened.

“I went back to school,” he continued, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Enrolled in a business program. It was something my father had always pushed for, but I never really considered it until… well, until I left.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you stayed silent, letting him continue.

“I wanted to prove I could handle myself. That I wasn’t just running away. So, I worked during the day at my father’s company, managing operations and learning the ins and outs of the business. And at night, I studied.” He let out a dry laugh. “It was brutal at first, balancing everything. But I needed to do it.”

Wonwoo glanced at you briefly before continuing. “I kept thinking about all the things I left behind—what I left unresolved. And when I said I wanted to fix things, I meant it.” 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 wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about him during his absence, but hearing him say it out loud made it all too real.

“I know it might sound selfish,” Wonwoo added after a moment, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, “but I needed that time to sort myself out. To come back and face you—not as the guy who walked away, but someone who could try to make things right.”

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.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for leaving the way I did,” he added, his voice hesitant. “But I’m serious about fixing things. And I’m starting with myself.”

You didn’t 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.

“I just want you to know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I’m not asking for anything from you. I’m just… trying to do better this time.”

As he pulled into the parking lot of a café, Wonwoo turned to you with a small, hopeful smile. “Breakfast on me,” he said lightly, trying to shift the mood.

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 driver’s 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 wasn’t in the wrong. The realization hit him like a freight train—he had become exactly what he swore he’d 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 couldn’t give. Did he still hate his father? No, not anymore. But that realization didn’t bring him peace. If anything, it made him uneasy.

He didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 most—explaining 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 he’d 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 progress—a 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 didn’t go unnoticed.

"Mr. Jeon," the producer spoke up cautiously, pulling Wonwoo out of his thoughts. "May I ask you something? I hope you won’t 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 I’m overstepping."

A faint smile tugged at Wonwoo’s 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.

"I’ve 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, didn’t 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 details—a 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.

Wonwoo’s 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.

"We’re facing an internal issue," the producer announced suddenly, his voice carrying across the set. "Let’s call it a day. We’ll 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.

Wonwoo’s 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.

"Sir—" 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 didn’t know who to blame—was 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 didn’t 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?

“Is it true, Y/n?” the producer asked, his voice tense but steady.

Your breath hitched as you forced yourself to read the article again—every 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.

“We can’t continue the show, Y/n. You know how critical this project is for us and for N-Jeen. Having your name associated with this... it’s the last thing we need,” 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?

“It’s true,” you murmured, barely audible.

Both men froze, exchanging uneasy glances before focusing on you again.

“It’s true that I received money from him,” 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. “Alright, that’s all we need for now. We’ll discuss this with the production team and let you know how we’re proceeding.”

You nodded again, too numb to respond.

Later, the call from KBC News came, pulling you into yet another interrogation. They asked the same questions—relentless, prying, cold. But no matter how many ways they asked, you couldn’t bring yourself to say more.

They didn’t want the truth. They didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t stop there. That night, Jiseok tried to take things further—he 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 don’t remember how it all unfolded, but you woke up in a hospital bed days later, disoriented and broken. The doctors said you’d 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 for—a 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 behavior—just 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. Park’s 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 way—two people who found solace in the simplest connection. Yet, the world would never see it that way.

There were moments when you couldn’t help but feel disgusted with yourself—disgusted 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 desperate—to 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 Presenter—a 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 shouldn’t have been like this—caught 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, “Wait!”

You opened the door moments later, wrapped in a towel with damp hair and wearing pajamas.

“Come in,” you said hurriedly, disappearing into the kitchen. The warm, aromatic scent of cooking greeted him as he stepped inside.

“You’re cooking? It’s almost midnight,” 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.

“Go dry your hair,” Wonwoo said softly, stepping closer to tap your arm. “I’ll take care of this.”

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.

“I’m fine, if that’s what you’re wondering,” 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.

“It smells amazing,” 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.

“I’ll help you sue them,” Wonwoo said quietly, placing his arms on the table. “You don’t need to act fine with me.”

You glanced at him but shook your head. “No need. Mr. Park said he’ll handle it.”

Wonwoo frowned, his brows knitting together. “You mean it’s true? The rumors?”

You paused, setting your utensils down. “Yes. I took money from him. This apartment? He paid the down payment.”

Wonwoo stared at you, his mind racing. What could have pushed you to this? You never used to take money from anyone—not even from him. Back then, he had to secretly give money to your mother just to help you. Were you really that desperate?

“What happened to mom?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.

You froze, your hand hovering over your bowl. “I thought you were going to ask why I did it.”

“I’m not curious about that,” Wonwoo said firmly. “I know you have your reasons.”

There was a heavy silence before you finally spoke, your voice breaking the stillness. “It 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.”

Wonwoo exhaled slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. “And after that?” he asked gently.

“I moved,” you said, your tone detached, as if recalling a distant memory. “But Jiseok found me. He was there, but not really there. A lot happened after that—I ended up in the hospital, had regular visits to a psychiatrist, and went through court proceedings. Jiseok was sentenced to ten years.”

You bit your lip, pausing before continuing. “I told Mr. Park everything. He promised to make sure Jiseok wouldn’t bother me again, even after his release. Mr. Park… he cares for me like I’m his daughter.”

Wonwoo sighed, leaning back slightly. “So the rumors aren’t true.”

You chuckled humorlessly. “I told you—I did take the money.”

“But it wasn’t anything like what the media is claiming,” Wonwoo said, his voice tightening with anger.

You shrugged, your tone calm but tinged with bitterness. “It took me years to heal from what Jiseok did. I would never sell my body for money.”

Wonwoo clenched his fists under the table, anger surging through him—not at you, but at the world that had twisted your story into something it wasn’t. He wished he could have been there for you sooner, to stop this from ever happening.

“You have me now,” 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. “But you’ll go,” you murmured. “You’ll have your own family one day.”

Wonwoo frowned, leaning closer. “You’re my family.”

You shook your head with a faint, sad smile. “We’re not kids anymore, Wonwoo. My mom was the one who took care of you, not me.”

“Then I’ll take care of you,” he said, his tone firm, almost defiant.

You chuckled bitterly, a sound devoid of joy. “It’s not as easy as that.”

Wonwoo leaned back slightly, studying you, the flicker of doubt and vulnerability in your eyes. “But you said you liked me,” he said quietly, almost as if testing the waters. “Do you… not like me anymore?”

You froze for a moment, the question hanging heavily in the air. Then, with a deep breath, you looked up at him. “I do,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady.

His heart leapt, but the words that followed stopped him in his tracks.

“Because of that… it’s not as easy as it used to be,” you continued, your eyes dropping to your hands. “Because I still like you. And I don’t know if it’s mutual or not.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken emotions. Wonwoo’s gaze softened as he processed your words, a mix of relief and guilt flashing across his face.

“It is,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s mutual.”

You looked at him, your breath hitching as his words sank in. But the weight of reality kept you grounded.

“Then you know it’s not simple,” you said. “Not after everything. Not with everything that’s happened.”

Wonwoo’s eyes didn’t waver, determination replacing the uncertainty. “It’s not simple,” he agreed. “But nothing worth it ever is.”

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.

“She’s coming, relax,” Hansol teased. “You’ve waited for years; you can handle a few more minutes.”

Wonwoo glanced at him, rolling his eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting married.”

Hansol chuckled but didn’t push further. Wonwoo’s 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 smile—radiant and genuine—that 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, “You’ll be happy.” 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.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“And you look nervous,” 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 you’d made to each other in the quiet moments of the past two years.

“I promise to love you, protect you, and stand by your side no matter what,” Wonwoo said, his voice steady despite the tears glistening in his eyes.

“And I promise to trust you, support you, and never let the past define our future,” 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, “See? Not simple, but worth it.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Worth it.”

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.

“Here’s to the rest of our lives,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

You smiled, tears of happiness brimming in your eyes. “And to never giving up.”

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, “Why did Wonwoo’s parents leave him?”

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. “It’s because adults sometimes have problems they don’t know how to fix. They get overwhelmed, and instead of solving things together, they make decisions that affect everyone. That’s why they left Wonwoo with us.”

You furrowed your brows, your small mind trying to understand something so complex. “But don’t you and Dad have problems too?”

Your mother smiled softly, nodding. “We do, Sweetheart. Every family has challenges. But having you helps us solve them in a better way. You remind us of what’s most important.”

You huffed in frustration, your tiny fists gripping the toy. “Wonwoo is a good kid, though! He even lets me borrow his toys. Why are his parents so mean to him?”

Your mother reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s why you should always be kind to Wonwoo. What do you think about him? Don’t you think he’d make a good brother?”

At that, your face lit up with excitement. “I like him! He’s like Dad! I want to marry him when I grow up!”

Your mother laughed, the sound light and melodic. “That’s sweet, my love, but marrying him will take a very long time. You have plenty of time to decide.”

Before you could protest, the front door swung open, and your father’s voice called out cheerfully, “We’re home!”

Wonwoo’s small voice chimed in, excitement evident in his tone. “Y/N! I got your strawberry milk!” 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. “Thank you, Wonwoo! You’re the best!”

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, “Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

Wonwoo beamed at you as you took a sip of the milk, your happiness evident. “See? I told Dad to get this one for you.”

“Wonwoo, you’re my favorite person ever!” you declared, earning a bashful smile from him.

Your mother chuckled, resuming her knitting. She couldn’t help but wonder if, years from now, you’d look back on this moment and smile, the seeds of a bond already deeply rooted.

The end.

[thedensworld]

I need a good cry. And i can't believe i read my own fic for that😩