camila

☽ average fan fic reader

[percabething]

when the fandom is so small that everybody knows everybody

[imsadstuff]

An Experiment | Idol Min Yoongi x OC Fic

Synopsis: Mrs Min is persistent, she wants her son to get serious about dating and takes the matchmaking process in our own hands. Min Yoongi doesn't think he has the time or the space for a relationship, but it all changes after a few annoying texts from his mother and an elevator ride.

Genre: Idol Yoongi AU, FLUFF, a lot of FLUFF, boyfriend Yoongi, some smut, two people trying to figure out their feelings for each other. Art curator OC, it's just a lot of fluff with some smut because I am terribly single.

Word Count: 25K+

"Mom, I don't want you intervening in my dating life anymore!" Yoongi's voice carries down the hallway the moment his phone buzzes with yet another contact saved under a name like Park Soomin - nice girl, works in finance, very pretty ♥. He stares at it for a long second before tossing the phone onto his bed. "I don't want you to help me find a girlfriend. I don't have time for a girlfriend."

He yanks open his closet and pulls out the last of the clothes he needs to pack, draping them over his arm with the practiced efficiency of someone who has lived out of suitcases for the better part of a decade. New York. Weeks of back-to-back schedules, press runs, radio slots, and performances and his mother was out here playing matchmaker like he was a man of leisure.

"I'm sure they're all great," he continues, softer now, more tired than annoyed. He means it, genuinely. It's never about the girls. "I just don't have the time." He pads out of the bedroom, heading toward the living room where he'd heard her shuffling around not twenty minutes ago, the familiar sound of her rearranging things that didn't need rearranging.

But the room is empty. Yoongi stops in the doorway, a dress shirt still folded over his forearm, and looks around. The television is off. Her reading glasses are sitting on the arm of the sofa. A half-drunk cup of tea steams quietly on the coffee table.

He blinks. "…Mom?"

He walks further in, checking the kitchen, empty, then their bedroom. Nothing. He stands very still for a moment and replays the last several minutes in his head. The bedroom, the closet, the hallway rant. Had she even been home? Had he just been pouring his heart out to an apartment?

He drags a hand through his hair and exhales slowly through his nose. His phone buzzes again on the bed, distant but audible. Probably another one.

Her phone rings for a while before she picks up, “Where are you?” Yoongi speaks to the phone as he continues packing.  "I'm at the Lee's place." Her voice is bright, unbothered, the voice of a woman who has done nothing wrong in her entire life. "Their daughter is visiting. You should come over." A brief pause, then, as though it's a perfectly reasonable addendum: "Now."

Yoongi stops folding. "Their daughter," he repeats. "She's very sweet. She works in the arts world too, works as-" "Mom." He sets the shirt down. "I leave for the airport in twenty minutes"

"It won't take long, just come and say hello, what is twenty minutes-" "Why are you even there?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You went to the Lee's just… did you plan this? Did you leave so I couldn't argue with you in person?"

The pause that follows is a fraction too long. "Their daughter got some amazing desserts from Spain" she says finally, with great dignity. He laughs before he can stop himself, a short, disbelieving exhale and sits down on the edge of the bed amidst the half-packed chaos. "I'm not coming over."

"Just to say hello -" "I'm not coming over, I'm going to New York, and when I come back we are having a real conversation about this." He stands again, reaching for the shirt. "Enjoy the desserts"

"She has a very nice smile, so beautiful, perfect height for you" "Bye, Mom, I’ll see you in two weeks" He hangs up. Stares at the open closet for exactly three seconds, then gets back to packing. His phone buzzes again, information for the Lee’s daughter, like he’s really convinced by the hard sell his mother gave.

The elevator dings and slides open, and Yoongi steps in without looking up, wheeling his carry-on in front of him. He adjusts his mask, tugs his beanie down a little further, and stares at the floor numbers like they owe him something. He does not notice, at first, that he is not alone.

She's standing in the corner with her coat half-buttoned and her bag hiked up on one shoulder, the posture of someone who had also left a situation slightly faster than was polite.  She'd walked into her parents' living room an hour ago expecting a quiet visit and had instead been subjected to an unsolicited slideshow. Her mother and Mrs. Min, two women who clearly missed their calling as matchmakers, had walked her through approximately twenty photographs. Career highlights, candid shots, one that looked suspiciously like a press photo with the watermark cropped out.

So she recognizes him from a maternal ambush conducted over barley tea and the good plates. She says nothing at first. The doors slide shut. 

"Congratulations on the album," she says, pleasantly, the way you'd say it to a colleague in a lift. "My mother played me three songs from it this morning. Without warning."

That gets him, his head turns. Not just the sideways glance he'd given her when she shifted her bag a proper turn, eyes finding her face with something between confusion and alertness. The look of a man trying to locate the context.

"She what?" "The one with the soft intro," ___ continues, thinking back. "She said it proved you were sensitive. I think that was meant to sell me on you."

There’s complete silence from Yoongi’s side, he just stares at her. She can only see his eyes above the mask but it's enough she watches the exact moment the pieces assemble themselves. 

"The daughter," he says slowly. "You're ___ Lee?" he recalls from the last contact information his mother sent. "And you're the son" She tilts her head. "Twenty pictures, by the way. I counted."

He makes a sound that isn't quite a word, more of a groan. His hand moves to the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry," he says, and he means it with his whole chest.

"It's fine." She smiles, and there's no edge in it, just genuine amusement. "Honestly the album part was good. I'd have preferred to find it on my own terms but-" she lifts one shoulder, "-here we are."

"Well, great to meet you." She steps out of the elevator first, one hand coming up absently to tuck a piece of her bob behind her ear before it falls back against her jaw anyway. Her coat is oversized, something vintage-feeling in a warm camel tone.

"I saw you guys in concert in 2019 and now we're being set up." She glances back at him with a grin that's more amused than anything else, fingers brushing through her bob again, a quick, unconscious sweep. "Funny how life works."

Yoongi follows her out into the basement, and for a moment he just looks at her. The way she says it, not starstruck, not awkward, just stating a fact, like it's a mildly interesting observation about the weather, catches him somewhere off guard.

He's used to two kinds of reactions. The overwhelmed kind, and the overcorrected kind, people who perform so hard at being normal around him that it becomes its own thing. She is neither. She's just standing there in her excellent coat, bag slouched on one shoulder, apparently entirely comfortable with the absurdity of the situation in a way that he, who has been mentally managing this airport run since Tuesday, is decidedly not.

"I'm sorry about my mother," he says again, because it warrants repeating. "You've said that already." "It deserves two apologies."

She laughs at that a real one, quick and unguarded, her hand going up to push her hair back from her face. It falls forward again immediately. She doesn't seem to mind. "She means well. They both do."

"I didn't know any of this was happening," he says, and he needs that on the record somehow. "I found out when she sent me your contact details. I was in the middle of packing."

"My mother sent me a voice memo," ___ offers. "Forty seconds. Very thorough." He closes his eyes briefly. "What did she-" he starts, then stops. "Actually, I don't want to know."

"She called you a great catch." ___ says it with complete neutrality, like she's reading from a grocery list. "Said you're the perfect husband material." A small pause. She tilts her head. "She mentioned the cooking specifically. Twice."

Yoongi stares at the concrete floor of the basement parking lot and says nothing for a moment. "The cooking," he repeats. "She seemed very proud of it."

"I made her one birthday dinner-" "Apparently it was very good." ___ is visibly enjoying this now, just slightly, the corner of her mouth giving her away.

He looks up at the ceiling. "I have to go to New York," he says in the tone of a man who has never wanted to board a flight more in his life. ___ laughs, warm and bright in the dim parking lot. "Go," she says, waving a hand. "Your perfect husband reputation is safe with me."

"Please forget everything she told you." "Absolutely not." She hoists her bag up and turns toward the exit, one hand ruffling to find her car keys "Have a good flight, Yoongi-si."

She disappears around the corner, still smiling.

His manager is at his elbow. "The car's ready." "Yeah." Yoongi watches her go for just a beat longer than necessary, the camel coat disappearing around the corner. "Yeah, okay."

The private lounge is quiet in the way airports never quite manage to be anywhere else — insulated, dim, the chaos of Incheon existing somewhere beyond the frosted glass. Their bags are lined up near the door. Someone has already claimed the couch. There's coffee on the table that Yoongi is already on his second cup of.

He sits down, sets his phone face down out of habit, and looks around at the others.

"Are your mothers also aggressively trying to set you up with someone," he says, with the careful delivery of a man who has been sitting on this all morning, "or is something wrong with mine?"

Namjoon looks up from his phone slowly, the way you look up when you want to assess the energy of a room before committing to a response. Jimin, who has been reorganizing his carry-on for the past ten minutes, stops and looks up. "What happened?"

"She left the apartment," Yoongi says. "While I was in my room packing, I thought she was in the living room… I was talking, going on and on-" he gestures vaguely, "-and she was already gone. At the neighbor's place."

"Doing what?" Hoseok asks. "Setting me up." He says it flatly. "Their daughter was there too. She sent me her contact details before I even knew any of it was happening. Then called me and told me to come over." He pauses. 

"What did she do to sell you?" Seokjin asks, because he knows how mothers operate and he wants the full picture. "Apparently she played her our music." Yoongi stares into his coffee. "To prove I was sensitive. And she told her I could cook."

"She said I was the perfect husband," Yoongi continues, with the energy of a man reading from a police report. "To a stranger. That she had never met before."

"To be fair," Hoseok starts. Yoongi looks at him, Hoseok closes his mouth knowing when to not fan the flames. 

"And then," Yoongi says, "I ran into her. The girl. In the elevator on the way down."

The lounge goes very still. "The girl your mother set you up with?" Namjoon says slowly.

"In your elevator." "Yes." "She was just, there?" "Apparently she left early too." He wraps both hands around his cup. "She must have been flustered by the set up too."

Then Taehyung, who has been sitting in the armchair with his chin in his hand and the expression of someone watching a very satisfying drama, asks the only question that matters.

"Was she cute?" Yoongi opens his mouth, closes it, looks down at his coffee, sets it down, picks it back up, like he doesn’t know what to say or what to do with his hands.

"We're boarding soon," a manager says. “Let’s get going” but none of the members move, waiting for Yoongi’s answer

“Hyung!!" Jimin says, slowly, the way you speak to someone who has already given themselves away. “We should go, board" Yoongi offers as he stands up.

"Was she cute?" Taehyung repeats. "She was- " Yoongi stops to clear his throat, "It was a thirty second elevator ride."

"That's not a no," Hoseok observes. "That's not what I-" He picks up his coffee again even though he's not drinking it, just to have something to do with his hands. "She was normal. She was a normal person. Can we drop it."

"He's flustered," Jimin says to Namjoon, delighted. "I'm not flustered, I'm tired, there's a difference-" "Hyung." Taehyung is grinning now, fully, without shame. "Just say she was pretty."

Yoongi stands up, reaches for his carry-on, and says nothing. Which is, somehow, the loudest answer in the room.

Every month’s second Friday dinners with Sunhee and Wonik are non-negotiable. They have been, for years, the kind of standing plan that survives busy seasons, travel schedules, and the general chaos of three people who probably have no business being as close as they are given how differently their lives run. 

They're halfway through the meal when ___ sets down her chopsticks. "I want to tell you guys something," she says, "but you need to swear on your life and mine that you won't overreact."

Wonik looks up. "That is the single most alarming way to begin a sentence." "Swear first." "I'm not swearing on anything until I know the category of information I'm dealing with," Wonik says reasonably. "Is this a work thing, a family thing, or a-"

"Swear." Sunhee is already sitting up straighter. She has the posture of someone whose instincts are firing. "I swear," she says immediately. "Wonik, swear."

"Fine, I swear, I swear." "Okay." ___ picks up her glass, takes a sip, sets it down. "My mother set me up this morning. With the son of her friend Mrs. Min."

Sunhee's chopsticks hit her bowl, the sound is very loud in the small restaurant. "Say the full name," Sunhee says, in a voice that is very carefully controlled. "Say his full name out loud right now."

"Sunhee-" "___." Her eyes are very wide. "Say. The name."

___ looks at her. "Min Yoongi." Sunhee puts both hands flat on the table.

"I met him in the elevator," ___ continues, talking over whatever is happening on Sunhee's face, "for about thirty seconds. It was fine, he was normal, we were equally mortified because his mother had already sent him my contact details-"

"What about you?" Wonik asks. "Did you get his number?" "No." ___ shakes her head. "I mean…he's. You know how famous he is. That's not really something you just-" she gestures vaguely. "I have his mother's number. That's it."

"You have his mother's number," Wonik repeats. "She put it in my phone herself. Before I could leave." "Resourceful woman," Wonik says, almost admiringly.

"You were in an elevator," Sunhee says slowly, still processing, "with Min Yoongi." "For thirty seconds, yes-" "Of BTS."

"Sunhee-" "SUGA!" "I need you to not do that-" "How are you this calm right now? How are you sitting there like that?"

"Because it was thirty seconds in a basement parking lot and then he left for the airport," "Did he seem interested?" Wonik asks, cutting straight through it.

___ opens her mouth and closes it, well she couldn’t see much of his face other than the eyes, and his eyes were more irritated at his mother than interested, "He apologized twice for his mother."

"That's not what I asked," Wonik says. The table is quiet for a second. "He watched me walk away," ___ says finally, very casually, into her drink.

Sunhee makes a sound that is not words, close to a manic laugh. "You said you wouldn't overreact," ___ reminds her.

"I SWORE I WOULDN'T OVERREACT, I DIDN'T SAY I WOULDN'T HAVE FEELINGS-" "Same thing" ___ says with an incredulous laugh as she downs her shot of soju.

"It is absolutely not the same thing!" Sunhee shouts as she downs her drink. Wonik refills everyone's glass quietly, the expression of someone who knew from the word swear that it was going to be a long dinner.

Yoongi thinks about ___ the way he thinks about songs that aren't ready yet, circling it, not touching it, waiting to see if it still feels like something after enough time has passed.

It does. The contact has been sitting in his phone since the morning he left for the airport. ___ Lee. His mother had sent it with a string of hearts he had not acknowledged. He'd told himself he saved it by accident. He'd told himself a lot of things.

He's in the back of a car heading to some schedule. His life is mostly cars heading to schedules, he's come to understand, when he opens the contact and stares at it for long enough that the city outside the window blurs entirely. It's the jacket that does it in the end, or that's what he tells himself.

He picks up his phone, puts it down and picks it back up.

Yoongi: Where did you get the jacket you were wearing?

___ is in Hong Kong, sitting cross legged on her hotel bed with client notes open on her laptop, when her phone buzzes. Unknown number, she frowns at it slightly.

No hello. No name. No context whatsoever. Just that, from a number she doesn't recognize, as if the conversation had already been happening somewhere she wasn't aware of.

___: Who is this?

His response comes quickly, even if it’s pretty late in New York, mostly because he had been on his phone watching something when he couldn’t sleep. Yoongi immediately sits up, realizing what he’s done, just asked about a jacket without introducing himself, of course she’s skeptical.

Yoongi: from the elevator

She stares at that for a second. Then it lands, all of it at once, the basement parking lot, the beanie, the mask, the carry-on, their mother’s voice doing their best to convince her.

She puts her laptop to the side, the client notes can be taken care of later in the day. 

___: It's vintage. There's no link I can send you 

She has a ghost of a smile as she helpfully types. 

___: I can lend it to you

___: No you’re rich rich, buy it from me

In New York, Yoongi reads that last message and something in his face does a thing he's glad nobody is around to see. He is not good at whatever this is, that’s what he’s realizing.

Yoongi: How much

___ reads that and laughs, a real one, sudden enough that it surprises her. She pushes her hair back and looks at the ceiling for a second.

___: I'll think about it

In New York, Yoongi chuckles as he turns around in bed, a real laugh, like he’s amused, like he wants to talk more, like he’s fascinated.

Yoongi: Take your time

He puts the phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling of his hotel room, the city humming its endless New York hum somewhere beyond the glass, and he thinks that this is perhaps the most words he has willingly initiated with someone new in a very long time.

He also thinks that I'll think about it is not a no. He falls asleep twenty minutes later with the phone still in his hand, which has not happened in recent memory either.

___ thinks about that for a moment. The hour it must have been in New York. The fact that he had her number this whole time, sitting there, and this is what finally made him use it. A jacket. An excuse so thin it was practically transparent and he'd sent it anyway.

She wasn't even looking, she rarely is when she finds the best things. She'd ducked into the thrift shop on a whim, killing twenty minutes between a gallery visit and a lunch she was already slightly late for, and there it was. Black leather, clean lines, interesting hardware on the collar. The kind of jacket that looks like it has a history without looking tired.

___ takes the mirror selfie without thinking much about it. One hand holding the phone up, the other shoved in the jacket pocket, her hair slightly disheveled from pulling it on. She looks at it for approximately one second to confirm it's not blurry.

___: Tan will wash you out a bit

___: How about something like this? 

She sends the message with the image as she’s already buying the jacket, something in her telling her that she just needs to get this today.

Yoongi is somewhere over the Pacific, when the flight's wifi finally decides to cooperate. His phone loads a backlog of messages and he's scrolling through them automatically, half asleep, when he sees her name.

He sits up as the picture loads.  The jacket is perfect. He knows it immediately, the same way he knows when a song is working, something just settles.He stares at the photo for longer than necessary.

In the seat beside him Namjoon is reading, headphones on, entirely in his own world. Across the aisle Jimin is asleep, nobody is watching as he smiles at his phone like an idiot. He makes no effort to mask the smile as he types back.

Yoongi: I like it

Yoongi: Where are you?

Her reply doesn’t come instantly, it comes as he’s being driven home from a long flight, trying to stay up to fight the jet lag.

___: Hongkong for the Art Basel event

___: I was there, now I am at the airport, waiting for my cab to pick me up

___: Do you like it?

Yoongi doesn’t stop to contemplate as he types, Jimin looking at him suspiciously as he does so with a faint smile.

Yoongi: Yes

___: Good, then you can pick it up from my studio when you’re free

He reads that once and then again.

A studio. She has a gallery. She was at Art Basel. He turns that over quietly, this small new piece of her that just landed without ceremony in the middle of his exhausted morning, offered the same way she offers everything, casually, like it costs her nothing, like she isn't handing him a reason to see her again wrapped in a sentence about a jacket.

He's smiling again as he mutters, "I think I've done something stupid," he mutters, to nobody in particular, to the window, to the general concept of his own decision making.

"Yes," Jimin says from approximately four centimeters away, "flirting via jacket is stupid." A beat. "It's also very you." Yoongi turns to look at him. Jimin is gazing out the window with the serene expression of someone who has absolutely been reading every message off the bright screen this entire time and feels no guilt about it whatsoever.

Yoongi: I can come by monday morning if that works for you

Yoongi: Send me the address

He locks his phone for a brief second before it buzzes again.

___: Perfect, but don’t come in too early, I’m useless before 10

Yoongi: I’ll be there by 11 then

Yoongi puts his phone in his jacket pocket and closes his eyes, the city still moving outside, home getting closer. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't particularly try to.

___ spends a bit longer getting dressed that morning, which is not the case on a monday morning when she doesn’t have any clients to meet, she doesn’t even go into work on a monday most weeks. She straightens the pale white dress one last time when she drops her handbag and goes around switching on the studio lights.

“Where are you off too? I thought you didn’t have any schedule” his mother asks as he continues to fix his hair, “Just some work came up, I’ll be back by dinner” he announces as he tries on three different pairs of glasses, landing on the same dainty one’s he’s been wearing for weeks now.

Yoongi is there quicker than imagined, parking the Mercedes quietly as he puts on a mask on, he doesn’t know who all are going to be there, and he’d much rather not have this visit becoming a bigger deal than it needs to be. The studio is located in a quaint neighbourhood, plants all around the glass door entrance as he walks up, coffees hand, he didn’t want to show up empty handed. 

The door announces him,  not a bell exactly, just the particular sound of glass and marble connecting, his footsteps suddenly loud and deliberate in the quiet of the space. He slows instinctively. His sunglasses are on his head, pushed up to get a proper look, and his eyes move around the room the way they do when he enters somewhere new, taking inventory, settling, trying to understand a space before the space understands him.

"You're early." He turns.

She's coming from the back of the gallery, and he stops. Not visibly, not in any way she'd necessarily catch, but something in him just pauses for a moment and takes inventory of her the same way he did with the room.

The dress is pale linen, short, simple in the way that only works when someone has a very good eye for what suits them. Her hair is pinned away from her face today. She looks entirely at ease in the space, the way people look at ease in places they've built for themselves.

And then he notices the tattoos. He doesn't stare. He notices, the way he notices the jacket, the coat, the glasses she isn't wearing today and darts his eyes away

"Traffic was light," he says. She glances at the carrier in his hand and one brow lifts slightly. "That's more than one coffee."

“Uh yeah, I didn’t know how you take your coffee, there’s an iced americano, hot latte and an iced latte” he explains and ___ smiles, picking up the hot latte for herself. “Thank you” she murmurs and he hums to himself, picking up the americano for himself.

“So, this is my uncle’s gallery, I’ve been working with him for god, ten years now” ___ explains as she walks a few steps ahead of him, showing him around, he hums every once in a while, he’s not very talkative, as she’s noticed.

He does the mental math quietly. She would have been young when she started, almost 20.

"We work with private collectors mostly. Finding them legacy pieces, introducing them to new artists, hosting shows sometimes." She pauses in front of a series of smaller works along the eastern wall, studying them for a second like she's seeing them for the first time. "It's quite fun, actually. Every collection is different. Every collector is different." A small smile. "Some of them are insane, but in the best way."

He looks at the series she's stopped at. Three pieces, related but not matching, a conversation between them rather than a repetition. "How do you find the artists," he says.

She turns, slightly surprised, not that he spoke, but at the specificity of it. Most people ask about the collectors. "Everywhere." She leans against the wall beside the series, arms crossing loosely, the tattoos catching the track lighting. "Art fairs. Studio visits. Sometimes someone sends me something and I can't stop thinking about it." She tilts her head. "Sometimes I find them in thrift shops in Hong Kong."

He looks at her then, and there it is again, that sideways almost-eye-contact, landing just adjacent to direct. The corner of his mouth does something small.

She pushes off the wall and keeps moving. He follows, hands in pockets, in no hurry,  taking everything in. 

"Your uncle started it?" he asks, after a moment. "Mmhm. Thirty years ago, almost." She stops at a large photograph mounted simply, no frame. "He took me to my first auction when I was nine. I didn't understand any of it." She pauses. "But it did flame the fascination inside me”

He looks at the photograph. Then at her, briefly, the way he does, quick, considered, like he's filing something away.

Yoongi’s phone is vibrating in his pocket, he knows that it’s his manager checking if he’s on the way to practice. They’re currently in the beautiful backyard, what Yoongi’s leart is that this used to be ___’s grandparents home before it was turned into a gallery. She’s on the other end of the bench as she places her empty coffee cup down.

“Anything that caught your eye in there?” ___ asks and he briefly looks at her before he looks away, his eyes falling on her red heels, quite high for a monday. 

“A few things” he confesses with a faint smile as he looks around, at anything but her. “I’m not cultured enough to understand art so haven’t bought much as of late” he offers more, he knows that she’s been the one leading the conversation, he doesn’t want her to think that he’s not listening. 

"I don't think people need to be cultured to understand art," she says. "There's art in almost everything." She says it without any weight to it, not a lecture, just a thing she actually believes.  

He looks back down. At the floor, at the middle distance, briefly at her hands where they rest against her knee,  the tattoos more visible from here, something intricate in the design, leaves or maybe something older than that, he can't quite tell without looking properly and he's not going to look properly.

She's in the middle of saying something about the artist, a story beginning to take shape, her hands moving slightly the way they do when she's getting to the good part of something when his phone rings.

Loud with no respect for the moment whatsoever. He pulls it out and silences it immediately, the name on the screen requires no explanation. He closes his eyes for approximately one second.

“You need to leave don’t you?” ___ asks as she stands up, “I do, we have a tour starting in two weeks” Yoongi offers as she leads them back in, her heel slipping in some mud before he catches her briefly. 

“Thank you” she murmurs, steading herself as she fixes her posture, all he does is softly smile as he drops his hand from her arm.

“So, the jacket, it’s a vintage Ralph Lauren jacket” ___ speaks as she appears from her office, a bag in her hands. “Thank you, I don’t think I own any vintage pieces” Yoongi shares as she hands him the bag, their fingers brushing just for a second.

“Um, how much-” “Please, no, consider it a gift” ___ says with a soft smile, the smile that is making Yoongi late for practice. He holds the bag and looks at it and then looks at her. She can see him trying to find another angle on this and coming up short.

“We have a few concerts in Goyang, you should come,” Yoongi suggests and she presses her lips together like she’s thinking long and hard about it. “You got me a jacket, let me get you concert tickets, our come by rarely” he brags a bit, trying to sell her on this.

“Sure, but can I get a plus one on that?” ___ asks knowing full well Sunhee would quit on the friendship if she doesn’t get him a ticket. The plus one confuses him, like there’s someone already in the picture and she catches that confusion almost immediately. 

“My friend, she’s a huge fan, she wasn’t able to get tickets” she says and he huffs, not quite a laugh but adjacent to one and looks away, and she watches him do it with the ghost of a smile that she doesn't bother hiding because he isn't looking at her anyway.

“Of course, I’ll text you the details?” he asks as he mentally prepares himself to leave. "Thank you," she says. "I really enjoyed the 2019 concert." She turns one of her rings, slowly, around her finger. Then another. He glances at her hands briefly. "And Sunhee fainted, which in this situation I think counts as a good sign."

He looks up at that. "She fainted?" "Briefly. She was fine." ___ pause, looking up at him "Mostly fine." The almost-laugh again, slightly more this time. He looks away before it becomes anything. "Okay." He takes a small step toward the door. "I'll see you. I really, really need to go."

He still doesn't turn around, she notices. "Yes, please." There's warmth in it, no edge. "You're a busy man, Yoongi-si." He turns then, just slightly, and there's something in his expression that she hasn't seen yet, something a little looser than his usual careful composure.

"Let's just -" he starts, stops and tries again. "We should talk informally. I'm not that strict, and not that much older than you"

She looks at him. He looks somewhere adjacent to her, the way he does, the tips of his ears faintly pink in the studio light, and she realizes with some delight that this small thing, dropping the formality, asking for it plainly, has cost him something, not much. 

She tilts her head. "Okay," she says simply, no teasing. She gives him that much.

He nods once, like something has been settled. "I'll text you," he says.

"Go," she says. He is almost jogging out of the gallery. The glass door swings shut behind him and she stays exactly where she is for a moment, rings still warm from where she'd been turning them, the studio quiet around her.

Yoongi’s mother has made something good, as promised. The table is full and warm and she is asking about his week with the particular casualness of someone who has decided not to ask about anything specific, which means she is asking about everything specific indirectly.

He answers in the usual way. Fine, busy, yes he ate properly in New York. No he doesn't need her to call his manager about the schedule. His phone is face down beside his bowl.

He picks it up, checks it once, puts it back down. His mother says something about his aunt. He nods. She says something about the weather this weekend. He nods again.

His phone buzzes twice in quick succession. Then once more when he finally turns it over.

___: So I see you sunday?

___: I have to meet this client in Dubai and I fly in late afternoon on saturday, can I come to the stadium with a suitcase?

___: Can’t do saturday because Sunhee has a scheduled c-section for a patient

He reads them once, then again. He's smiling at his phone before he's decided to, the particular involuntary kind, and he catches it and schools his expression back to neutral approximately one second too late.

His mother is looking at him. "What," he says. "Nothing," she says, in exactly the tone she used that morning about the glasses. She turns back to her food with the serenity of a woman who has already won something and knows it.

They've been texting for two weeks now. Properly, not just the jacket, not just small talk, but the kind of texts that start about one thing and end up somewhere else entirely an hour later. She's funny over text in the same way she is in person, dry and quick, and she asks him questions that are more specific than people usually bother with.

He'd much rather call her. He knows that about himself already, that he'd rather hear her voice than read the words, that a call would be easier and faster and better in almost every practical sense. He's not ready to call her yet. He's not entirely sure what that means but he knows it's true.

Yoongi: I’ll have someone from the team meet you, they’ll take care of everything

Yoongi: Your friend is an OB-GYN?

___: Yes, she’s also my doctor, and will be for free for the rest of my life so I gotta treat her right. Also because I love her

He reads that and something about it lands warmly, the easy way she says it without any performance in it. He's about to type back when , "Have you reached out to any of the girls I sent you?"

He looks up, his mother is across the table, expression pleasant, chopsticks down, in the posture of someone who has been waiting for a natural opening and has decided this is it.

"No," he says. "None of them?" "None of them." She considers this with the gravity of a woman receiving disappointing quarterly results. "There was a very nice one, works in finance, you said you wanted someone independent"

"Mom." "And the architect, you didn't even look at her profile-"

"I looked." "For how long?" He doesn't answer that. She sighs with her entire body. "The concerts are this week?"

"Thursday, Saturday, Sunday." "Which day can we come? Me, your dad and your aunt-" "Saturday," he says immediately with no hesitation whatsoever.

She blinks. "Saturday? Not Sunday?" "All the parents will be there on Saturday" Yoongi says this like it’s a sure think which he knows isn’t, but he’s going to have to plan it so that it is.

"Your aunt was hoping for Sunday" He picks up his chopsticks with great authority. "I’ll have to check, but I already have your tickets for Saturday”

“Okay, but what about the Lee’s daughter? Mrs. Lee said she's very busy with work, always travelling, very independent, the hair cut was a disappointment to the parents but she’s still such a pretty woman, and she’s short enough for you” “I’m not that short mom” “It’s my fault, I should have married a taller man” His mother says with complete sincerity and Yoongi stares at her.

"That's" he stops. "What does that have to do with " "Your father is a good man." She picks her chopsticks back up serenely. "But the height. I should have thought more carefully."

"Dad is right there." From the other end of the table, his father, who has been eating in peaceful silence through this entire conversation with the practised serenity of a man who checked out of these discussions some years ago, looks up briefly.

"She's not wrong," his father says. "Dad." "I'm just agreeing with your mother." "You're agreeing that you're too short"

"I'm agreeing that she should have thought more carefully." He goes back to his food. "Very different thing." Yoongi looks between them. His mother is eating with great satisfaction. His father has returned to his bowl.

___ hasn’t changed in a bar’s bathroom before, so this is a first as she slips herself in a black dress right from the airport. Her hair is not the best, but that’s the good part about having a bob, it doesn’t need a lot of styling. What does need help is her face.

“How do you have no makeup?” ___ asks with disappointment as she slides back onto the bar stool, she’s swapped the beer for hard liquor because the dress she packed doesn’t allow for a beer belly.

“I have chapstick, but it’s not hygienic to-” “I have like five lip products but nothing for my face, I need to start carrying around a cushion foundation or a tinted sunscreen or something” ___ says as she she downs her drink, third drink of the night and with the little amount of rest she’s had all week, she knows she’s going to be hitting a wall soon.

“___ are you nervous?” Sunhee finally asks as the food comes, it would be normal for Sunhee to be nervous, but ___ is never nervous. “I don’t know, I am mostly tired” ___ offers as she stuffs her face with the fries, food should help her. She’s about to speak up again when her phone buzzes loudly against the table.

Yoongi: I’ve forwarded your contact to my manager, he’ll find you and get you guys to your seats

Yoongi: I’ll see you after the concert

___: All the best for the concert, I’m sure it’s going to be great

She types as Sunhee pays the bill, ___ might be nervous but Sunhee is anxious to leave this pub and be at the venue as soon as she can

Yoongi: Thank you, I’ll see you soon

___ doesn’t have a change to respond back before her phone is already ringing. It’s all too quick from there, they barely find a cab to the event, which Sunhee spends meditating like she does before operating, this is as she says, a spiritual experience for her.

“Why am I the only one that drank?” ___ asks as they sit down in their seats, the massive crowd all around her leaves her awestruck for a second. “I am on call” Sunhee answers, her eyes wandering, her short answers give her away.

“Come on, chill out, we’re going to be having a lot of fun” ___’s just the right kind of drunk now, the four drinks when everything is amazing and all you can think about is a drunk cigarette. The crowd around her is the kind of happy that's collective and contagious and she can feel it getting into her bloodstream alongside the liquor.

"Sunhee, your hand is shaking." Sunhee looks down at her hand. Places it flat on her knee with great effort. “That's adrenaline," she says. "It's a physiological response, it doesn't mean-"

The lights drop all the sudden, Sunhee grips her arm so hard ___ loses circulation for a moment. The crowd becomes something else entirely, a single enormous sound, and ___ feels it before she hears it, in her chest, behind her eyes, somewhere wordless and immediate. She stops thinking about the cigarette immediately as the music starts playing.

Between the singing and dancing that ___ and Sunhee have been doing, they almost miss Sunhee’s phone going off. She reads the message and is immediately a different person, “My patient just went into labour” she announces to ___ as she’s picking up her bag.

“How’ll you get back?” ___ yells over the music, "I'll call a cab-" "Are you sure-"

"___." Sunhee stops for a second and looks at her properly for one second, the exit forgotten. Her expression does something warm and knowing and slightly unbearable. "Stay."

"I was going to stay-" "I mean after." She squeezes her hand once. "Stay after."

___ opens her mouth and closes it, not able to form any words at the moment. The crowd surges around them as the last few songs begin to play, enormous and bright, and Sunhee is already moving toward the exit, bag on her shoulder, phone to her ear, slipping through the crowd with the quiet efficiency of someone who has somewhere more important to be.

___ sees him, her eyes almost involuntarily finding him every now and then, smiles to herself seeing him so happy on stage, his cute mannerism that she’s finding too endearing. How the crowds cheer for them, the heart that they sing and dance with, this kind of passion could move anyone.

The final note ends, the roar that comes after is physical, a wall of sound, and the boys walk back out for their bow, all of them, together, the stage lights warm on them, and the crowd sends everything it has left toward the stage in one long unbroken wave.

___ stays seated as the people around her continue to gather their stuff and move around, ready to leave. She's not sure where to go or what the protocol is or whether there even is a protocol, the text that said see you after suddenly very present in her mind now that after is here.

She's still sitting when someone appears at the end of her row. Yoongi's Manager, the same one who met her outside the venue, was efficient and unhurried, with the quiet competence of someone who has done this exact thing many times.

"Ms. Lee." He nods once. "If you'll follow me."

She picks up her clutch and stands too quickly, smoothing her dress in one swift motion, she walks as she reapplies her lipstick, hoping this can mask the lack of makeup.

She follows him through the emptying stadium toward the back, the crowd thinning around her, the stage growing closer, the noise of the night shifting into something quieter and more specific the further in they go.

The hallway outside the green room is not what she expected, though she's not sure what she expected exactly. It's busy in the contained way of post-show logistics, staff moving with purpose, and people. Guests, she realizes, a few of them, recognizable faces standing in the particular way that recognizable people stand when they're in a space that isn't quite public, relaxed but not fully, aware but performing unawareness. 

Jimin notices her first as they emerge from the resting room, having caught their breaths after the concerts and now ready to greet their guests. His eyes land on her and then move to Yoongi in the same second, quick and unnoticeable to anyone not watching for it. She catches it.

The group collectively greets a few people as ___ stands on the side, not wanting to be in people’s way when Yoongi stops right in front of her.

Still slightly out of breath, towel around his neck, water bottle in hand, his eyes find her sneakers first. They make her considerably shorter than him and she watches him register this, his gaze traveling up slowly before it finds her face.

"Hi," he says softly, a small smile spreading on his face, she’s about to say something when he pulls her by the arm, away, in another quiet room, away from the people. 

"Oh my god, you guys were incredible. I think my throat actually hurts from how much I was cheering, which has never happened to me before in my life-" Yoongi sets his water bottle down and disappears behind a curtain at the far end of the room, changing, and she can see his silhouette moving and hear the quiet sounds of someone pulling off a jacket, a shirt, the efficient undressing of someone who just wants to be in normal clothes as quickly as possible.

"-the production, the stage is so massive, and the crowd, every one having the best times of their life, my hearts still beating like crazy, I can’t even imagine what yours is doing” she talks naturally, like a person who had a life altering experience and needs to share it. There’s a faint laughter from his end as he continues behind the curtain. 

“Seriously, the scale of this is crazy, you guys were amazing” He says nothing for a moment. She can hear him pulling on something. 

He's tired, she can hear it underneath the silence, the particular quality of exhaustion that has gone past the point of showing itself and become something quieter. He performed for three hours, he's been doing this for days and he's here, behind a curtain, listening to her talk about the lighting.

She stops talking suddenly, very aware of how much she’s rambled on, "Sorry," she says. "You're exhausted." “I want to hear everything you have to say ___” he speaks softly as he emerges from behind the curtain. 

“I always have a lot to say Yoongi,” she stops, copying the same emphasis he just placed on her name, “You might get tired of how much I have to say” she continues as he stops by a table, dropping all the clothes he was just wearing now that he’s in a simple jeans and black shirt. 

Yoongi isn’t just tired, he’s exhausted, exhausted enough to do what he’s done each night after a show, and rush home. But he simply takes a seat on the sofa opposite to hers, he wants to continue listening to her voice. 

“Seriously, it was amazing, congratulations, I would have brought flowers or something if I didn’t directly come from the air-” “You have freckles around your nose, they’re um” Yoongi interrupts. It comes out before he's made a decision about it. The exhaustion, probably. The way tiredness removes the small delay between thinking and saying, the buffer he usually relies on.

The briefest pause where his senses catch up with his mouth and he considers his options and decides on honesty anyway. "Very pretty." 

The silence between them is the particular kind that has too much in it to be comfortable and too much in it to break carelessly. “Your friend? I didn’t see her-” “Oh her patient went into labour so she had to rush out, but she caught most of the concert and is now probably prepping to deliver a baby” 

“Oh” that’s all Yoongi can muster now that the buffer of a friend is gone, when Yoongi was imagining seeing her after the concert, he kept imagining the friend. “Yeah, but I should get going too, you must be tired” 

“I am tired, but I can still drop you home?” Yoongi asks, knowing full well that he should have probably asked her for dinner, given the thin smile on her lips. “Please, I can find my way-” “There’s going to be a lot of traffic ___” Yoongi offers and she smiles briefly as he says her name again, the particular softness that he uses. 

"It's late," she says. "Which is why there'll be traffic."

"Yoongi-" "My car is already outside." He says it simply. "It's not out of the way." She looks at him for a moment. He looks her straight in the eyes for a second, like he really means this and isn’t offering this out of some formality. 

“You don’t know where I live” she says with a teasing tone as they both stay seated, not quite ready to move onto what comes next. “Today I learn your address then”

The car is quiet, not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind where neither of them knows what to say. None of them imagined the string of events that led to this, it almost makes Yoongi chuckle to himself as he thinks about how vehemently against this he was, his mother can’t know any of this yet. Not until he knows why he keeps reaching for his phone for her text back, why he saved her address without thinking about it, why he's sitting in a car at midnight when he should be in bed.

He doesn't know yet. He'd like to figure it out quietly, without his mother's involvement, which is the only way anything survives in its early stages.

“So, the tour, you guys must leave soon” ___ speaks up as they stop at a red light, the traffic is indeed awful. “Yes, Japan, then the US, Mexico, back to US and then back in Korea around mid June” Yoongi hears himself say it. All of it, laid out in sequence, the shape of the next several months suddenly made concrete in the quiet of the car. 

Somewhere in the middle of the list he understands, clearly and exactly why he told his mother he didn't have time for a girlfriend. Why he'd meant it. Why it was true then and remains true now regardless of freckles or the jackets or the way she says his name.

He can't do this to someone. The disappearing, the timezone math, the months of existing primarily as a name on a phone screen. He knows what that looks like from the inside and he knows what it asks of the person on the other end and it's a lot. It's always been a lot.

"Mid June," she says quietly, doing the math the same way he just did. "Mid June," he confirms with a long exhale.

"Do you get used to it?" she asks. "The schedule."

He thinks about it for a few seconds, deciding on how honest he should be, "You get used to moving," he says. "You don't really get used to leaving."

The car stops at another light. Somewhere outside a group of people are spilling out of a restaurant, loud and warm on a Sunday night, and she watches them through the glass.

She’s almost thirty two, a gallery she loves, clients she's spent years building relationships with. A life that moves exactly the way she designed it to move. She doesn't need to complicate that. ___ knows this.

She can't quite bring herself to be realistic about this, even if she has been realistic about way less complications in the past.

"What are you thinking about," he says, he needs to know just what she’s thinking because he knows it can’t be good.

She glances at him, he's looking ahead at the road, not at her, but his attention is entirely on her answer. "The tour," she says. Which is true but not all of it.

He nods, something in his jaw shifts slightly, the way it does when he's decided not to say something.

"Yoongi." "Mm."

"It's a long time to be away." "It is," he says, simply with no argument, he knows there isn’t one.

The light turns green. "Do you…" she starts and stops to try again "Is there ever a point where it gets easier? The coming back. Picking things back up."

He's quiet for a moment. "Depends what you're picking back up," he says.

She looks at him. He's still looking at his hand now and the city lights are moving across his face in slow intervals and she thinks distantly that this is an unreasonable amount of person to have discovered in an elevator.

She looks back out her window. "I'm not twenty anymore," she says, mostly to herself.

"Neither am I." "I mean-" she turns her rings once. "I used to be better at not thinking ahead."

"What do you see?" he asks. "When you think ahead." She's quiet for a long moment, outside Seoul continues, indifferent and bright.

"A very long tour schedule," she says finally. He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, almost a laugh like he’s had this discussion before, "Yeah, that’s just the first leg" he says quietly.

The car moves through the city and neither of them solves anything and somehow that's alright, the silence settling back around them like something they've agreed to for now, the kind of quiet that isn't an ending, just a pause.

The car stops outside her building and they both get out, the night air cool after the warmth of the car. She tilts her head back slightly to take in the street, familiar and quiet, and he falls into step beside her naturally, walking her to the entrance the way he'd stood up to walk her out of the green room.

They stop at the entrance. The streetlight catches everything, her hair, her rings, the white sneakers. He's still in his cap and mask pulled down, hands in his pockets, adjusting his cap without meaning to, forward, back, forward again.

Neither of them starts the conversation. She looks up at him and he looks somewhere just past her, and the comfortable quiet of the car has followed them out onto the pavement.

"I think we should go on a date," she says. He goes very still as his eyes find her.

"A real one." Even, practical, like she's proposing something with a clear agenda. "Before Japan. Before our rational sides catch up with us and decide this is a terrible idea." A beat. "An experiment. To find out if there's actually anything here before we decide there isn't."

He knows what he should say. He's been doing the math since the car, since she said mid June in the quiet way she said it. He knows what this looks like, the beginning of something, the successful experiment she's predicting, and he knows what comes after that too, what he'd be asking her to sign up for.

___ deserves someone who comes home on a regular basis. Yoongi knows this.

"You know it won't stop there," he says quietly. "If the experiment works."

"I know," she says. "The tour is-" "I know, Yoongi."

"I'm just saying you might-" "I know." She says it gently, firmly, the way she says things when she's already thought them through and doesn't need him to think them through on her behalf. "I'm aware of what I'm suggesting."

He looks at her for a long moment, the way she’s fidgeting with her rings, "Okay," he says.

"Okay?" "One dinner." He holds her gaze. "Before Japan."

She nods once, that's when he looks down.

The height difference from here, standing on the pavement, is… notable. He does the mental calculation of exactly what his mother said and feels the smile coming.

"What," she says immediately. "Nothing." He presses his lips together and fails entirely. "My mother said you were short enough for me."

She stares at him. "She said that."

"Among other things." "Short enough for you," she repeats.

"Her words, not mine" "And what do you think?" He looks down at her from the full, considerable distance of his height, cap crooked, mask around his chin, and says with complete straightness,

"I think she was right."  She laughs brightly and he lets himself smile properly this time, all the way, and for a moment they're just two people standing outside a building at midnight laughing about height and mothers and the specific absurdity of how they got here.

She steps back and looks up at him one last time. "Goodnight, Yoongi." "Goodnight, ___."

She turns and goes inside, the door closing quietly behind her, he stands there a moment longer than he needs to. Reaches up and adjusts his cap.

Gets back in the car and looks at the ceiling for a long moment, the city moving quietly around him.

He knows how this goes. He knows himself well enough to know that one dinner won't be one dinner, that the experiment is going to tell them both exactly what she predicted it would, and that she said I'm aware of what I'm suggesting with the confidence of someone who has never actually done this before. Not with someone like him. Not with a schedule like his.

She'll be realistic about it eventually. Everyone is, eventually. He just hopes she is the anomaly in the experiment that his dating history has been.

"-so you just decided, so young, that music was your calling?" "I didn't decide anything." He turns his glass slightly on the table, a small rotation, thinking about how to explain it to someone who hasn't lived it. "It was more like…the decision had already been made somewhere and I was just catching up to it."

She rests her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, the way she settles in when she's properly interested in something. She's been doing it on and off all evening and he's stopped pretending not to notice. "That's how it feels with the work I love too," she says. "Like you didn't choose it so much as recognize it."

He looks at her. "Exactly that." The restaurant is quiet around them, the kind of quiet that Tuesday buys you, a handful of other tables, low light, no one paying attention to anyone else. 

"Okay," she says, picking up her glass. "Worst part of the job. Honestly." He thinks about it and she waits, turning the stem of her glass between her fingers, patient.

"The losing yourself of it," he says. "Not in a dramatic way. Just…" he pauses. "You're performing a version of yourself for long enough and you start to lose track of where that version ends."

She's quiet for a moment. "Does it come back?" she asks. "The original version."

"I'm still figuring that out." She nods slowly, like she's filing that somewhere careful. Not with pity. He'd noticed pity immediately and she seems to know that. 

"Your turn," he says. "People assume I do this because I come from money," she says, the same even tone she uses for everything. "That it's a hobby dressed up as a career. Something for a well bred woman" She pauses to take a sip of her wine. "I would have done this regardless of the money. The money just meant no one could stop me from starting early."

He nods. That he understands, the specificity of a thing choosing you rather than the other way around. She looks at him for a moment. Something shifts slightly in her expression, a decision being made.

"Can I ask you something personal?" she says. "We’ve been doing that for some time now" Yoongi notes with a light chuckle.

"More personal." He leans back slightly, arms loose. "Okay."

"Do you actually want this? Not the date, not…" she gestures between them. "In general. A person. Do you want one or do you like the idea of wanting one?"

The table goes quiet. He looks at her steadily and she looks back, unhurried, leaving the question exactly where she put it.

"That's a good question," he says. "I know."

He takes a sip of his wine as he prepares to talk, "I miss it," he says simply, like something admitted for the first time in a while, to someone actually listening. "Having a girlfriend. Having someone who… knows your schedule well enough to know when you're tired before you say it. Someone to call when something happens. Good or bad." He pauses. "Someone to just, be there."

She's quiet as she leans in, like she wants him to know she’s listening. "I've told myself that life makes it impossible," he continues. "And it's not untrue. It's hard, it's always been hard." He glances up at her. "But I think I've been using it as a reason not to try. Which is different from it actually being impossible."

"That's honest," she says. "You asked."

"I did." ___ says with a small smile. "Your turn. Same question."

She exhales softly, "Yes," she says, without hesitation, which means she's known it for a while. "I'm not complicated about it. I just want someone, I've always wanted someone." She turns her ring once. "I've just been spectacularly unlucky."

He looks at her., and then her glass, and then the residual of her lipstick on the glass, "Unlucky how?"

She laughs, short and genuine, the kind that comes from a story that has lost its sting and kept its absurdity. "The last person I was serious about decided to move to London for work and forgot to mention it until two weeks before he left." She picks up her fork. "Before that there was someone lovely in every way except that he was still in love with his ex. Which he also didn't mention."

"I have good instincts about art," she continues, "and terrible instincts about men. Which is a very specific combination of traits to be living with” He presses his lips together, like he’s trying to suppress a smile.

"You can laugh," she says. "I'm not laughing."

"You're doing the thing where you're not laughing." He looks away briefly and then back at her, the wine really helping him look at her, "I'm not laughing at you."

"I know." She sets her fork down. "It's tiring, mostly. Being caught off guard by people when you're not someone who gets caught off guard easily."

The table settles into a quiet with something real in it now. The lightness still underneath but something more honest sitting on top as their plates get cleared, signaling a clear end to their date, or at least their time at the restaurant. 

"How's the experiment going," he says, after a moment as he quietly places his card in the bill book.

She looks at him, steady and warm. "Terribly," she says with a pleasant smile.

He smiles into his glass. "Yeah," he says. "Same." Yoongi reaches into his pocket for his mask as they step outside, pulling it up with the practiced ease of someone who has done it ten thousand times, adjusting it once.

The street is empty and still. Tuesday midnight belongs to no one in particular. "I'll walk you home," he says, naturally, already falling into step beside her. “It’s a long walk” ___ retorts as they walk, hands brushing every now and then.

“It’s a two minute walk ___” Yoongi offers plainly as he doesn’t move away. They fall into step together and talk as they walk, nothing important, nothing that needs to be, she says something about a show she's been meaning to see, he says something about a track he's been sitting on for weeks, small things, the kind of conversation that exists just to keep the evening going a little longer.

It’s all light and breezy till they reach a crossing, he reaches out and takes her hand. His hand just finds hers as they step off the curb, the way you do something you've been doing for years. Fingers wrapping around hers, already looking both ways, already moving.

She looks straight ahead, hoping her hair masks some of her blush. They cross, but he doesn't let go.

She doesn't say anything. Neither does he. They just keep walking, her hand in his, and she looks at the street ahead with the expression of someone being very deliberate about not smiling and not quite managing it.

He looks at the building and looks back at her. Her hand still in his, the evening sitting between them with nowhere left to go, he leaves for Japan tomorrow, the night air cool and still around them.

She tilts her head up at him. "Do you want to come up?" she says. "I have dessert. Ice cream" she says as she tries to tug her hand to gesture with her hand, which he doesn’t let go.

He's looking at her with the particular expression she's learning, the one that isn't quite a smile but is adjacent to one, the one that lives mostly in his eyes, quiet and certain and slightly devastating at close range.

"Ice cream," he repeats. "Yes."

"What kind?" "Does it matter?"

He considers this with complete seriousness. "Somewhat."

"Yoongi." "I'm asking a reasonable question-"

"Come upstairs and find out," she says, and turns toward the entrance, and this time he lets her hand go, only to hold the door open for her, which she walks through without looking back at him because her face is still doing the thing and she needs another three seconds before she can be a normal person again.

Her apartment is exactly what he would have guessed and nothing he was fully prepared for.

Organized chaos, the particular kind that has a system even if the system isn't immediately visible. Paintings leaning against the walls in clusters, some framed, some not, some wrapped in brown paper with labels in her handwriting. Books on every surface, some closed, some splayed open face down. Magazines stacked in a way that suggests they're referenced rather than decorative.

It's lived in. Genuinely, thoroughly lived in, and it suits her so precisely. They end up on the sofa without deciding to, the way they keep ending up places without deciding to. Her legs tucked under her, turned slightly toward him. Him at the other end, bowl in hand, looking at the painting propped against the wall directly across from them.

They talk. The ice cream disappears somewhere in the middle of a conversation that moves from her uncle to his producing to a collector in Geneva who cried when she found him a specific work he'd been searching for for eleven years. He tells her about what it feels like when a track finally becomes what it was supposed to be. She listens the way she always listens, fully, without waiting for her turn.

It's past one when his phone lights up on the cushion between them. Mom.

She sees it the same moment he does. He reaches for it. "Pick up her phone," she says sternly, the tone of teasing right there.

"I'm not -" "Do not cut your poor mother’s phone, she might be sick and worried" ___ adds dramatically and he huffs and picks up the call anyway.

"Mom." "Where are you?" She’s wide awake, unbothered by the hour. "You're never out this late, are you sick-" "I'm not sick-"

"Have you eaten?" "I had dinner" "With who-"

___ opens her mouth with that same teasing smile and his hand moves before he's decided to move it, swift, certain, palm covering her mouth completely, cutting off whatever she was about to contribute to this situation as he closes the distance between them.

She goes still as he keeps his eyes forward, continuing the phone call, entirely composed. "With a friend, Mom, I'll be home soon"

___ looks up at him over his hand. She very aware, in the specific silence of having nothing to say because there is a hand preventing her from saying it, of his hands. The size of them. The warmth. The way it covers most of her lower face with a kind of easy certainty that she is finding deeply inconvenient given the current context of a first date and his mother on the phone and her own heartbeat which has made a unilateral decision she hasn't approved.

"You sound strange," his mother says. "I'm fine." 

"Which friend?" "Mom -" ___ raises her eyebrows at him. He finally looks at her, briefly, and whatever he sees makes him look immediately back at the painting on the wall across the room.

His hand stays and she stays still beneath it.

"Come home soon," his mother says. "Soon," he confirms. "Go to sleep"

He hangs up with a huff and neither of them moves. His hand is still there, warm against her face, and the apartment is very quiet around them, the painting on the wall offering no commentary whatsoever.

Slowly, with the careful deliberateness of someone making a considered decision, he lowers it. She looks up at him. He looks back at her, right beside her.

"You were going to say something," he says shyly as his hand comes to rub his neck.

"I was going to be helpful," she says. "You were going to be a problem." "Same thing," she says with a smile, and her hands come up without much deliberation and fix his hair which the sudden movement moved out of place.

He goes very still, not uncomfortable. Just, very still. The way he goes still when something catches him off guard in a way he wasn't prepared to be caught. Her hand drops back down, briefly touching his thigh when she leaves them.

He's looking at her now, properly, the full direct version he allows himself in small increments, and from this close it's a lot. “I didn't expect to have this much fun," he confesses, his voice quieterl, like he's admitting something he hadn't planned to. "Not that I doubted you, I just-" he pauses, choosing the words carefully the way he does, "I haven't been on a first date this good in a while."

He looks at her when he says it, waiting for her reaction with the particular stillness of someone who has said a true thing and is now at the mercy of what happens next.

"I know," she says, and there's warmth in it, no teasing yet, just the honest version first. "I was kind of rooting for you to be this brooding, nonchalant musician, actually. Would have made it all much easier."

"Easier," he repeats. "To not like you," she says simply, reaching for her glass of wine. "I had a whole plan. You'd be aloof and a little difficult and I'd think, well, lovely person, interesting work, not for me." She takes a sip. "Very clean. Very uncomplicated."

"I almost cancelled," he says, after a moment. She raises an eyebrow. "Not because-" he stops, tries again. "I almost talked myself out of it. On the way over." He turns his glass slightly on the table, the small rotation she's noticed he does when he's thinking. "I do that. Find the practical reason not to."

"What changed your mind?" she asks. He's quiet for a moment, looks at the table, at his glass, briefly at her hands where they rest near her wine. “I really liked the feeling of seeing you after the concert," he says. Simply, without dressing it up, the way he says true things when he's decided to say them. He pauses. "I kept thinking about it on the drive over and I couldn't find a practical reason that was bigger than that."

She looks at him for a moment, this careful, deliberate man who thinks before he speaks and means everything he says and had apparently spent an entire car ride arguing with himself about her and lost. "The feeling of seeing me," she repeats, softly.

"Yes," he says. He's looking at her now, noticing how she looks in these dim lights.

They talk for a while, about something and nothing in particular, the night settling into the easy rhythm that has become theirs without either of them formally deciding. She tells him about an artist she'd found earlier in the year, eccentric beyond what that word usually covers, a man who'd moved deep into the woods over concerns about wifi radiation and could only be reached by a forty minute hike up an unmarked trail. "I showed up in the wrong shoes," she says, gesturing at her feet like the memory is still personal. "He didn't apologize. Just handed me a cup of something that tasted like tea and started showing me the work." She pauses. "It was extraordinary. The work, not the tea, the tea made me sick."

He's smiling properly now, elbow on the sofa back, chin in his hand, watching her the way he watches things he finds genuinely interesting. "Did you sign him?" 

"I'm working on it," she says. "He doesn't have a phone so it's mostly letters." A beat. "Actual letters. With stamps." He laughs, low and warm, and she tucks her feet further under her, satisfied.

He talks about tour, stories that surface easily now in the comfortable quiet of her living room, the way they don't always in interviews or in rooms full of people waiting for something quotable. A night in São Paulo where the rain came down so hard they could hear it over the speakers and the crowd stayed anyway, every single person, standing in it. The particular feeling, he says, quieter now, of standing in the wings before a show when everyone is there together, all seven of them, and the noise of the crowd coming through the walls like something alive.

"You miss them," she says, not a question. "It's different performing without all of them," he says simply. "It'll be good to be back."

She looks at him for a moment, the lamp throwing everything soft and warm, his profile against the dark of the window, the city quiet beyond the glass. She's been thinking about something, something which is a lot to ask on a first date, but asks anyway.

"How does it work?" she says. "A relationship. With you on tour." She says it evenly, no weight of accusation in it, just the genuine question, the one that has been sitting underneath the whole evening. "Practically. What does it actually look like?"

He's quiet for a moment, turning his glass slowly.  "A lot of texts," he says. "Voice notes when there's time. Video calls that get cut short because of schedules." He pauses. "Having them fly out for tour dates, as often as I can, as much as they can" He looks at the glass, talking in hypotheticals. 

“The hardest part isn't the being away," he continues. "It's not being there for the small things. The ordinary ones." He glances up at her briefly. "Someone has a bad day and you're in a different timezone and a text isn't the same as being there."

She's quiet for a moment, turning her ring. "No," she agrees. "It isn't."

"I'm not going to pretend it's easy," he says, and she can hear the care in it, the way he's choosing honesty over reassurance because he thinks she deserves the honest version. "It asks a lot of the other person."

"It asks a lot of both people," she says. He looks at her then. "You'd be the one leaving," she continues. "That's not nothing either." He holds her gaze for a moment, something shifting slightly in his expression, like she's said something he hadn't expected to be said. "No," he says quietly. "It's not."

It’s about three am when Yoongi yawns for the first time, ___ chuckles as she stands up, they’ve talked for a while, they could keep going, but he also leaves for the tour tomorrow.

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” ___ asks as she walks over to the kitchen and refills her glass, “Around 7 pm” Yoongi says as he checks his watch, very aware of the time. He stands up, swiftly putting on his jacket.

“I should go, we both have stuff in the morning” He says as he stands awkwardly, he isn’t sure how to say goodbye, or if he even wants to.

“Yeah…yeah we do” The silence that follows is different from the ones before. He shifts slightly, hands sliding into his pockets, then out again, like he can’t quite decide what to do with them.

He’s not usually like this, but there’s something about this, about her, that’s throwing off his usual rhythm.

“Tonight was…” he starts, then stops, he exhales lightly, glancing away for a second before meeting her eyes again. “A successful experiment” ___ adds as she walks over, stopping just a few steps away from him.

“___,” he starts again, quicker this time, like if he hesitates he won’t say it at all. “I’d like to see you again.”

The words land between them, steady but unpolished, so painfully honest. “My life is complicated,” he continues, glancing at her briefly before looking back, like he’s choosing not to hide behind anything. “But I feel like we’ve got something good.”

He pauses there, watching her, trying to read her before he goes any further. He continues quietly, “something real”

For a second, she just looks at him, and then her smile grows. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she admits, closing the small distance between them.

Now they’re close, closer than before, close enough that she can see the growing blush on his face, “Because I was about to say the same thing.”

That catches him off guard, just slightly, his expression shifting to relief and something more warm. “Good,” he says, softer now.

“You know,” she adds lightly, her voice dropping just a little, “for an experiment, this went pretty well.”

“Mm.” “Almost like we should repeat it.”

That earns the faintest hint of a smile from him. “I was planning on it.”

Her eyes flick briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes, the movement subtle and quick, but not quick enough to escape him, and in that fleeting moment something in him settles, something quiet but certain, like a decision finally catching up to a feeling he’s been circling all night.

His hand lifts again, more deliberate this time, coming to rest at her waist, fingers curling slightly as if he’s grounding himself, or maybe holding onto the moment just a little longer, like he’s aware of how easily it could slip past them if he rushes it.

He doesn’t rush, and he doesn’t overthink it either, which for him is saying something, because there’s usually a pause, a calculation, a reason to hold back, but not now.

He stops just short of her, close enough that the space between them feels intentional rather than hesitant, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, to give her the chance to pull away if she wants to, to change her mind, to set the boundary before he crosses it.

But she doesn’t, instead, she closes that last bit of distance herself, leaning in just slightly, just enough to meet him halfway, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

When he kisses her, it’s softer than expected, not because he’s unsure, but because he’s choosing to be careful with it, choosing to let it build rather than take, and there’s something in that restraint that makes it feel more intentional, more real.

Her hand comes up almost immediately, pressing lightly against his chest, not to stop him but to steady herself, or maybe to feel something tangible in the middle of everything that suddenly feels a little too charged, a little too new.

And that’s what shifts it, that simple contact. It deepens the kiss, not dramatically, not all at once, but enough to change it from something tentative into something that lingers, something that holds, something that neither of them seems in a hurry to end.

___ didn’t know how to feel when Yoongi sent her the flight tickets. She isn’t even sure if they’re in a relationship, how does one qualify this as a relationship when it went from a phenomenal first date to flying across continents for the second one.

They’ve been constantly in touch with each other, texting, calling, even video calling a few rare times, each sending pictures from their day, and usually ___ would have classified this as something too difficult for 31 and moved on, but he’s just charmed her. His soft laughter, sending her flowers to the gallery, song samples that he genuinely wants her thoughts on. 

She's found herself laughing into her phone more than she has in recent memory. While she drives to work and he's somewhere between cities, still half asleep, voice low and unhurried. While he eats dinner and she scrapes together a lunch at her desk, their schedules overlapping in whatever small window the timezones allow. The video call where he talked her through using a power drill for twenty minutes with the focused patience of someone who genuinely could not rest until she could hang the paintings in her living room.

___ pushes all the doubts aside as she moves through the airport, it’s still early morning and a significant amount at the San Francisco airport. ___ spots Mr Shin right away, Yoongi’s manager standing there with a warm smile as he waves his hands to greet her. 

"Morning, Ms. Lee." He's quick, stepping forward to take her bag before she's even fully registered the intention. "How was the flight? Did you eat?" "I'm fine, really-" but the bag is already gone, and he's already moving, and she has learned enough about the people in Yoongi's orbit to know that efficiency is a personality trait they share collectively. She falls into step beside him.

The car is black, tinted, parked just beyond the terminal in the kind of spot that suggests someone made a phone call. Mr. Shin rounds the front of it and she follows, and that's when she sees him.

Yoongi is standing on the far side of the car, away from the flow of arrivals, away from the small clusters of people watching the arrivals gate. He's in a cap and a mask, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, she isn’t sure if he’s smiling, but his eyes light up for sure. 

She stops for just a second. Then she keeps walking and he straightens slightly, the way he does when he's trying to look like he wasn't just waiting, and she would tease him about it if her own face wasn't currently doing something she'd prefer it didn't.

"Hi," she says, stopping in front of him. "Hi." His eyes move over her briefly, the way they do, quick and considered. “Long flight?" Yoongi asks, almost instinctively taking the massive handbag from her hand, their fingers brush, the simple touch is enough to wake him up.

“Yeah, there was so much turbulence, I didn’t get a minute's sleep” ___ shares as they stand a few steps away from each other, none of them ready to be bold this morning. “How do you look this beautiful after fourteen hours of no sleep?” Yoongi comments, a compliment filled with genuine curiosity.

___ blinks once. Then she breaks into that familiar laughter, the real one, sudden and unguarded, her hand coming up to hit his arm softly. "That's not-" she starts, still laughing, shaking her head. "You can't just say things like that."

"I'm just asking," he says, and he's smiling now too, the full version, the one that takes over his whole face when he's not paying attention to stopping it. "You're not just asking, you're-" she gestures vaguely at him, at the general situation, at whatever this is, and he watches her do it with quiet satisfaction. 

“Mr Min, we’re ready to leave” Mr Shin speaks before he gets into the driver seat, they’re in the car quickly, ___ is the first to yawn then Yoongi when she laughs again, there isn’t much being said, both of them just glad to be in each other’s presence.

“Is there anything specific you want to do before you fly to LA?” Yoongi asks after three complete minutes of silence, he has five days before their dates in Stanford, but ___ has combined this trip with some work trip.

“Golden gate bridge for sure, lots of coffee” ___ talks as she looks ahead at the GPS, it’s going to be thirty minutes till they reach the hotel, “and eat all the food we can in Chinatown” she turns to face him, Yoongi is currently taking very serious mental notes, hoping he remembers this all. 

"Everything," she adds, because she means it. "Dim sum, noodles, everything." "Everything," he repeats, solemnly, like he's committing it to memory.

The city slides past in the early grey light, the fog sitting low over everything, soft and unhurried. ___'s exhausted in the particular way that crosses the point of feeling like exhaustion and becomes something closer to weightlessness, the fourteen hours and the turbulence and the airport and the adrenaline all catching up at once now that she's finally still.

He's warm beside her, warm and solid and here, actually here, not a voice through a speaker or a name on a screen, and she is tired enough and brave enough that when her head tips sideways and finds his shoulder. 

“Is this the shoulder with the surgery?” ___ snaps out of it, lifting her head slightly just to confirm things. Yoongi is still for a second, "No," he murmurs. His arm comes around her, slow and easy, like it's the most natural thing, settling at her back with a gentleness that she feels all the way through the exhaustion. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi shares a few moments later, knowing she’s fully awake. “Even more glad that you can stay a month” he murmurs softly into her hair as his hand gently rubs her shoulder. Her hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, fingers curling lightly against it, too tired to talk. Yoongi rests his cheek gently against the top of her head and looks at the road ahead with the expression of a man who is trying very hard not to think about how much he already doesn't want this month to end. 

___ feels like a zombie dragging herself, barely awake yet fully awake, full of food, desserts and coffee that they kept stuffing each other with. Yoongi walks back to the park bench, water in hand and he too feels like he’s ready to call quits on the day even if it’s only 6 pm yet. 

“You don’t look too well, do you have a fever?” Yoongi asks as he hands her the bottle, wiping his hand against his jeans before checking her temperature. ___ almost immediately falls into his touch, her eyes closing, her whole body leaning slightly into his hand like she's been needing to rest against something for a while now and this is close enough. 

"I am just-" she starts, then stops, organizing her words with some effort. "I can see how much you've planned, I know you looked things up and I know you had the whole route figured out and I genuinely loved today, all of it, the food and all of it-" she opens her eyes and looks at him, earnest despite the exhaustion, "-but can we just go back to the hotel and sleep." A pause. "You should stay out," she adds, because she means it, "get some air, do something, I just really really need to crash."

He looks at her for a long moment. His hand has moved from her forehead to the back of her neck, resting there lightly, and she hasn't moved away from it. “Let me call a car, we can go to that restaurant some other time” he whispers mostly to himself as ___ sighs with relief, going back to resting against the bench back. 

“I promise I’ll be a lot more fun tomorrow morning, I just need to sleep” ___ mumbles and Yoongi can’t help but be fascinated by this new side to her, the extremely exhausted that makes her whiny. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" he asks, looking at her sideways, and his arm comes around her naturally, his hand finding her far shoulder and drawing her back toward him, her head settling against him with the ease of something practiced.

"I hadn't seen you in so long," she says finally, her voice quiet and honest, the filter that exhaustion removes making everything simpler. "I didn't want to waste time sleeping."

He goes still, not visibly, not in any way she'd catch in the state she's in, but something in him just stops for a moment and sits with that. “Please just tell me the next time you’re too tired” Yoongi pleads as a car rolls in, hoping it’s theirs.

"Come on," he says gently, standing and bringing her with him, his hand steady at her back. She goes without complaint, leaning into his side, and he keeps his arm around her as they walk toward the car, her steps slow and his matching them without thinking about it. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything? Room service? Have food picked up?” Yoongi talks as he swipes the key card, “I can’t, I feel nauseous already” ___ answers with great delay as she picks up the pace, walking up to it but struggling to open it.

“Need any help?” Yoongi asks and ___ simply nods walking to the washroom, she is optimizing the time, going straight to washing up while Yoongi finds her pyjamas. He helps her out, wiping her face that she left damp, helping her remove her rings and watch, and is almost fascinated by the speed in which she gets into bed. 

Yoongi slips into bed approximately twenty minutes later, hoping she’s already asleep and it seems to be true until she stirs towards him. “I am so sorry” ___ mumbles and Yoongi’s eyebrows knit as she moves even closer, or he does, Yoongi’s not sure.

“___ you flew across continents for me, you’re allowed to be tired” Yoongi speaks softly, pushing some of her hair behind her ear. “I know, it’s just that I thought we’d be having sex and instead we’re falling asleep at 6 pm” she speaks against his arm and something in his chest does a complicated thing and he presses his lips together and looks at the ceiling for a moment, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and quiet and completely helpless, the kind that sneaks up on him. 

“We have an entire month” Yoongi reassures her, he isn’t sure what the move is, this is technically their second date, but he also wants to cuddle her, maybe even kiss her if he could be just a bit braver. “I counted, and with your work and mine, we only have 17 days together”

He pulls her in, properly, his arm coming around her, and she goes without stirring, fitting against him with the ease of something that has been doing this for years instead of days.

"Seventeen days is a lot," he says softly, into her hair. She makes a small sound, almost agreement, almost already dreaming. “We can still have a lot of fun, just tell me the next time you’re tired like this" he says, quieter now, his head leaning down but ___ seems to be fast asleep against his chest. 

Yoongi has rules about this sort of thing. No sleeping in the same bed before the fifth date. No inviting someone on tour before you're actually together. No cuddling before, he looks down at her, well.

He looks back at the ceiling. The rules were built for a specific kind of situation. A careful, sensible situation where feelings arrived in an orderly fashion. The rules had not accounted for ___ specifically, which in retrospect was a significant oversight in the design.

He exhales slowly, a bit scared of how much he’s already feeling but also very excited but it all, no one has been like her, she’s truly the anomaly to the experiment. 

“Come here, we should take pictures together as well” ___ gestures towards Yoongi who turns towards his security personnel with her phone. She’s banned pictures on his samsung, something about them just not looking right. Yoongi jogs beside her, the sun peaking through the golden gate bridge, the soft morning glow on her face, he can’t help but smile.

“You look very pretty in the morning” Yoongi compliments her, posing awkwardly beside each other. “You think I look pretty after a 14 hour flight, I don’t trust you” ___ teases as she shifts closer, the security guard continuing to take pictures.

“Well you’re always pretty to me,” Yoongi continues nonchalantly, like this is the most natural thing in the world, ___’s blush growing deeper. “Am I just that, arm candy Yoongi-si?” ___ teases as she looks up at him.

“Well that, also you're so terrifyingly confident and smart, so kind,” Yoongi says, his fingers intertwining with hers. “Wow, I’m arm candy for BTS’s Suga, I’ve finally made it in life” ___ jokes, mostly because she doesn’t want to process the other compliments he gave her.

"Okay," the security guard calls out, "I think I got some good ones." "Thank you," ___ calls back, and her voice only wavers slightly. Yoongi squeezes her hand once, still not looking at her, and starts back down the path, pulling her gently with him, away from the rocky terrain, his grip sure and unhurried.

“So, you fly to LA tomorrow morning?” Yoongi confirms as he drys his hair, he finds ___ staring at her phone intently, like she’s overanalysing something. “___?” he calls her again, walking closer. Yoongi sees her shuffling through the pictures from the golden gate bridge, stuck at one particular one where he’s looking at her instead of facing forward.

He sits down on the edge of the bed beside her. She looks up at him, then at the photo, then back at him. "What are we?" she asks. Not confrontational, not loaded, just genuinely asking, the way she asks things she actually wants answered.

He looks at her with the expression of someone who finds the question slightly puzzling. "What do you mean?" "I mean-" she gestures between them, "us. This. What is this."

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, simply, with complete confidence, the way he'd say something obvious, like the name of a street or the time of a flight. Then he tilts his head slightly, reading her face. "Was that not clear?"

She stares at him, “___ I begged you to join me for the tour, why would I do that? I didn't think we were dating?” Yoongi speaks, the towel coming up to her hair to dry it instead. “So, you’ve not brought girls around when they were just a fling?” ___ deflects again, teasing now that she’s gotten the answer she’s wanted.

“No” he says, flatly, no elaboration, the kind of no that closes a door completely. He keeps drying her hair, unbothered, and she lets him, looking up at him from where she's sitting, close enough now to see everything his face is doing in the quiet of the room. 

“Did you really think we were a fling or something, what’s it called now?” Yoongi stops to think for a second, “A situationship?” his amused tone is not helping the laughter escaping ___, her falling flat on the bed. 

“You grandpa, how do you know what that even is?” “Jungkook’s love live is complicated” Yoongi answers, pulling her up, but ___ just pulls him with her. She reaches up and pushes his damp hair back from his forehead, slow and deliberate, and he stays completely still beneath it, watching her, and when she doesn't move her hand away he turns his head slightly into it, just barely, just enough.

The kiss starts soft and then doesn't stay that way, his hand finding her waist, pulling her closer with the quiet certainty of someone who has wanted to do this all day and has run out of reasons not to. She goes willingly, her fingers curling into his shirt, unbuttoning his shirt almost immediately as his hands wander, his fingers running the length of her thighs, stopping just to pull her back up.

“Hey, you can’t do that” ___ complaints as Yoongi successfully makes her stand up, they have dinner reservations with the members in less than thirty minutes. “What? I didn’t do anything?” Yoongi answers with great restraint, knowing exactly what he just pulled.

“You know exactly what you just did Mr Min” ___ whines, going back to getting ready, very slowly putting on each piece of jewellery. “I kinda like being called Mr Min” Yoongi confesses as he watches her though the mirror, and the devious smile that immediately graces her lips scares him a bit. 

“Oh, do you Mr. Min?” ___ teases turning around, her blouse coming off in one swift motion. She's looking at him with the expression of a woman who has just evened a score and knows it, perfectly composed, completely unbothered. 

He looks at her, at the blouse on the floor, at her as she snaps off her bra in one swift motion, just standing there in a mini-skirt. "That's not fair," Yoongi mutters weakly, his eyes trailing all over her, clearly losing this as ___ pushes him back onto the bed. 

"Isn't it?" she says pleasantly, her hands moving quickly to unbutton his trousers. “How about, for the little move you pulled earlier, I just do this for a second and get dressed again?” ___’s voice is low as her hands rub against his bulge. 

“That’s just mean” Yoongi whines, propping himself against his arm, completely helpless to her whims as her soft hands wander, pulling his briefs low, “No what’s meaner is you pulling away after making me think you’re going to finger me” ___ complaints as Yoongi lets out a soft moan, her hand rubbing down his length.

“I am so sorry okay, but please keep going” Yoongi barely gets the words out as ___ gently kisses his tip. “Now what should we do, should I suck your dick or should we get dressed for dinner?” ___ knows they’re not making dinner when Yoongi moans a quiet please. 

Yoongi’s phone is going off on the nightstand, as Yoongi pulls ___ back to the bed, she’s spent far too much time on her knees and he needs to be inside her. “Darling you are so wet already” Yoongi murmurs in her ears as his nimble fingers rub in a circle. “Stop fucking teasing me” ___ whines, pushing his fingers inside her.

___’s breathless, so close to climax as Yoongi’s fingers keep going in a steady motion, no matter how much she wants, he refuses to pick up the pace, taking his sweet time. His phone rings just as ___ is shaking in his arms, the waves of orgasm sending shockwaves through her but Yoongi just keeps going.

Yoongi sighs with frustration as his phone rings once again, “Stay quiet, just for a minute” Yoongi mumbles, his fingers still going as ___ kisses his neck just to keep quiet. “Jimin-ah, we can’t make it, ___’s sick” Yoongi talks with a devious smile on his lips as ___ takes a sharp breath.

“Hyung be better with the excuses at least,” Jimin teases and Yoongi chuckles, “I swear, she’s not well, she’s been in bed all evening” Yoongi talks and ___ lightly bites his neck, so close once again. 

“Alright, if she’s sick, I hope she feels better” Jimin talks and all Yoongi does is hum as he ends the call. “You’re going to leave a hickey” Yoongi complains but ___ just cradles in his lap, facing him now, quickly putting on a condom.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped to pick up a call” ___ continues biting where she was as Yoongi thrusts inside her, the motion sending her in a frenzy as he just keeps going, slow and soft. “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken off your top” Yoongi teases, steadying her in his arms, the glow on her face, how her hair keeps sticking everywhere, he could get used to this view.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have teased-” ___ stops talking as Yoongi picks up the pace, arching back with pleasure, Yoongi’s takes a sharp breath, “Are you close, I am so-” Yoongi nods, biting her lower lip, kissing her rapidly as they orgasm. ___’s limbs give out, both of them falling back into bed. 

She reaches up and traces the line of his jaw lightly, just because she can, just because she's allowed to now, and he closes his eyes briefly beneath it.  “I don’t think I can walk Mr Min” ___ teases, pulling the sheets over herself. “You are beautiful” Yoongi notes as he turns to face her, her cheeks still flush as they both continue to catch their breaths.

“So are you” ___’s voice is uncharacteristically shy as he pulls the sheet even higher, “I am beautiful?” Yoongi teases, his breath finally even. “Yes, you’re also so buff, where did those arms come from?” ___ talks, running a hand over her heart, trying to calm herself down. 

“Are you okay? Just give me a few seconds and I’ll get you some water” Yoongi mumbles, tucking her hair away, it’s gotten significantly longer since the first time he saw her, reaching her shoulders now. “I am fine, but you were great, really” ___ talks, shuffling closer till she’s firmly resting against his chest. 

“And you are so evil, but also so amazing, taking off your top and we just derail our evening like this” Yoongi talks and he can feel her laughing before he hears it. He pauses and looks down at the top of her head. "I had a plan for this evening," he continues..

She tilts her chin up to look at him, her eyes still warm with laughter, her cheek pressed against his chest. "Was this better than the plan?"

He meets her eyes. Looks away and looks back. "Don't," he says. "Was it?" "You're so smug," he tells her.

"Yoongi-si" "Significantly better than the plan," he admits, quietly, which is the most she's going to get and she knows it and takes it anyway, her smile pressing into his chest as she settles back down. His hand keeps moving at her back, slow and easy.

___ goes around the apartment, picking up after herself. She really needs a cleaning lady or move because the mess around her apartment has only grown over the last six months. Her job’s always involved some travel, with a boyfriend on tour she’s been away even more and she doesn’t even remember the last time she was in the guest room.

___’s also cleaning because Yoongi is finally going to be back at home for a month, and the last time he was here he spent half the time helping her clean. She dials his number as she moves through laundry, but when the call doesn’t go through she just assumes he’s flying home, the last concert before the break was yesterday morning.

Yoongi: I’ve sent a few desserts your home as consolation for not being there to celebrate your birthday tonight, he should be there in 20ish minutes

Yoongi: Are you even home?

___: I am home, I’m not feeling the best and my apartment needed some TLC

___: You didn’t have to send anything, you’ll be here tomorrow anyway

Yoongi: Not feeling well? Oh, the first week of the month… you absolutely need desserts

___: Are you tracking my period?

___: It’s kinda cute but I don’t think I ever told you that explicitly?

Yoongi: We started fighting around the same day each month and I connected the dots

___: Are you saying that I pick pointless fights around my birthday? Because that’s rude

Yoongi: Darling, last month we fought about if a window should be opened or not and then you cried when I very gently explained why it needs to be opened for airflow

___: This feels like we’re fighting about a fight, am I that irrational on my period?

Yoongi: I don’t care, all those hormonal changes and pain would make anyone irrational

Yoongi: Just rest till the desserts arrive, I kinda like organizing your mess

___: It’s not my mess, it’s organized chaos

Yoongi: An organized mess where I can’t find the salt in the kitchen

___: okay, it’s a mess

___ goes back to cleaning when her phone doesn’t buzz for a while, Yoongi must have gotten busy with something, so does she as he hauls her laundry over the sofa. She’s mid-folding when the bell rings, for a woman living alone she should have checked through the peephole before swinging the door open.

But she’s kinda glad she didn’t, because the sheer surprise she feels at the view of her boyfriend standing outside with flowers and his carry-on dropped to his feet. “Surprise!” he musters up all his energy for that, engulfing her in a tight hug as he finally takes a deep breath.

“Oh my god, I thought you were flying tomorrow?” ___ talks into his jacket, momentarily lifting her face, only to be hugged tighter. “I didn’t want to arrive tomorrow and be groggy and tired on your birthday” Yoongi talks into her hair, taking a long whiff of her hair. 

“So you flew directly after the concert?” “Who cares about the logistics, the important thing is that I am here” Yoongi talks as he finally detaches, taking a long look at her as he smiles widely. ___ intertwines their hands, leading him in and giving him approximately two seconds to drop all his stuff before she holds his face, it’s been too long since they’ve kissed. 

"I missed you so-" she says between kisses, soft and unhurried, her thumbs against his jaw, "-so much, and I love you so so much and you're like the best boyfriend ever-"

He makes a sound against her mouth that is warm and amused and tired all at once, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer with the ease of something practiced, and she can feel him smiling into the kiss which makes her smile too, which makes kissing considerably more difficult and neither of them minds.

"Best boyfriend ever," he repeats, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eyes barely open from exhaustion, red rimmed from the flight and the concert and the night in between. "I also did a bunch of shopping for you at duty free. Does that get me any brownie points?” Yoongi asks his eyes trailing down the white dress she always wears just at home.

His eyes trail down the white dress she always wears at home, the one he's come to associate with her off days, her genuinely-at-rest days, the version of her that exists only in her own apartment with no clients to see and nowhere to be.

"Honey, baby, sugar plum buttercup-" she takes his face in her hands again, very seriously, "-that gets you so many brownie points, but you have got to stop spending so much money on me." She pushes her hair out of her face with one hand, still not used to the new cut, the layers falling everywhere, doing whatever they want.

"Why?" Yoongi says. He pouts, she's too busy dealing with the direct effect of it. "I have too much money to spend in a lifetime. I should spoil my girlfriend after being away for so long."

"Yoongi-" "Six weeks," he says. "Six weeks, one day, and-" he checks some internal calculation, "-about fourteen hours."

She stares at him. "You counted." "I'm just saying the math supports the duty free shopping." He reaches up and pushes the layered hair from her face himself, tucking it behind her ear the way he always does, watching it fall forward again immediately. His hand stays at her jaw. "I like the haircut."

"It does whatever it wants," she says, slightly mournfully. "I know." He tucks it back again, pointlessly. "I like it." She looks at him, at the exhaustion and the pout and the hand at her jaw and the duty free bags presumably somewhere in the carry-on she hasn't let him unpack yet, and she thinks that she has been thoroughly swooned by a man who is barely conscious.

"You're impossible," she says. "I love you” Yoongi states simply, the same way he did earlier this year in Paris. He just blurted it out one morning while leaving for rehearsal, never making a big deal out of it, like it was the most natural thing for him to say.

“Are you sure that you want to go on a trip before the last leg of the tour? You’ll be exhausted from travelling by then?” ___ talks through her airpod, her phone still somewhere in her purse as she continues to get the gallery ready for an event. 

“We haven’t just gone on a vacation just for us, it’s always been us trying to piece together a few days between the tour, that’s not a real vacation” Yoongi retorts as he sits down to get ready for the first Bangkok show. “There must be somewhere you want to go?” He continues already having shortlisted a few options.

“Oh this client last week was telling me about this amazing Maldives resort he went to, it’s so beautiful and private” ___ talks, fixing a few frames that still need to be put up. “He? Are you sure he was telling or was he offering?” Yoongi teases and ___ sighs. “I work in art, Yoongi,” ___ says. “Do you know how many men have tried to flirt with me by explaining private islands?”

He huffs out a laugh, the one that always sounds slightly disbelieving, like amusement caught him off guard. She can picture it immediately despite not being able to see him, head tipped back slightly in the makeup chair, phone balanced in one hand while someone fixes his hair.

“And?” he asks. “And what?” “Did the resort at least look nice?”

“Oh, unbelievable.” She bends to pick up a stack of exhibition cards from the floor. “White sand. Crystal water. Villas with pools bigger than my apartment.”

“See?” he says immediately. “You want to go.” She smiles despite how much they shouldn’t do this.  “I want to sleep,” she corrects. “You’ll be exhausted, I’ll probably have three openings back to back by then, and we’ll spend the entire trip unconscious.”

“You know,” he says after a moment, quieter now as the backstage noise fades slightly, “I think I miss you best when I’m tired.” Her hands still briefly over the stack of cards.

It’s such a Yoongi sentence, not dramatic or casual. Just honest in that careful devastating way he has. “What does that even mean,” she asks softly.

“I don’t know.” She hears movement, fabric shifting, maybe him leaning back in the chair. “When I’m busy I can ignore it because everything’s moving all the time. Schedules, rehearsals, flights. But when I get tired enough that my brain finally shuts up a little…” A pause. “You’re kind of the first thing I look for.”

“Honey you can’t just say stuff like that when I miss you like crazy” ___ speaks softly, all she wants is to see him, feel him, she’s just been missing him. Something in his chest pulls tight in that quiet painful way longing sometimes does when it lands at the wrong time of day. 

“Yesterday I was walking back home and all these couples were out,” she continues, absentmindedly straightening a stack of gallery brochures as she talks. “Getting dinner, holding hands, arguing about where to go, normal boring couple things.” A small laugh escapes her. “And I just kept wishing you were there.”

He looks down at the floor for a second. There’s always a specific kind of helplessness that comes with tour. He’s learned to live with it, mostly. The missing, the leaving, the constant temporary nature of things. 

“What would we have been doing?” he asks quietly. She smiles immediately at the question, hearing what it really is beneath it. 

“Probably arguing.” “About?”

“You refusing to let me smoke.” “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“You sound eighty years old.” “You cough for three business days afterward.”

“That’s not the point.” She walks toward the back office, lowering her voice instinctively once she’s away from the staff. “Maybe we’d stop for tteokbokki.”

“You always want tteokbokki at night.” “Because it tastes better at night.”

“That’s scientifically untrue.” She laughs softly, and he feels some invisible tension in himself ease at the sound. “And then,” she continues, settling into the fantasy now, “you’d insist on walking me home even though your place is in the opposite direction.”

“I would.” “I know.” Her voice gentles around the words. “That’s the problem.”

The thing about Yoongi is that he loves in practical ways first. Walking someone home. Buying three coffees because he doesn’t know which one they like. Remembering flight times. Sending weather screenshots. Calling managers to make impossible schedules work. But distance makes practical love difficult. 

Distance leaves him with words instead, and he’s still learning what to do with those. “I miss you too,” he says finally, the sentence low and steady and entirely unprotected. “More than I thought I would.” 

___ leans back against the desk behind her, eyes closing briefly. “Come home soon,” she murmurs.

There’s a long pause on his end, “I’m trying,” he says quietly, and she can hear the exhaustion underneath it now, the real one he saves mostly for her. “I think if I stay away from you much longer I’m going to start doing irrational things.”

She smiles immediately. “Like?” Another pause, she can practically hear him debating whether to say it.

“Looking at apartments closer to your gallery.” Her breath catches before she can stop it. Yoongi rubs his arm, not knowing if he’s said something utterly stupid, “Something for us maybe, I’ve just made one search” he continues honestly and ___ can’t help the tears welling in her eyes. 

On the other end Yoongi immediately notices the quiet stretching too long. “Hey,” he says softly, sitting up properly now. “I didn’t mean it like-” He rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly uncertain. “I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, I thought it’d be easier if I was closer to your gallery and then-”

He stops himself, he’s rambling. Which she’s realizing is rare enough from him that it almost makes her cry harder. “It was stupid,” he says quickly, already retreating from the admission. “Forget I said anything.”

___ lets out a wet laugh despite herself, shaking her head immediately even though he can’t see it.

“No,” she says quietly. “No, don’t do that.” He goes still. There’s noise around him again now, staff moving in and out, someone asking about wardrobe changes, but he’s listening to her so fully it’s almost tangible through the phone.

“I just…” She exhales shakily, pressing the heel of her hand briefly against her eyes. “You caught me off guard.”

“With the apartment thing?” “Yes, Yoongi, with the apartment thing,” she says with a laugh threaded through the emotion now. “You can’t casually mention moving in together while I’m actively suffering from how much I miss you”

He thinks about all the versions of them that exist lately only in transition. Her half asleep face on facetime at two in the morning while he’s eating room service in another timezone. Her voice breaking apart through bad hotel wifi. Him landing in Seoul already calculating how many hours they get before one of them leaves again.

This, exactly, was why he didn’t want a girlfriend. Not because he didn’t want love. Because he knew what happened when love had to survive logistics. Because somewhere deep down he understood that eventually another person would have to start structuring their loneliness around his schedule.

He drags a hand slowly over his mouth. “I used to think,” he talks carefully, “that if I never let myself really build something serious then maybe I could avoid doing this to someone.” A small humorless laugh escapes him. “Very logical solution. Very emotionally healthy.”

“Yoongi…” “No, it’s true.” He rubs at his arm absently now, exhaustion making him honest in that dangerous way it always does. “I know what this life feels like from the inside. I know how disappointing it can be sometimes.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Missing birthdays. Leaving dinners early. Watching someone you love get used to being alone.”

The gallery office suddenly feels too small around her. Because she can hear it now beneath everything he’s saying. Not fear of commitment, but the fear of becoming absent.

“I remember telling my mother I didn’t have time for a girlfriend,” he says quietly, a faint disbelieving smile touching his voice now. “And I meant it. I really did.” He pauses. “I think I thought wanting someone badly enough would just make the impossible parts hurt more.”

“And does it?” she asks softly. The room goes quiet on his end for a moment. “Yes,” he says honestly. Then, after a beat, “But not having you hurts more.”

The tears come properly then, silent and immediate. ___ presses her hand harder against her eyes, breathing out a shaky laugh because of course this is happening on a Thursday afternoon between exhibition setups. 

“I have to do math before I can even talk to you.” A wet laugh escapes ___. “Do you know how romantic it is calculating if your boyfriend is conscious?” That finally pulls a real laugh out of him, tired and warm and aching around the edges.

But she hears it fade quickly, because they’re both thinking the same thing now. How much work this is. How much wanting each other has become an active sustained effort. “That’s the part I didn’t expect,” Yoongi says after a while, quieter now. “How easy it would be to keep choosing you anyway.” 

___’s hand almost absentmindedly plays with the pendant Yoongi got her for her birthday, “Yoongi,” she says softly. “Mm?” “I love you.” The words leave her gently.

On the other end of the line he goes completely still. ___ keeps turning the pendant slowly between her fingers, eyes fixed on nothing now. “I love you when I’m exhausted and irritated and calculating timezones,” she admits quietly. “I love you when I’m angry at tour for taking you away from me.” A shaky breath leaves her. “I love you even when this feels impossible sometimes.”

His chest aches so sharply it almost feels like fear, not of her loving him. Of how badly he loves her back. Because Yoongi has spent most of his adult life believing love had to fit around ambition carefully or it would break beneath it. That eventually someone would ask him to choose. 

“I think,” she says softly, almost smiling through the tears now, “that’s how I know it’s real.”

He lowers his head briefly, eyes shut, he wishes she were here so badly it physically hurts. Wishes he could pull her into his lap and bury his face into her neck and stay there until this terrible restless homesick feeling finally settled. 

“You can’t say that right before I go on stage,” he says finally, voice rougher now. A soft laugh escapes her immediately. “I love you too, I love you in hotel rooms,” he murmurs. “In airports. Half asleep. Fully stressed. I love you enough that I catch myself looking for things to bring back for you in every country now.” A faint breath of a laugh. “Which is deeply embarrassing.”

Her eyes close tightly. “And I think…” He pauses, searching for the words carefully now because he wants to get this right. “I think loving you stopped feeling temporary a long time ago.” That one nearly undoes her completely.

“Hyung? Are you okay?” Jimin asks as they are once again leaving the airport, Yoongi quietly mumbles a no as they shuffle inside the car. “It’s been an exhausting tour, ___ and I had this big fight last week about something so stupid and god am I tired” Yoongi confesses as the car moves around the highway.

“What happened?” Jimin asks quietly. Yoongi lets out a humorless breath through his nose. “She fell asleep waiting for my call.” Jimin winces immediately. “Ouch.” “Yeah.”

“I know this life is hard,” he says after a while. “I knew it before we started dating. I just…” He laughs once bitterly under his breath. “I think I underestimated what it feels like when the person waiting for you is someone you actually can’t stand disappointing.”

Jimin watches him carefully for a moment. Yoongi has always carried guilt strangely. Quietly. Internally. Like he believes if he absorbs enough of it himself nobody else will have to. “I hate this part,” Yoongi murmurs eventually. “The feeling that no matter how hard I try, eventually my schedule still wins.” 

“Hyung,” he says softly, “you know what’s different though?” Yoongi glances at him tiredly. “You’re talking like someone who’s trying to keep her.” Jimin shrugs lightly. “Not someone looking for a way out.”

They’re quiet for the rest of the ride, Yoongi contemplating how he’s going to make it up to her, what he’s going to say. He almost dozes off till he’s being gently shrugged by Jimin, something about them being there. 

Yoongi steadies his bag as Jimin nudges his rib cage, hard. “___?” Yoongi can make her out of just her shadow as she leans against a car, they had discussed this a few weeks ago, he just didn’t expect her to be here after whatever yesterday was.

“What are you doing here?” She shrugs one shoulder lightly, though her eyes are already glassy in the parking lot lights.

“I wasn't going to show up just because we fought?” Something inside him breaks instantly at how simple she makes it sound. Yoongi looks down briefly, jaw tightening hard enough that she realizes suddenly he’s trying very seriously not to cry. 

“You shouldn’t have driven this late,” he murmurs instead because it’s safer than saying what he actually wants to say right now. “You shouldn’t have fought with me from another continent,” she replies softly.

That finally pulls a real breathless laugh out of him and then neither of them can really hold the distance anymore. Yoongi drops his bag carelessly onto the pavement just as she reaches him, and the second his arms wrap around her he exhales so deeply it almost sounds painful. Like his body’s been waiting to do that for days.

“I don’t want to say sorry because stuff like that might happen again and I can’t lie to you” Yoongi speaks truthfully. “I know,” she says quietly.

Yoongi’s expression shifts faintly at that, like he wasn’t entirely expecting this. “I just…” He exhales shakily, forehead dropping briefly against hers now. “I need you to know I’m never not trying.” His voice lowers. “Even when I get it wrong.”

“You know what the worst part is?” she murmurs softly. “What?” “I wasn’t even angry because of the phone call.” His hands tighten around her waist slightly. “I was angry because I missed you so much already.” A weak laugh escapes her. “And then I had to miss you disappointed too.”

Because that’s exactly what yesterday felt like, not conflict, longing with nowhere to go. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against hers, eyes closing briefly. “I hate that you cry because of me.” “You also make me very happy because of you,” she whispers immediately.

“That grammar was terrible.” “I’m emotional.” A tired laugh slips out of him then, quieter now, warmer. God, he missed this too. The way she can pull him back toward something lighter before he disappears too far into guilt.

“Now kiss and make up,” Jimin calls as he walks backwards toward his building entrance, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder. “I can’t take brooding Yoongi hyung anymore. He’s been unbearable all week.”

Yoongi sighs deeply without even looking at him. “Please go inside.” “I’m serious,” Jimin says, grinning now. “He kept staring out the van window like a divorced father.” ___ laughs against Yoongi’s shoulder immediately, the sound finally pulling a reluctant smile onto his face too.

“And he snapped at me because I asked if he wanted ramyeon.” “You asked me three times.”

“Because you looked emotionally unwell.” Yoongi shakes his head tiredly as Jimin snickers to himself. “Anyway,” Jimin says, swiping the card to the building gate, “fix him please”

Then a softer, fond voice follows, “You look better already, hyung.” And with that he disappears inside, leaving the two of them alone again beneath the parking lot lights. The silence settles differently now.

___ brushes her thumb lightly beneath his eye before speaking quietly. “Your parents are still on vacation, right?” He nods once slowly. “They left for Jeju yesterday, come home with me,” he says quietly. Yoongi’s hand slides up slowly into her hair, fingers curling gently at the base of her neck before he pulls her toward him and kisses her like he’s been hungry for her. 

His mouth soft against hers as he exhales shakily into the kiss, shoulders finally loosening beneath her hands for what feels like the first time since he landed. “You know,” he murmurs softly, voice rough with exhaustion and affection both, “I think this is the longest week of my life.”

She smiles faintly, brushing her nose against his. “Good thing you’re home now.” His eyes close briefly at that. Home, not Seoul, not the apartment, her.

And maybe that’s the thing that feels different tonight. Not just relief. Not just surviving another stretch of distance. The tour is over. For the first time in months there isn’t another flight looming somewhere ahead of them. No countdown ticking quietly in the background. No rehearsals stealing entire weeks before they can properly settle into each other again. Their first anniversary is in two weeks.

“You’ve been living like this all this time, what do you need a walk in closet for?” ___ complains as she walks around the dimly lit closet, admiring his watch collection. “Come on, lets go to bed” Yoongi whines from behind her, his arms loosely wrapped around her, he’s been clingy like this since they got inside the apartment.

“I have a meeting set with a realtor next week, you sure you still want to live with me, I never put away my laundry” ___ speaks as they finally slip into bed. Yoongi turns toward her immediately.

There’s barely a second of hesitation before he moves closer automatically, arm sliding around her waist underneath the blankets until she’s tucked against his chest like that’s where she’s been sleeping forever. “I’ve seen your apartment,” he murmurs sleepily into her hair. “It’s a mess”

She gasps softly. “That is unbelievably rude.” “You own a chair entirely dedicated to clothes.”

“It’s an organizational system.” “It’s a fabric mountain.” ___ laughs under her breath as he presses a lazy kiss against her shoulder.

“Are you sure about moving in together? We might not tour this year but there might be times when I’m still away?” Yoongi asks as he trails kisses downward. “Yes I am sure” ___ replies confidently as Yoongi bites her boob, knowing exactly where this is going. 

“Aren’t you tired?” ___ investigates as Yoongi mumbles a no, removing her slip dress in one go. She doesn’t get an answer. What she does get is Yoongi softly biting her nipple as she arches back. “Another perk of living together, we can have sex any time we want, anywhere we want” Yoongi says as his hand fondles her soft breast, the other hand trailing south.

“We can do it against the glass like we did in Maldives,” she murmurs. That finally pulls a real reaction out of him.

Yoongi groans softly into her skin, forehead dropping briefly against her chest like the memory alone exhausted him all over again. “You almost killed me that night.”

“You were very enthusiastic.” “You wore that bikini on purpose.” A faint smug smile appears on her face. “Maybe.” He looks up at her then, hair messy, eyes dark and sleepy and impossibly affectionate all at once.

Yoongi shuffles around the kitchen looking for a snack, all the fridge has is leftovers and fruit. He settles on an apple as he continues to wash it for a little too long, too lazy to do the whole peeling and cutting thing.

___: Why’d you leave this morning in such a hurry? Waking up all by myself is no fun

His phone pings and he stops mid-way, typing a response immediately, a ghost of a smile appearing the second her name appears. He exhales softly through his nose, drying his hand absently against his shirt as he types back. 

Yoongi: I told you, my dad had a doctors appointment, he won’t tell but he wanted me there

Yoongi: I am sorry, I can make up by coming over tonight and not leaving in the morning

___: I have a thing, might not come home

Yoongi: What thing?

___: Work thing

Yoongi: That’s very vague, but okay, I’ll see you on Saturday then? Can we go shopping?

“Who are you talking to smiling like that?” his mother shouts from the other end of the living room, startling him, almost into dropping his phone. It’s been a year and he’s successfully kept a lid on this relationship, the less she knows the better.

“No one, the guys are being funny in the group chat? Where are you off too?” he asks as his mother continues putting on her earrings.

“It’s the Lee’s 40th wedding anniversary and I thought I might bring them something, and ___ is going to be there” he stills not very noticeably, “I just love her,” his mother continues, completely unaware, stepping back into the kitchen to grab the baked goods she ordered earlier. “Too bad you never went out with her.”

He almost chokes on his own breath, covering it with a cough. “…Yeah,” he mutters, because what else is he supposed to say to that?

But his mind is already moving. So, ___ is in the same building as him and didn’t even tell him, is this why she won’t be coming home tonight? The wheels in his brain are going, a smirk almost appearing, “Maybe I also come with you, I was pretty rude last time when I didn’t visit them?”

“When?” she asks almost absentmindedly, forgetting that afternoon completely. “The time you tried to, you know what, I am going to change, wait for me”

Yoongi scrambles around, picking out a soft blue shirt and tucking it in almost instinctively. He fixes his hair next, more carefully than he’ll admit, adjusting it once, then again, like he’s trying to make it look like he didn’t try at all. 

“Why do you even want to come, you’re usually not interested in my friends at all?” his mother questions from outside his room, watching him contemplate between two belts. 

“That’s not true, you remember when I sent flowers for your friend Mrs Song?” “You didn’t send them, I did” she retorts almost immediately, “Well, I paid for them” he shoots back, not missing a beat. 

He tightens the belt, exhaling softly through his nose before grabbing his watch, fastening it around his wrist with a little more care than usual. “I’m just being polite,” he adds, tone deliberately casual, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. “You said it yourself, I was rude last time.”

His mother leans against the doorframe now, watching him more closely. “You didn’t care about being rude last time.” “Well, as I grow older, I am trying to be a better person, come on” he walks right past her, she nods her head in confusion but decides to go along with it anyway.

Yoongi wouldn’t admit it, but he’s nervous. Things have been going well, too well. They move in together in a month, all their free time is being spent decorating their new home. The next natural steps would be to meet the parents, something he’s never done. “Stop fidgeting” his dad comments as he continues to fiddle around with his collar, the shirt suddenly suffocating him.

Yoongi spends the entire elevator ride thinking of what he’s going to say, which isn’t a long time to prepare for something this monumental. What exactly is he supposed to say? Hello, surprise, I’ve secretly been dating your daughter for over a year and we accidentally bought an apartment together?

His mother rings the bell before he can spiral further. The door swings open almost immediately, to his relief it’s ___.  For one beautiful second her face lights up instinctively at the sight of him. Then she notices his parents standing there and immediately freezes.

“Oh! Hi, um” ___ stammers, fixing her hair the best she can as she tugs the sweater, well his sweater to be accurate that she stole just last week. “Hi, how are you ___, we just wanted to stop by with some treats before your parents leave for Europe” Mrs Min adds and ___ nods quickly, recovering with impressive speed considering she is currently trying to piece together why he’s here.

“Right, yes, come in,” she says, stepping aside quickly. “Mom and dad are inside.” Yoongi walks past her carefully, close enough to catch the tiny glare she shoots him under her breath.

“Ah, you made it!” Mrs. Lee says cheerfully as she appears from the kitchen carrying coffee cups.

Mr. Lee follows behind her with Yoongi’s father, already mid-conversation about travel routes and airport timing.

For a few blessed minutes, things settle.

Coffee is poured. Pastries are unpacked. The parents fall naturally into conversation around the dining table while Yoongi hovers awkwardly near the kitchen island pretending he isn’t hyperaware of every movement ___ makes.

“I’ve also made some sandwiches, let me just bring those out” ___ adds as she stands up, wanting a few minutes just to herself. “Oh, I’ll help” Yoongi adds and all the heads turn to him, none of them expecting this.

“It’s not much Yoongi-si, I’ll just be a few moments” ___ argues with a tight smile, hoping no one in this room catches onto this tension. “Oh I’m sure my mother’s told you what a great cook I am, I can help” Yoongi can’t help but tease, knowing this is going to cost him later.

“What is with these two?” Mrs Min murmurs to Mrs Lee as the two walk into kitchen, “Maybe he’s interested now, too bad she already has a boyfriend” Mrs Lee comments as they continue to sip on their coffee.

“She has a boyfriend?” Mrs Min asks with shock, she has secretly been hoping for her son to come to his senses all this time. “Well, she hasn’t told me explicitly, but she went to a vacation to Maldives and that’s such a couples destination” Mrs Lee adds and the wheels in Mrs Min’s head are finally going. 

“When was she in Maldives?” “Early January I think, she didn’t even send us any pictures-” “Yoongi was in Maldives early January” Mrs. Lee blinks.

Mrs. Min blinks back, silence.

“Oh my god.” “OH MY GOD SHE’S WEARING HIS SWEATER THAT I GOT HIM FOR CHRISTMAS” Mrs Min yells as she rapidly walks towards the kitchen.  The closer they get, the quieter they become. Because suddenly they’re not entering casually anymore.

They’re investigating and then they stop dead in the doorway. ___ is standing close enough to Yoongi that their bodies almost touch, fingers gently smoothing down the collar of his shirt while Yoongi looks at her with an expression his mother has never seen him wear before.

Soft and completely gone for her. Like the entire world narrowed down to the woman fixing his clothes in the kitchen.

“Oh.” The word slips out of Mrs. Lee before she can stop it. The couple freeze instantly. ___’s hand is still resting lightly against Yoongi’s chest.

Yoongi turns first and unfortunately, instead of looking guilty, he looks caught in the exact way a man does when he’s deeply in love and interrupted mid-moment. Which is somehow more incriminating.

“How long has this been going on?” Mrs Min asks softly, not entirely believing what she’s seeing. ___ immediately drops her hand from Yoongi’s collar like she’s been burned.  

Yoongi exhales slowly, knowing he needs to take the lead in this situation, “A year and a half” he answers, his hand coming up to ___’s waist like he’s trying to tell it all with a show but ___ swats his hands immediately, like she can still talk her way out of this. 

There’s silence and immediately there are questions, lots of them. “A YEAR AND A HALF” “Why didn’t you tell us” “Is this why you’ve been working late” “Is this why we couldn’t come to the Paris show?”

Mrs. Min’s eyes widened further somehow. “Oh my god, you traveled to see him during the tour?”

“No..well sometimes-” “How many times?” Mrs. Lee gasps. ___ looks ready to faint.

Yoongi, meanwhile, has reached the point of surrender where he almost finds this funny. “Enough that she has airline status now,” he says honestly.

“Min Yoongi!” ___ hisses in horror. “What? We’re already caught.” “That does not mean volunteer information!”

From the dining room, both fathers have fully abandoned pretending not to listen and are now standing in the doorway too. Mr. Min crosses his arms slowly. “I knew something was going on when he wanted me to check documents to buy an apartment”

The interrogation moves from the kitchen hallway to the dining room because ___ can’t keep standing without feeling like she’s about to faint and Yoongi wanted everyone to eat the sandwiches she made. 

“When were you going to tell us that you’re moving in together, after you had children?” Mrs Min asks her son incredulously, she’s still in shock from this all, happy nonetheless. “What you aren’t engaged are you?” Mrs Lee asks as she rapidly reaches for ___’s hand.

“I wouldn’t ask ___ to marry me without speaking to her parents first,” Yoongi says immediately. The room quiets slightly at the seriousness in his tone. Because despite the chaos, despite the interrogation and the absolute catastrophe of this reveal, he means that sincerely.

Across the table, Mr. Lee watches him carefully now and for maybe the first time all afternoon, Yoongi feels genuinely nervous. “I’m not irresponsible,” he says quieter now, gaze flicking briefly toward ___ before returning to her parents. “I know how serious this is.”

___ looks at him softly for a second. Because beneath all the teasing and disaster and accidental exposure, that’s the thing about Yoongi, once he loves someone, he becomes frighteningly earnest about protecting the future around them.

Mrs. Min’s eyes narrow suddenly, too suddenly. “Wait.” Every person at the table goes still. “You said you wouldn’t ask without speaking to the parents first.” She points at him slowly. “Not that you haven’t thought about it.”

Yoongi makes the catastrophic mistake of glancing at ___ for half a second. And unfortunately that alone is enough.

Mrs. Lee gasps loudly. “Oh my god.” ___ blinks between them in confusion. “What?” Mrs. Min sits forward immediately. “You’ve thought about marriage.”

“We’re in a happy long term relationship, of course we have” “Do you have a ring?” his mother throws that question like a  grenade in the middle of the dining room. ___ turns toward him so fast she nearly knocks over her water glass.

Yoongi suddenly regrets every decision that led him here. Because the thing is, he does have a ring. Hidden badly, according to Namjoon. Carefully and thoughtfully selected over weeks because once the idea entered his head, it never really left again.

“No,” he says too quickly. Mrs. Min narrows her eyes instantly. “That was suspicious.” “I don’t have it with me.” The second the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s doomed.

“YOU HAVE A RING?” both mothers shriek simultaneously.

___ just stares at him, like her brain genuinely stopped functioning for a second. Yoongi rubs a hand down his face slowly. “Well,” Mr. Min says calmly, sounding deeply entertained now, “this escalated quickly.”

“You bought a ring?” ___ asks finally, voice small in a way that completely destroys him. And suddenly all the teasing leaves the room a little. “We talked about it, we were on the same page about marriage?” Yoongi turns, like he needs to talk about it urgently. 

“We did, I just didn’t expect you to actually buy a ring” The vulnerability in her voice hits him square in the chest. Because he understands what she means, not disbelief in them. Disbelief in how real this all suddenly sounds out loud.

Yoongi shifts slightly closer to her instinctively. “I wasn’t trying to pressure you,” he says lower now, like he’s forgotten there are four other people listening. “I just saw it and…” He exhales softly. “It felt right.”

___ looks at him for a long second. “They bought an apartment,” Mr. Lee mutters. “The married couple part was already implied.” “That’s true,” Mr. Min agrees.

“Is there a date on your mind?” Mrs Min asks quietly and that earns another dramatic gasp from Mrs Lee. “Okay,” ___ says finally, standing abruptly before this spirals into someone discussing grandchildren. “I think this is enough for today. Mom, dad, you both need to leave for the airport soon.” Then toward Yoongi’s parents, polite despite the emotional destruction currently occurring in the dining room, “Mrs. and Mr. Min, the desserts were delicious, and I do love your son, so I hope today won’t leave the wrong impression on your minds.” 

“Yoongi and I are leaving because apparently we need to have a conversation.” That finally gets his attention fully. Yoongi blinks up at her once. “Do we?”

“Yes.” “Am I in trouble?” “You will be if you don’t get moving” ___ speaks with a smile but Yoongi knows better by now and stands up immediately. She’s quiet as they close the door behind them and it’s right at that moment when Yoongi’s phone rings. 

He declines it and ___ sighs as she presses the elevator button with no clear plan on where they’re actually going to talk. Yoongi groans softly this time before answering. “Hi.”

There’s a pause, then his entire expression changes. “Oh.” ___ looks over immediately. “Our mattress is going to be there in a few minutes, they need someone to let them in” Yoongi continues and ___ simply hands him her car keys, knowing where they’re going. 

“Oh, hi… that room,” ___ says quickly, pointing them toward the bedroom. They nod and disappear down the hallway carrying it carefully while Yoongi steps aside to answer yet another phone call.

Apparently every single thing related to this apartment needs attention today. “Yes, Tuesday is fine,” he says distractedly into the phone while pacing slowly near the windows. “Yes please early in the day, I’m busy post afternoon”

___ watches him for a second. It still catches her off guard sometimes, this version of him. Not a massively successful musician. Not the exhausted version surviving airports and tour schedules. Just… her boyfriend trying to do everything right with their apartment.

The mattress gets assembled surprisingly quickly considering it took them nearly three weeks to choose one. “So, the sofa will be here on the tuesday so we’ll have enough of a ready home to move in, rest we can tackle once we’re here” Yoongi adds as ___ gets them some water from the fridge, they might not be living here, but they still have a fully stacked kitchen already.

“And I’ve booked a moving company for your place for Sunday, I’ll be there too-” Yoongi continues and ___ shuts him up with a soft kiss. All the tension from today just melts as he helplessly kisses her, his hands all over her till they settle under the sweater. 

“You stupid idiot” ___ pulls back just to say that but Yoongi only smiles as he pulls her even closer. “Did you really buy a ring?” she continues and Yoongi sighs, resting his forehead against hers. “I swear my mother, can we not make a big deal out of this, it’s not happening that soon, I want us to live together first and you weren’t supposed to find out like this” he explains which only makes ___ laugh more. 

“Is it beautiful? It’s not too flashy is it? I know you have money but big diamonds don’t suit me” ___ teases and he groans gripping her waist even tighter. “Darling I know what you like, can we just please drop this?” Yoongi pleads and ___ nods knowing when to give up.

“I didn’t think I’d be doing this with you after our first date, I really wanted to see you again but I wasn’t sure it would work” ___ confesses as she moves around, finally getting the water she wanted. “I really wanted to see you again,” she admits. “But I honestly wasn’t sure it would work.”

Yoongi’s brows lift slightly. “Really?”  He watches her carefully now as she hands him a glass of water before continuing.

“And then you kissed me like that,” she says, pointing at him accusingly now, “and just left.” Yoongi looks entirely unapologetic. “I had an early flight.” “You kissed me after the best first date and just left and it felt like a romcom for a few hours till you didn’t text me for 12 hours”

“I was trying to seem calm.” That actually makes her laugh. Because if there’s one thing she knows now, it’s that Yoongi has never once been calm about her. “I was still dazed from the date and the kiss and I was all confused and and I um, was so surprised and I hated that I had to leave even if I really wanted to tour” Yoongi confesses and ___ smiles from the other side of the counter. 

“I for a very long time believed that this all, a girlfriend, living together, the eventual stuff, planning a life with someone wasn’t in my books and for the longest time I was okay with it” The apartment falls quiet around them. Suddenly he looks younger somehow. Not physically, emotionally, like she’s catching a glimpse of the version of him that spent years convincing himself wanting less from life was safer.

“You just thought loving someone would mean losing parts of yourself.” That catches him off guard.

Because unfortunately she’s right. Yoongi looks down briefly, jaw tightening faintly like he’s still a little uncomfortable being understood this clearly. “Yes,” he admits quietly. “And honestly…” A tiny breath leaves him, almost amused at himself now. “I didn’t expect you to be this stubborn.”

___ smiles faintly. “Excuse me?” “We fought,” he continues, stepping closer again like he physically can’t stay far from her for long anymore. “A lot sometimes. Especially in the beginning.” His hands slide back around her waist naturally. “But you always treated the problems like they were against us.” He pauses, gaze steady on hers now. “Not us against each other.”

Something soft flickers across her expression immediately, because that mattered more to him than she probably realized.

“So, shall we break in the new mattress, take a nap?” ___ jokes and Yoongi chuckles holds her from the behind. “Is this us now, napping? So painfully domestic” he says, his warm hands back under the sweater. 

“What’s more tragic is that I really want to nap” Yoongi confesses nuzzling his head into her shoulder. “Honey, we can do whatever we want, nap, look at vacuums, argue if we really want a piano in the living room” ___ teases and Yoongi laughs thinking back to the major vacuum selection fight.

[leax-62]

Under Oath | JJK ± part one

In which you come to Seoul for a summer law internship already drowning in the pressure of qualifying as a solicitor, only for your carefully planned life to become ten times harder when you keep crossing paths with an annoyingly attractive stranger named Jungkook. You don’t know he’s South Korea’s most beloved star, and he doesn’t know why the only person unimpressed by him is suddenly the one he can’t stay away from.

Pairing: Idol!Jungkook x Law student!reader

Genre: Romance | Slice of life | Slow burn | Fluff | Enemies to lovers | Comedy

Warnings/content: Jungkook x Reader, Law Student Reader, Summer Internship, Study Abroad, Hidden Identity, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Celebrity Romance, Secret Relationship, Opposites Attract, Tension, Flirting, Late Night Talks, Protective Jungkook, Jealousy, Emotional Slow Burn, Kisses, Mutual Pining, Seoul Summer, Career Pressure, Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Drama, Happy Ending

Word Count: 9.3k

A/N: This was such a fun one to write because as a law student myself the idea of spending a summer studying abroad has always sounded like a dream to me, so creating this story felt like living that fantasy a little. There’s just something about putting two stubborn people together and watching the tension build that makes me obsessed already, and i honestly loved writing a reader who has her own ambitions and goals outside of romance too. Sooo if you liked it, please drop me a like and repost, and let me know in the comments if you want a part 2 ;))

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The second the sliding doors of Incheon International Airport opened, a wave of warm air hit your face, thick with summer heat and the unfamiliar scent of somewhere new.

You barely registered any of it.

Your suitcase bumped uselessly behind you while your eyes stayed locked on your phone, thumb scrolling through your emails before switching back to LinkedIn for the hundredth time that day. Empty inbox. No updates. No responses. No signs of life from any of the firms you’d applied to.

Then suddenly—your phone was gone.

“Oi—” You looked up sharply. “Are you insane?”

Hikari held your phone above her head with one hand, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “Are you insane? Babe, we just landed in South Korea and the first thing you do is open LinkedIn.”

“I was checking something.”

“You were checking unemployment.”

“I was checking my future.”

She barked out a laugh. “Your future can wait five minutes. There are men walking around built like final bosses and you’re reading rejection emails that haven’t even arrived yet.”

“No because that’s the issue,” you groaned, reaching for your phone and missing. “There aren’t even rejection emails. It’s been weeks since I sent like a hundred applications and not one firm has replied. At least tell me no so I can heal and move on.”

Hikari clutched her chest. “That is cruel. That is emotionally abusive.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s workplace harassment before you’ve even got the job.”

“Exactly!”

She handed your phone back at last. “You need serious help.”

“I need a training contract.”

“You need a man.”

You stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. “I need you to shut up.”

“I’m being so serious.” She hooked her arm through yours and dragged you toward the taxi rank. “You’re twenty-one, smart, mildly attractive on a good day—”

“Mildly?”

“Focus on the compliment. You literally know Korean. Utilise it.”

You stared at her in disbelief. “You know damn well I had no choice but to learn Korean for my poly-language course. I didn’t do it to hunt men.”

“Missed opportunity.”

“I did it to escape the trenches of public law.”

The two of you fell silent for a moment before physically shuddering in sync.

Hikari grimaced. “Don’t say that subject name around me again.”

“Judicial review,” you muttered.

She gagged dramatically. “You are vile.”

“Delegated legislation.”

“Stop talking.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening for the first time in weeks. Around you, taxis lined the curb, neon signs glowed in the distance, and the city hummed with energy that made your pulse quicken.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. A few months away from deadlines, applications, and the constant fear of failing before you’d even begun.

Hikari squeezed your arm. “Calling it now. By the end of this summer, you’re either getting a job offer or getting railed.”

You nearly tripped over your suitcase. “Hikari!”

She shrugged. “I’m just manifesting options.”

You shook your head, muttering something about needing new friends as the two of you joined the taxi queue outside the airport. Around you, people moved in quick, purposeful streams—families reuniting, business travellers already on calls, tourists dragging suitcases twice their size. Everything felt fast, polished, awake.

You, on the other hand, were one inconvenience away from lying down on the pavement.

Hikari raised a hand the second a black taxi pulled forward. “See?” she said smugly. “The universe provides.”

“The universe is a licensed driver.”

“It’s still on my side.”

The driver stepped out to help with your luggage, and before you could stop her, Hikari cheerfully gestured to you. “Go on. Use your Korean.”

You blinked at her. “Why am I suddenly customer service?”

“Because I’m pretty and useless.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

Suppressing a laugh, you greeted the driver in Korean and confirmed the hotel address. He nodded politely and loaded your suitcases into the boot while Hikari watched you like a proud stage mother.

“That,” she said as you climbed into the back seat, “was deeply attractive.”

“I said hello.”

“You said it internationally.”

The taxi pulled away from the terminal, merging into a stream of traffic as the airport lights gave way to long stretches of road and, eventually, the first hints of the city skyline. Tower blocks glimmered in the distance, neon signs flashing between darkened streets, everything looking cinematic in a way that felt almost unreal after months of grey lecture halls and library fluorescent lighting.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Hikari leaned over dramatically. “Do you think this driver knows any rich men?”

You closed your eyes. “I need silence.”

“You need networking.”

“I need eight consecutive hours of unconsciousness.”

She gasped. “You’re so negative.”

“I’m jet-lagged.”

“You’re spiritually jet-lagged.”

You turned to look at her. “What does that even mean?”

“It means your aura needs moisturising.”

“You make me tired.”

She patted your knee sympathetically. “That’s because I challenge you.”

The driver’s shoulders shook slightly, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “He understands English.”

Hikari straightened immediately. “Sir, if you know any successful single men under thirty, please let me know. My friend is in crisis.”

You lunged across the seat. “Ignore her!”

The driver finally laughed outright, and humiliation burned hot across your face while Hikari looked delighted with herself.

“This is why no firm emails me back,” you muttered. “Bad karma.”

“No,” Hikari said, checking her reflection in the window. “It’s because they fear powerful women.”

“They don’t know me.”

“They sense it.”

The hotel came into view twenty minutes later—glass-fronted, modern, far nicer than anything you’d expected when booking on a student budget. You sat up straighter immediately.

“Oh,” you said. “Wait. This is nice.”

Hikari smirked. “Obviously. Did you think I’d let us stay somewhere tragic?”

“I thought we were staying somewhere affordable.”

“Same thing if you’re strategic.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

Once inside, the lobby was all marble floors, soft gold lighting, and the kind of expensive scent that made you suddenly conscious of how creased your clothes were. Staff moved around with impossible elegance while you dragged your suitcase behind you like a goblin.

Hikari, meanwhile, somehow looked refreshed.

“How do you still look normal?” you asked while she approached reception.

“Discipline.”

“You have mascara under one eye.”

“Fashion.”

Check-in was smooth, and the second you were handed the room key card, relief nearly made you emotional.

The lift ride up was quiet except for Hikari taking selfies in the mirrored walls while you stared blankly at your own reflection.

“I look like I’ve seen war,” you said.

“You look travelled.”

“I look damp.”

The room itself was compact but gorgeous—two neatly made beds, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, crisp white sheets, and air conditioning cold enough to heal trauma.

You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and threw yourself face-first onto the nearest bed.

The mattress accepted you instantly.

“This,” you mumbled into the duvet, “is where I live now.”

“Like hell you are.”

You felt the mattress dip as Hikari launched herself onto the opposite bed, then immediately bounced back up with renewed purpose. “We, my friend, are going to explore the city. Starting with what it has to offer my stomach.”

You didn’t move. “Tell your stomach I said congratulations.”

“It says thank you and get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, physically I’m past that point. My body has clocked out.”

She stood over you with her hands on her hips. “You are being dramatic.”

“I am being realistic.”

“You’re horizontal in jeans.”

“That’s how serious this is.”

Hikari grabbed one of the pillows and smacked you with it.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. “Violence. In a foreign country.”

“Get dressed.”

“I am dressed.”

“You look like you lost a custody battle.”

You groaned and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “Can we please just order room service and rot in peace?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because we did not come all the way to Seoul for you to fuse with hotel linen.”

“I came here for an internship.”

“You came here for character development.”

“I came here because every firm in London decided to collectively ignore me.”

The joke landed flatter than usual.

Hikari’s expression softened a little. She sat down at the edge of your bed and nudged your ankle. “Hey.”

You looked away toward the window. “I know it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does. We literally just got here and I’m sulking over emails.”

“You’re stressed,” she said simply. “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled slowly.

“It’s just…” You rubbed a hand over your face. “Everyone keeps acting like if I don’t get everything sorted now, I’m behind already. Vacation schemes, training contracts, applications, networking, grades. It never stops.”

Hikari was quiet for a second, then flicked your forehead.

“Ow.”

“Firstly, dramatic. Secondly, you are the smartest person I know.”

“That’s terrifying for society.”

“I’m serious.” She pointed at you sternly. “You work harder than anyone, you somehow survive on iced coffee and panic, and you’re going to qualify one day whether those firms reply this week or next year.”

“Next year would be suboptimal.”

“My point,” she said louder, “is don’t let silence from a few dusty firms convince you you’re failing.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Dusty firms?”

“Yes. Dusty, musty, probably using microsoft word 2007. They don’t deserve your tears.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“You were spiritually close.”

You smiled into the pillow.

“Even smart people need breaks,” she continued. “Even future solicitors need to eat dumplings and touch grass.”

“I hate when you’re right.”

“I know. It’s my burden.”

She sprang up suddenly and clapped once. “Now get up.”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me.”

“I have nothing left to lose.”

That was apparently the wrong answer, because she seized your wrist and began dragging you across the mattress.

You immediately went limp.

“Oh my God,” she snapped. “Did you just dead-weight me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re heavier than you look.”

“That was personal.”

With a heroic grunt, she managed to yank you upright until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking deeply offended.

“There,” she said, panting slightly. “Vertical. We’re making progress.”

“I’ll remember this betrayal.”

“You can journal about it over dinner.”

Ten minutes later, after Hikari physically handing you a cleaner top and threatening to leave without you, the two of you were back in the lift heading downstairs.

You leaned against the mirrored wall. “If I collapse in public, tell people I died pursuing culture.”

“I’ll tell them you died being stubborn.”

The city hit differently at street level. Warm air, bright signs, traffic humming, groups of friends laughing outside convenience stores, music drifting from somewhere unseen. Everything felt alive.

You tucked your hands into your pockets as Hikari looked around like she’d personally built the place.

“Where are we even going?” you asked.

“Somewhere with food.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Somewhere cute with food.”

“Still broad.”

“Somewhere with food and potential husbands.”

“There it is.”

She linked arms with you and began steering you down the pavement. “You joke now, but one good bowl of noodles and one handsome stranger later, your whole attitude could change.”

“My attitude is grounded in reason.”

“Your attitude is grounded in fear.”

“My attitude is grounded in case law.”

Both of you shuddered.

“Disgusting,” she muttered.

“Public law,” you whispered back.

She recoiled. “Don’t ruin the evening.”

For the first time in weeks, your chest felt lighter. The emails, the deadlines, the pressure—they were still there, waiting somewhere beyond this trip. But right now there was only the city, your ridiculous best friend, and the smell of food drifting through the street.

Maybe that was enough for one night.

The streets were quieter than they’d looked from the hotel window, the late hour thinning the crowds to scattered groups of students, delivery drivers, and people who looked far too awake for two in the morning. Most shopfronts were dark, shutters pulled down, chairs stacked on tables behind glass.

You yawned as Hikari dragged you past another closed café. “So your brilliant plan,” you said, “was to search for food at two a.m. in a city we don’t know.”

“My brilliant plan,” she corrected, “was to trust destiny.”

“Destiny appears to be shut.”

She ignored you, peering dramatically left and right like a detective on a case. “There has to be something open. This city loves me too much to let me starve.”

“This city doesn’t know you.”

“It can feel my presence.”

You pulled your phone from your pocket, instinctively opening your inbox. Still nothing. Then Outlook. Still nothing there either.

Before you could refresh for the third time, Hikari snatched the phone clean out of your hand.

“You absolute menace—”

“No.” She held it away from you. “We are not doing corporate self-harm in the middle of the pavement.”

“I was just checking.”

“You checked six minutes ago.”

“A lot can happen in six minutes.”

“Not in graduate recruitment.”

You reached for it. She dodged you with offensive agility.

“Give it back.”

“When you stop acting like outlook is your situationship.”

“It’s not a situationship.”

“It leaves you on delivered and ruins your mood. That’s textbook.”

You hated how accurate that was.

Hikari tucked your phone into her bag for safekeeping and looped her arm through yours before you could protest. “There. Free at last.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m necessary.”

You wandered another block, passing a convenience store glowing fluorescent white and a group of lads laughing outside a karaoke bar. Somewhere in the distance, music thumped through a wall. The city felt softer now—less like a postcard, more like something alive and still moving long after it should’ve slept.

Then Hikari stopped so abruptly you nearly walked into her.

“There,” she breathed.

Across the street, tucked between a closed stationery shop and a laundrette, was a tiny restaurant lit entirely in pink and blue neon. Steam fogged the windows, and a handwritten sign in Korean hung crookedly by the door.

Hikari clutched your arm. “That one is calling my name.”

“You’re insane.”

“Don’t you hear it?” She tilted her head. “It’s literally whispering… Hikari…”

“It’s probably the fridge humming.”

“No. It wants me.”

“It wants paying customers.”

She gasped. “Why do you always reduce magic to economics?”

“Because I study law.”

“That explains so much.”

Before you could say another word, she tugged you across the road.

“You know,” she said casually, “places like this are where life-changing things happen.”

“You mean food poisoning?”

“I mean meet-cutes.”

“I rebuke that energy.”

“You’re too closed off.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re twenty-one and allergic to whimsy.”

“I’m allergic to men who say ‘what do you bring to the table?’”

She shuddered. “Fair.”

You reached the door, and she paused to inspect your face. “Actually, maybe tonight’s the night.”

“For what?”

“You meet someone mysterious. Brooding. Beautiful. Emotionally available but with edge.”

“You’ve just described a fictional man.”

“They exist.”

“Name one.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “That is not the point.”

You smirked. “Exactly.”

Hikari pushed the door open anyway, warm air and the smell of grilled meat rushing out to meet you. “Come on,” she declared. “Worst case scenario, no husband. Best case scenario, noodles and character development.”

You stepped inside after her. “Why is everything to you either romance or personal growth?”

She grinned over her shoulder. “Because both look good on you.”

The restaurant was small but warm, the kind of place that felt lived in. A few tables were occupied by night-shift workers and students hunched over steaming bowls, low conversation humming beneath the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Neon light from outside painted the windows pink and blue.

Hikari slid into the booth first and immediately grabbed a menu.

“Oh my God,” she whispered reverently. “Look at this.”

You sat opposite her, shrugging off your jacket. “It’s a menu.”

“It’s an opportunity.”

“It’s laminated.”

She ignored you, eyes scanning wildly. “They have dumplings. They have fried chicken. They have noodles. They have rice bowls. They have desserts.”

“That tends to be how restaurants work.”

“I want everything.”

“You physically cannot have everything.”

“Watch me.”

“Hikari.”

“No, because imagine limiting yourself when life is this short.”

“Slow down before the waiter comes over and you embarrass us both.”

She gasped. “I have never embarrassed anyone in my life.”

You stared at her.

“Okay,” she amended, “not intentionally.”

A server approached with a polite smile and notepad in hand. Hikari instantly shoved her menu toward you.

“Your time to shine,” she whispered.

“You are shameless.”

“I am adaptive.”

You ordered in Korean, asking for two portions of dumplings, spicy noodles, fried chicken to share, and drinks. The server nodded, repeated the order back, then left with a small smile.

Hikari looked at you like you’d just levitated.

“Excuse me?” she said. “Since when was your Korean that good?”

You blinked. “What?”

“That was smooth. You sounded like you belong here.”

“I literally asked for food.”

“In another language.”

“Thank you.”

“No, seriously.” She pointed at you accusingly. “Why do you act like being impressive is casual?”

You laughed. “I learnt it for my degree, remember? International studies required a language component. I picked Korean.”

“And then just became fluent in secret?”

“I’m not fluent.”

“You just ordered chicken with confidence. That’s fluency.”

“That is hunger.”

She leaned back in her seat dramatically. “Brains, beauty, employable, bilingual. It’s honestly sickening.”

“Please stop trying to auction me off.”

“I’m just saying, if the law thing fails, marry rich.”

“The law thing is not failing.”

“It was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

You tried not to smile. “Maybe a little.”

She smirked. “There she is.”

The drinks arrived first, and the two of you immediately reached for the same one.

“Hands off,” she said.

“You ordered the wrong thing.”

“I ordered adventure.”

“You ordered peach soda.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed and took your own glass instead.

“So,” she said, stirring her drink, “how do you think your final assignment went?”

You groaned instantly. “Don’t bring academia into my safe space.”

“It’s a genuine question.”

“I think contract law went well.”

“Show off.”

“I said I think.”

“You say ‘I think’ when you know you ate.”

“I did not eat.”

“You devoured.”

You rolled your eyes. “Public law was rough.”

Both of you visibly recoiled.

“Vile subject,” Hikari muttered.

“Deeply unnecessary,” you agreed.

“Professor Bennett ruined constitutional theory for me.”

You frowned. “Bennett’s a man.”

“I know. I’m warming up.” She pointed a finger. “Dr Patel though? That woman hates me personally.”

You burst out laughing. “She does not know you.”

“She does. Every seminar she looks directly at me before asking the one reading I didn’t do.”

“That’s because you sit in the front row wearing sunglasses.”

“It’s confidence.”

“It’s insolence.”

Hikari clutched her chest. “Last month she asked me to define parliamentary sovereignty and when I paused she sighed like I’d killed her family.”

You were laughing too hard to respond.

“I’m serious,” Hikari insisted. “That woman has beef with me.”

“She has standards.”

“She has jealousy.”

“Of what?”

“My aura.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

At that exact moment, the food arrived in a wave of steam and glorious smell, cutting off your laughter. Dumplings, glossy noodles, crispy chicken piled high.

Hikari looked down at the table with tears in her eyes.

“See?” she whispered. “This city loves me.”

You looked down at the spread, then back at her. “This city tolerates you at best.”

“It nourishes me,” Hikari corrected, already reaching for a dumpling. “There’s a difference.”

“Can you at least wait two seconds?”

“No. Survival instincts.”

She bit into one immediately, then closed her eyes like she’d ascended.

“Oh wow.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“This is a religious experience.”

You picked up your chopsticks and tried the noodles, heat and spice hitting almost instantly. Your eyes widened.

“Okay,” you admitted. “That’s incredible.”

Hikari pointed triumphantly with half a dumpling in hand. “Exactly. Trust me more.”

“I trust you selectively.”

“You wound me.”

“I protect myself.”

The next few minutes were spent in near silence apart from the occasional hum of appreciation and Hikari trying to steal from your plate every time you looked away.

“Why are you touching my food?” you asked, catching her hand mid-reach.

“Because yours looks better.”

“It’s the same dish.”

“It tastes different when it’s yours.”

“That sentence was nonsense.”

“It was intuition.”

You pushed the chicken farther from her. “Have boundaries.”

“Boundaries are western.”

“That is not true.”

She laughed and leaned back in her seat, satisfied for all of ten seconds before speaking again. “So... what’s the actual plan for the internship?”

You wiped your hands on a napkin. “Orientation Monday. Then I’m placed with their comparative constitutional team for six weeks.”

Her mouth dropped open. “That sounds sexy.”

“It sounds like unpaid labour.”

“It sounds impressive.”

“It sounds like I’ll be formatting documents until my hands cramp.”

She shrugged. “Still. International law girl summer.”

You snorted. “That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You looked down at your drink, tracing the condensation on the glass. “I just hope I’m good enough.”

Hikari’s expression changed immediately. Softer. Sharper. The nonsense dialed down.

“You are.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I literally do.”

“It’s different there. Everyone else applying probably has better grades, better experience, better everything.”

“Wrong.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It’s enough from me.” She leaned forward. “You do this thing where you decide everyone else is more qualified before they’ve even opened their mouths.”

You said nothing.

“And meanwhile,” she continued, “you’re clever, hardworking, bilingual, doing a summer placement abroad, and somehow still convinced you’re behind.”

“I’m not convinced. I’m observing.”

“You’re spiralling.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being annoying.”

That pulled a laugh out of you. “There she is.”

“I never left.” She reached over and tapped your wrist with her chopsticks. “Listen to me. Some random firms not replying does not define your future.”

“They’re not random.”

“They are to me.”

“I hate when you simplify my problems.”

“I hate when you inflate them.”

You smiled despite yourself.

She smiled back. “Good. Better.”

Then, without warning, she reached into her bag and pulled out your phone.

You sat up. “Why do you still have that?”

“Because you can’t be trusted.”

She glanced at the screen and gasped theatrically. “Oh my God, she’s opening Outlook at the table.”

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were in your spirit.”

“Give it back.”

“No.” She tucked it under her thigh. “Phone jail until dessert.”

“There is no dessert.”

“Then sunrise.”

“Hikari.”

“Eat your noodles.”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary.”

You glared at her for another second before taking another bite.

“Also,” she added casually, “if you do become a big-shot solicitor one day, I expect compensation for emotional support rendered.”

“You’ve caused most of my emotional distress.”

“Exactly. Full-circle healing.”

You laughed so suddenly you nearly inhaled a chilli flake.

She grinned, pleased with herself. “There it is again. That noise. Keep making it this summer.”

Something warm settled in your chest that had nothing to do with the food.

Hikari was mid-laugh—head thrown back, chopsticks still in hand—when someone bumped into her hard enough to knock her slightly sideways.

“Hey—what the hell?” she blurted, steadying herself on the table.

You looked up instantly.

A girl had just rushed past your booth without even apologising, phone clutched tight in her hand, eyes wide with something between panic and excitement.

Then another followed. And another.

Within seconds, the calm hum of the restaurant shifted. Chairs scraped. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. People started standing.

And then—movement outside.

A sudden wave of footsteps. Fast. Coordinated. Almost like a stampede.

“What is happening?” you said slowly, putting your chopsticks down.

Hikari leaned toward the window, squinting. “Why does it look like Black Friday but emotional?”

Another group of girls rushed past the glass, pressing close to the street outside. Some were filming. Some were running. All of them were heading in the same direction.

The staff inside the restaurant started glancing toward the door too, murmuring to each other in quick Korean.

You and Hikari exchanged a look.

“…We’ve been in the country for like three hours,” you said.

“And already there’s a cult forming outside,” she replied.

“That’s not what that is.”

“It might be.”

A loud wave of screaming erupted from somewhere down the street—sharp, excited, overlapping voices that made the hairs on your arms rise slightly.

Hikari slowly set her chopsticks down.

“Okay,” she said. “That is not normal food enthusiasm.”

You shifted in your seat, craning your neck toward the window. “Is there like… a sale?”

“At 2 a.m.?”

“Midnight capitalism?”

Before Hikari could respond, another burst of screaming cut through the air—closer this time—followed by a sudden surge of movement outside the restaurant windows.

People were running past now. Not walking. Running.

Phones up. Voices high.

Your stomach dropped a little.

“…Okay,” Hikari said slowly, turning fully toward the window now. “Something is definitely happening.”

You stood up slightly, peering through the glass. “Why does it look like everyone is chasing the same person?”

“Or running from the same person,” she muttered.

A beat of silence.

Then you both looked at each other at the exact same time.

“No,” you said immediately.

Hikari pointed at the window. “Don’t say no like that didn’t cross your mind.”

“It did not cross my mind.”

“It sprinted across mine.”

You grabbed your phone off the table instinctively, then stopped yourself mid-motion.

Hikari noticed immediately. “Don’t you dare open Outlook in a crisis.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You were spiritually logging in again.”

Outside, the crowd thickened—more voices, more flashing screens, the street suddenly packed in a way that didn’t match the quiet, sleepy vibe from earlier.

A chair somewhere inside the restaurant scraped loudly as another customer stood to look.

Hikari leaned closer to the glass, narrowing her eyes.

“…Okay,” she said again, slower this time. “Either someone very important just walked past…”

She trailed off.

You leaned in beside her. “Or what?”

Hikari swallowed. “Or we’re about to find out what this city is actually like at 2 a.m.”

And for the first time since you’d arrived, neither of you had a joke ready.

The flashes hit first.

Not inside the restaurant—but outside.

Bright, rapid, almost violent bursts of white light strobed through the windows like lightning trapped in glass. Conversations inside the restaurant faltered. Someone near the counter let out a confused laugh. A chair scraped back.

Hikari squinted. “Okay… why does it look like we’re being photographed by angry lightning bugs?”

You were already standing again, instinctively edging closer to the window. “That’s not normal.”

Another wave of screams rolled down the street—closer now, louder, more concentrated. The kind of sound that didn’t belong to confusion anymore, but certainty. Like everyone out there knew exactly who they were chasing.

And then the door of the restaurant opened.

A sharp rush of cold night air swept in.

First came a man dressed completely in black—cap pulled low, face covered with a black mask, moving with the kind of controlled urgency that made the entire room shift its attention without thinking. Behind him, a blonde-haired boy followed quickly, equally guarded, glancing back toward the door like he was used to this kind of chaos. Two security guards entered after them, scanning the room instantly.

The atmosphere changed.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… tense.

Like everyone suddenly remembered how to breathe quietly.

Hikari, however, was not part of that collective silence.

“Oh.”

You turned your head slowly. “Oh what.”

She was staring straight at the blonde boy like she’d just discovered oxygen. “Oh mama likey.”

You slapped her hand immediately. “No.”

“What?” she hissed, not looking away. “I’m appreciating art.”

“That’s a human being.”

“A very aesthetically curated human being.”

One of the security guards spoke briefly to the staff in quick Korean, and the staff immediately nodded, flustered, motioning toward a table further inside the restaurant.

The masked man didn’t sit yet. He paused near the entrance, scanning the room once—slowly, carefully.

For a second, the noise outside felt very far away.

Hikari leaned closer to you, whispering loudly, “Okay but blonde one? That’s my type.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough.”

“You know hair.”

“I know potential.”

You nudged her again as she tried to lean forward for a better look. “Stop objectifying strangers.”

“I’m not objectifying. I’m evaluating.”

“You’re ranking.”

“I’m discerning.”

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Hikari pointed subtly again. “Also, masked one? Mysterious. Emotionally unavailable. Probably rich.”

“You’ve created an entire personality from three seconds of walking.”

“I’m efficient.”

The blonde boy glanced briefly in your direction while being guided to sit, then looked away again, slightly overwhelmed but polite. Hikari actually sighed.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

“You are insane.”

“Do you think they’re famous or something?” you murmured, eyes still fixed on the masked man as he finally stepped further inside.

Hikari didn’t even hesitate. “Either famous or running from a crime scene.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s realistic.”

Outside, more screams erupted, louder again, like the crowd had just shifted direction. Phones pressed against the glass from the street, silhouettes clustering tightly outside the restaurant now.

One of the security guards stepped toward the door and shut it firmly, blocking the view of the chaos outside.

Inside, everything felt suddenly too quiet.

Hikari leaned back slowly. “Okay,” she said. “So we’re either in a restaurant…”

She paused.

“Or we’re in the opening scene of something very expensive.”

You swallowed slightly, still watching the masked man as he finally lowered himself into a seat deeper inside the restaurant, posture calm despite everything happening outside.

“…I don’t like this kind of quiet,” you admitted.

Hikari hummed. “Me neither.”

Then, softer—just for a second—she added, “But at least dinner got interesting.”

The two of them settled into the booth behind you almost silently—like they were trying not to disturb the air itself.

You felt it more than saw it at first. The shift. The presence.

Hikari, on the other hand, saw everything.

The second they sat down, she leaned forward slightly, eyes wide, trying to peek past your shoulder without being obvious about it—except she was absolutely failing at being subtle.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath.

“I’m not moving.”

“You are vibrating.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re staring.”

She pressed her lips together like that would somehow make her less obvious, but her attention kept flicking behind you every two seconds.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice barely contained. “The blonde one just sat down and I feel like I’ve been chosen by the universe personally.”

You tilted your head slightly, blocking her view with your shoulder on purpose. “We just got here. Please allow yourself to breathe before you start planning a wedding.”

“I’m not planning a wedding.”

“You said ‘chosen by the universe.’ That’s basically engagement.”

Hikari slapped your arm lightly. “Move. You’re tall, use it for good.”

“I am using it for good. I’m shielding the public from you.”

She tried to lean again, and you gently pushed her back into her seat.

“Behave.”

“I am behaving.”

“You are absolutely not.”

Hikari opened her mouth to argue, but then—mid-sentence—she stopped.

Completely froze.

Her expression changed so fast you almost laughed.

“…Okay,” she whispered. “Wait.”

“What?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. Over your shoulder. Focused. Still.

You followed her gaze this time, turning slightly.

The blonde boy had stood up.

And now, without the mask, he was walking toward the counter at the front of the restaurant.

Up close, he was… unfair.

Not just attractive in a generic way—there was something almost unreal about how put together he looked even in a loose, late-night outfit. Blonde hair slightly messy, falling just enough into his eyes like it had been styled and then abandoned halfway through the night. He wore thin-framed glasses that made his features sharper somehow, more defined.

And as he turned slightly, you caught it—

A tattoo just behind his ear. Small. Clean. Intentional. Like it meant something.

He moved with quiet confidence, but not arrogance. More like someone used to being aware of every room he entered without needing to acknowledge it.

Hikari exhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she said.

You glanced at her. “Oh what.”

She didn’t look away. “Girl… I got a date with destiny.”

You blinked. “You don’t even know his name.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t. The city already told me.”

“What city—?”

She grabbed your wrist briefly, eyes still locked forward like she was witnessing prophecy unfold. “I told you. This city loves me.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m intuitive.”

The blonde reached the counter, speaking quietly to the staff. Polite. Controlled. Nothing about him matched the chaos outside anymore. Like he’d stepped into a different world entirely.

Hikari leaned forward again, completely ignoring your attempts to physically contain her.

“Okay,” she whispered urgently, “if I don’t talk to him, I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“You will regret it for five minutes and then forget.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is absolutely true.”

She finally tore her gaze away just long enough to look at you. “Do you think he likes confidence?”

“I think he likes peace.”

“Perfect. I’m peaceful.”

“You are currently plotting a romantic takeover.”

She sat back dramatically. “I’m not plotting. I’m aligning.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “We came here for food.”

“And I am getting food,” she said proudly. “And possibly destiny.”

The blonde laughed softly at something the staff said, the sound faint but noticeable even from across the room. Hikari immediately clutched your sleeve.

“Oh my God. He has a nice laugh too.”

“You’ve known him for twelve seconds.”

“And I already respect him.”

You sighed, leaning back. “Please just don’t embarrass me.”

Hikari gasped. “I would never embarrass you.”

A beat.

“…In public.”

You closed your eyes. “That is not reassuring.”

She leaned closer again, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.

“If I go over there and come back with his number, you owe me silence for a week.”

“You will not go over there.”

“I might.”

“You will not.”

“I’m feeling brave.”

“You’re feeling hungry.”

“I’m feeling fated.”

You opened your eyes slowly. “Hikari.”

She grinned. “Relax. I’m just saying hello.”

“You never just say hello.”

Behind you, the blonde finished at the counter and turned slightly, as if preparing to return to his table.

Hikari straightened immediately, energy switching like a light bulb flicking on.

“Okay,” she whispered, gripping the edge of the table. “If I survive this, I want it noted I died doing what I loved.”

“You are not dying.”

“I might be socially.”

And before you could stop her again, she stood up.

The blonde had barely settled back into his seat when Hikari made her move.

You saw it happen in real time—no hesitation, no internal debate, just pure Hikari instinct kicking in like a switch had flipped. She wiped her hands on a napkin, straightened her posture like she was about to walk into a job interview, and stood up.

“Hikari—no,” you hissed, already halfway out of your seat. “Absolutely not.”

She didn’t even look back.

“Relax,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m just saying hi.”

“That is how horror stories start!”

But she was already walking.

At the table behind you, the blonde looked up first—mid-conversation with the man beside him—expression shifting from neutral to slightly surprised, then politely attentive. The man in black reacted instantly, body tightening, shoulders squaring as Hikari stopped directly in front of them like she belonged there.

“Hi,” she said brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’m Hikari.”

There was a beat of silence.

The man in black didn’t move for a second. Then slowly, he lifted his cap just enough to see better, and tugged his mask down so his voice came through clearer.

His eyes were sharp. Focused. The kind of look that didn’t miss details—it analysed them.

“If you’re a sasaeng,” he said flatly in Korean, “you need to stop following people like this. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

The temperature at the table dropped instantly.

Hikari blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…I’m sorry?” she said, still polite, but now visibly confused.

The blonde immediately reacted—reaching out and lightly smacking the man’s arm.

“Bro,” he said, switching effortlessly into English, tone more amused than hostile. “That’s not nice.”

Then he looked at Hikari and softened immediately, offering a quick, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about him. Be nice to the pretty lady. She’s clearly not from here.”

That did it.

Hikari visibly short-circuited for half a second at “pretty lady,” like her brain had paused buffering.

Then she recovered instantly, posture resetting.

The blonde tilted his head slightly, still smiling. “Hi, I’m Park Jimin.”

Before Hikari could even react properly, the man in black let out a quiet scoff and turned sharply toward him.

“Are you serious?” he said, switching into English now, voice lower but edged with irritation.

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“You know damn well there are foreign sasaengs too,” the man in black continued, tone controlled but sharp. “They act clueless like they don’t know us, and next thing you know they’re trying to break into your house, telling security they’re your friends.”

Hikari went completely still.

You could see it—she didn’t understand every word, but she understood enough. The tone. The accusation. The assumption sitting under it like a weight.

Her expression shifted immediately from excitement to offence.

And something in your chest snapped into focus.

You were already standing.

“Hikari,” you said quickly under your breath, but she didn’t hear you.

Or didn’t register it.

So you walked.

Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just firm—cutting cleanly through the space between tables until you were directly in front of her.

You positioned yourself without thinking, shoulder slightly angled to shield her.

Then you looked at the man in black.

Up close, the intensity was worse. Not threatening—but guarded. Like someone who had learned to assume danger first and apologise later. Cap low, dark clothing, jaw set in a way that suggested he was already regretting having to deal with this situation.

You spoke in Korean, calm but firm.

“My friend is not a stalker,” you said clearly. “And she would never break into anyone’s house. We don’t even know who you are. So maybe don’t assume the worst of people and—” your eyes narrowed slightly “—pipe down on the ego a bit.”

Silence.

The blonde—Jimin—snorted softly under his breath, leaning back in his chair like he’d just witnessed something mildly entertaining.

“Okay,” he muttered, half-laughing. “She got you there.”

The man in black blinked once, caught slightly off guard—not by the words, but by how directly they landed. His gaze flicked briefly between you and Hikari like he was recalculating the entire situation.

Jimin tilted his head, still amused. “You really needed that.”

Hikari, still behind you, whispered urgently, “Wait—am I in trouble or did I just get defended?”

“Both,” you muttered without looking back.

The air at the table shifted. Less sharp now. Less hostile. More… uncertain.

Not resolved. Just recalibrated.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, then reached back and grabbed Hikari’s wrist.

“Come on,” you said firmly. “We’re done. Sit down. Finish eating. We’re leaving.”

“I didn’t even get to introduce my personality properly,” she protested as you tugged her back.

“You introduced enough.”

She stumbled slightly as you guided her back into the booth, still twisting her head over her shoulder like she was trying to process the entire encounter in real time.

“Okay,” she said slowly once seated. “That was… not on my bingo card.”

“Yes,” you replied flatly.

She picked up her chopsticks again like nothing had happened. “But also… I think I just got called pretty by Park Jimin.”

“You got accused of breaking into someone’s house.”

“Details.”

You stared at her. “That’s not details. That’s the main issue.”

Hikari leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like this was suddenly a private conversation again.

“I don’t think he meant it,” she said gently. “He was just… defensive.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know.” She reached across the table and covered your hand with hers, grounding. “But I’m fine.”

You frowned slightly. “I don’t like people speaking to you like that.”

Hikari squeezed your hand once. “I know.”

A pause.

The noise of the restaurant slowly filled the space again—the clatter of plates, low conversation, the faint hiss from the kitchen. The world moving on like nothing had just shifted.

Then Hikari nudged your foot under the table.

“Also,” she said lightly, “you fully just told off a man in Korean like it was a court cross-examination. That was kind of terrifying in a hot way.”

You let out a short, reluctant laugh despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

“Oh I’m starting a campaign,” she said immediately. “Future solicitor energy. Ten out of ten intimidation factor.”

“I want to leave the country.”

“After dessert.”

You were still staring at the table when Hikari nudged your foot again, gently this time.

“Okay,” she said, voice lighter, deliberately pulling the air back up. “We are not spiralling. We are resetting.”

“I’m not spiralling.”

“You’re doing the silent angry chewing thing. That’s spiralling.”

You paused. Slowly swallowed. “It’s just… unbelievable.”

“I know,” she said immediately, softer. “But it’s done. Gone. Out of our timeline.”

“That’s not how time works.”

“It is in my system.”

You let out a breath through your nose, finally picking up your chopsticks again. The food was still warm, untouched chaos on the table between you.

Hikari leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So. Internship.”

You looked at her. “What about it.”

“This is me redirecting your brain before it turns into legal rage soup.”

“I don’t have legal rage soup.”

“You absolutely do. It’s simmering.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “I’m in comparative constitutional law for six weeks. It’s going to be reading, note-taking, and pretending I understand twenty-page judgments in one sitting.”

“That sounds sexy,” she said instantly.

“It sounds like suffering.”

“It sounds like future lawyer main character arc.”

You shook your head, finally relaxing back into the booth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m supportive.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m optimistic.”

There was a pause, then Hikari tilted her head. “Okay but imagine. You walk into the firm, everyone’s stressed, everything’s formal, and then you walk in like—” she straightened her posture dramatically, voice dropping “—‘Good morning, I understand constitutional frameworks and I will ruin your ego in litigation.’”

You snorted. “That is not what I sound like.”

“It is in my dreams.”

“That’s terrifying.”

She grinned. “You’re going to be fine, though. You always are.”

You picked at your noodles. “I hope so.”

“You will be.” She said it more firmly this time. “You’re not the type to not figure things out.”

You glanced up at her. “That’s a lot of faith in someone who almost died emotionally over no internship replies.”

“I said almost.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened now. “What about you, then? What’s your plan for this trip? Besides traumatising strangers in restaurants.”

“I don’t traumatise—”

“You absolutely do.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “Besides enriching the local economy and being culturally immersive.”

“You mean flirting.”

“I mean networking.”

“Same thing in your vocabulary.”

Hikari smiled, unbothered. “I’m going to find you a nice Korean man.”

You froze mid-bite. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Did you miss the entire last ten minutes of my life?”

“That man was one experience,” she said, waving a hand. “We don’t judge an entire population on one emotionally constipated individual.”

“I am judging him specifically.”

“Fair. He was rude.”

“He called you a stalker.”

“He assumed incorrectly,” she corrected. “But still. We move.”

You stared at her. “We are not ‘moving’ into me finding a man.”

“Why are you so against it?”

“Because I didn’t come to Seoul for romance. I came for law. And peace. And maybe slightly less academic burnout.”

Hikari leaned in again, smiling mischievously. “And yet somehow you still got emotionally adopted by chaos in under three hours.”

“That was not adoption.”

“That was destiny.”

You pointed at her with your chopsticks. “Do not start that again.”

She raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No destiny. Just vibes.”

“Better.”

“But I am serious about one thing,” she added, softer now. “You need to stop letting one rude guy in a restaurant ruin your whole night.”

You exhaled. “He didn’t ruin my night.”

“You were two seconds away from prosecuting him in public.”

“He deserved it.”

“He might have been stressed too.”

“That’s not my problem.”

Hikari smiled gently. “Exactly. It’s not your problem.”

You looked at her properly then, tension slowly fading again. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Yes.”

“It’s working a little.”

“I know.” She tapped her glass lightly against yours. “Now eat your food before I decide your next emotional crisis is dessert-based.”

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not a thing.”

“It can be.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” she said proudly, “you love me.”

You shook your head, finally picking up another dumpling. “Unfortunately.”

“Good,” she said brightly. “Because tomorrow, we’re exploring properly. No phones, no LinkedIn spirals, no existential dread.”

“I don’t spiral.”

“You spiralled in the airport.”

“That was research.”

“That was despair.”

You were still halfway turned toward Hikari when you muttered, “I’m going to go pay before you decide dessert is a personality trait.”

Hikari didn’t even look up, just casually twirled her chopsticks like she had all the time in the world. “Too late. It already is.”

You shot her a look. “You’re actually impossible.”

“And yet,” she said, finally glancing up at you with a completely unbothered smile, “you’re still sitting here.”

“That’s not a choice. That’s survival.”

She laughed under her breath and waved you off. “Go. Before I order something dramatic.”

“You already did.”

“I can always escalate.”

You shook your head and walked to the counter.

The front of the restaurant was quieter—warmer somehow, like the noise from your table hadn’t fully reached here. The staff were moving slowly, cleaning up between orders. The woman at the register looked up with a polite, practiced smile.

You spoke in Korean, softer but clear. “Hi, can I get the bill for table—”

She glanced at the screen, then back at you.

“It has already been paid for,” she said gently.

For a second, you just stood there, trying to make that sentence fit into any version of reality that made sense.

“…That’s not possible,” you said slowly. “We literally just finished eating.”

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from just behind you.

Not loud. Not aggressive.

Just close enough that it cut cleanly through your thoughts.

You turned your head first—then fully turned.

And there he was.

The black-haired man from earlier.

But now, without the mask, without the cap, without the barrier of distance or chaos, he looked different in a way your brain didn’t appreciate.

Up close, his features were sharper—defined jaw, straight nose, lips that had a silver ring through the lower one that caught the restaurant lighting every time he moved. A small eyebrow piercing sat above one eye, subtle but impossible to ignore now that you’d seen it. His hair was dark, slightly messy, falling forward in a way that looked unintentional but somehow suited him too well.

His jacket was off, hanging loosely from one hand, revealing more of his frame and the full sleeve of tattoos running down his arm—intricate patterns layered like they meant something personal rather than decorative.

And his eyes—calmer now. Less defensive than earlier, but still alert, like he didn’t fully trust how this conversation was about to go.

He cleared his throat once, a small, controlled sound that made the space feel like it had shifted slightly toward him.

“I paid,” he said, voice steady but a little careful, like he was choosing every word. “For your table.”

You blinked once.

Then slowly turned your head toward the counter again like there was a second explanation hiding somewhere behind the register.

“…You paid…” you repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

You blinked.

Then immediately scoffed. “Why?”

His brows lifted slightly. “Because I wanted to apologise.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No. That’s not an apology. That’s you trying to outsource accountability with noodles and guilt money.”

Behind him, the blonde at the table leaned back like he was watching the best free entertainment of the night.

The black-haired man exhaled through his nose. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” you shot back. “You don’t get to call my friend a stalker, embarrass her in public, and then think you can just… pay your way out of it.”

“I didn’t say I was buying forgiveness,” he replied, sharper now.

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped. “You did it anyway.”

A beat.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You always like this? I’m starting to think you fight people for a living. You secretly in the special services or what?”

Then you stepped forward slightly, expression completely flat.

“Even worse,” you said.

He blinked.

You held his gaze dead steady.

“Law student.”

Silence.

Even the blonde stopped laughing for a second.

The black-haired man stared at you like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about the last five minutes.

“You’re a law student,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes,” you said. “So when I tell you you can’t just assume things about people and fix it with money, I’m not being difficult. I’m explaining reality to you.”

A faint exhale left him—half laugh, half disbelief.

“Oh,” he said. “That explains the attitude.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Attitude?”

“Yeah,” he said, a small smirk forming now despite himself. “The whole ‘I will cross-examine you in public over noodles’ energy.”

“I’m holding you accountable,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing.”

“It feels like the same thing.”

You stepped closer. “It feels like that because you’re wrong.”

He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

“And you’re actually insufferable,” you shot back.

Behind him, the blonde leaned forward again, clearly enjoying how quickly this had escalated again.

The black-haired man didn’t look back this time. His focus stayed on you.

“You really think you can just lecture strangers like that?” he asked.

“I think I can correct disrespect when I see it,” you said immediately.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s called having standards.”

“It’s called entitlement.”

That landed sharper.

You pointed at him. “Entitlement? From you? You accused my friend of something serious, and then tried to erase it with a restaurant bill.”

“I already told you that wasn’t the point.”

“It doesn’t matter what your point was,” you snapped. “It’s still wrong.”

A pause.

He nodded slowly. “You’d be terrifying in court.”

“I know,” you said immediately.

That actually made him pause.

Then, almost like he was testing you now, he added, “You plus that ugly wig would honestly be lethal.”

Your expression went very still.

“Oh my God,” you said slowly. “First of all, those wigs are for barristers, not solicitors.”

He smirked, clearly amused that he’d touched a nerve.

You pointed at him. “Don’t get smug.”

“You were loud.”

“I was accurate.”

“You were rude.”

“I was cautious.”

“You were wrong.”

“I apologised.”

“That’s not enough.”

“What do you want then?” he asked, voice edging a little sharper again. “A formal apology? A written statement? A whole courtroom drama?”

You leaned in slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

That made him pause.

Then he let out a short laugh. “You actually would enjoy that.”

“I would enjoy you understanding consequences.”

He looked at you for a second longer, then exhaled slowly like he’d decided this conversation was never going to end peacefully.

“You’re very intense,” he said, not as an insult this time, more like an observation he couldn’t ignore.

You scoffed immediately. “And you’re very comfortable insulting strangers you don’t know.”

“I didn’t insult—”

“You did,” you cut in. “You assumed intent without knowing anything about the situation.”

His lips pressed together briefly, then he nodded once. “Yeah. I did.”

That answer threw you off for half a second.

Not the denial you expected.

But you didn’t soften.

“Right,” you said instead. “So we agree on that part.”

A pause hung between you.

Then he spoke again, slightly lighter but still careful. “I’m Jeon Jungkook.”

He said it like it mattered.

Like it was supposed to land in a certain way.

You looked at him for a second, expression unchanged.

“Okay,” you said simply.

That clearly wasn’t the reaction he expected.

His brow lifted slightly. “That’s it?”

You shrugged faintly. “Should there be more?”

“I told you my name.”

“And I didn’t ask for it,” you replied evenly.

That made something in his expression twitch—half disbelief, half amusement trying to surface.

He leaned slightly on his heel, eyes still on you. “So you’re just not going to tell me yours?”

You tilted your head. “Why would I?”

A faint smirk appeared on his face now, like he was starting to enjoy this despite himself.

“Seems fair,” he said, voice a little lighter. “But still.”

You crossed your arms. “Still what?”

“You’re just going to leave me with nothing?”

You gave him a look. “You’re a stranger I argued with for ten minutes. I think you’ll recover.”

That made him actually huff a quiet laugh.

From behind him, the blonde leaned back further in his chair, clearly entertained now.

Jungkook glanced over briefly, then back at you, the smirk still there but softer at the edges.

“You don’t usually introduce yourself?” he asked.

“Not when I’ve just been accused of being in a hostage situation at dinner, no.”

His expression flickered—like he was reminded of earlier.

“…That wasn’t what I meant,” he said.

“It’s what you said,” you replied instantly.

Another pause.

Then he exhaled slowly. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

You stepped slightly closer to the counter, grabbing your bag from where it rested. “I don’t let disrespect slide, no.”

He watched you for a second, then tilted his head slightly again.

“So what, I’m just supposed to accept being wrong and move on?”

“Yes,” you said simply.

“I apologised.”

“That was avoidance.”

He stepped slightly closer now, not aggressively, just enough that the conversation tightened again.

“You’re loud,” he said again, like he was revisiting the earlier conclusion.

“I’m clear,” you corrected immediately.

“That’s just loud with structure.”

“I’m going to ignore that sentence.”

“You can’t just ignore it.”

“I just did.”

He smiled slightly wider now. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still standing here arguing with me,” you shot back.

Then he said, quieter but amused, “So are you.”

That landed in a different way.

You stared at him for a second longer, then shifted your bag onto your shoulder.

Hikari had already gotten up behind you, hovering like she had no idea whether to be impressed or terrified.

You grabbed her wrist without looking away from him.

“Come on,” you said flatly.

“Wait—my food—” she started.

“You’ll survive.”

“I was in the middle of—”

“I don’t care.”

You finally looked away from him, just slightly, as you started walking.

No goodbye.

No closure.

Just the sound of your steps and Hikari stumbling slightly behind you.

Behind you, you could hear him still.

Not following.

Just watching.

And, just before the door, his voice cut through once more—lighter now, almost amused.

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You didn’t turn around.

“Pity.” you said instead before smashing the door closed behind you.

[jungkoode]

OUT OF LINE | 07

pairing: taehyung x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 11,2k | warnings: here genre : football AU, arrogant!tae, e2l, smut, unimpressed!reader

"call mom"

“You roll your eyes once and accidentally feed a god complex. Across Madrid, Taehyung spends the rest of the day pretending you don’t matter, which would be more convincing if he weren’t spiraling in designer clothes and liking ferret videos at 1 AM.”

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↦author's note : Hi, Kiki Nation. Welcome back to another episode of Out Of Line, also known as: 'Kim Taehyung should be medically supervised and emotionally restrained, but unfortunately he is rich, hot, and left unattended.'

This chapter is very Taehyung-heavy, which means you are about to spend a concerning amount of time inside the head of a man who thinks self-awareness is something that happens to other people. He is tired. He is horny. He is spiraling. He is watching ferret videos at 1 AM like a divorced mother of three. Character development? No. Character disintegration in a designer hoodie? Absolutely.

We also get more of his family situation here, especially Hyunwoo, and I need you all to understand that this is where some of the rot starts showing through the gold leaf. Taehyung is very good at being arrogant, desirable, untouchable, insufferable, etcetera, etcetera, give him his Ballon d’Or for psychological avoidance. But he is also someone who has built his whole personality around not needing anyone, and then gets mad when being seen feels like being held at gunpoint.

So, yes. He is a menace. Yes, he deserves to be humbled. Yes, Y/N rolling her eyes at him should be studied in universities. But also… there is a reason he is like this. Unfortunately for all of us, I gave him trauma and cheekbones, and now we must live with the consequences.

Also, the ferrets are here. Nube and Hari supremacy. If Taehyung becomes a ferret dad against his will, mind your business. Sometimes a man’s healing journey starts with accidentally liking three videos of a sock thief on Instagram. Who among us, truly.

Thank you so much for reading, commenting, yelling, theorizing, and enabling my little football psychological warfare simulator. I love you all deeply, disgustingly, parasocially. Now go watch this man make everything worse. As he does. As is tradition.

Enjoy the chapter. (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

If that phone rings one more time, someone’s getting their jaw broken.

Taehyung stares at the screen—some action movie Marco picked, explosions and gunfire that should be loud enough to drown out the bzzzzt-bzzzzt-bzzzzt coming from his pocket every thirty fucking seconds—and considers the likelihood of Carlos giving up.

Zero percent.

Carlos never gives up. That’s why he’s still employed despite the fact that Taehyung makes his life a living hell on a bi-weekly basis.

Bzzzzt-bzzzzt.

His eye twitches.

“You seriously not gonna pick up?” Marco mumbles from his seat, sprawled out, feet propped on the headrest in front, one hand buried in the popcorn bowl and the other swiping through Raya with the focus of a man on a mission.

Taehyung catches a glimpse of the screen—blonde, long hair, body that could stop traffic—and Marco swipes right with that specific smile that says he likes what he sees. 

Probably already composing his opener in his head. Something stupid. Something that’ll work anyway because Marco’s got the kind of face that gets away with stupidity.

Taehyung kicks Marco’s legs off the headrest.

Hard.

“Bro—” Marco’s feet hit the floor with a thud, popcorn flying. He twists to the side, offended. “What the fuck?”

“Get your dirty-ass feet off my seats.”

“They’re not even dirty—”

“I don’t care.” Taehyung drops into the seat next to him, immediately propping his own feet up on the headrest Marco just vacated. “My house. My rules.”

Marco stares at him.

Then at Taehyung’s feet.

Then back at him.

“You just gave me shit for—”

“Yeah. And?” Taehyung doesn’t look away from the screen. “It’s my house. I do whatever I want. You don’t.”

“That’s bullshit—”

“Then leave,” he replies, sticking his tongue out. 

Marco slumps back in his seat, muttering something in Italian that’s definitely an insult. But he doesn’t move his feet back up. Just shoves more popcorn in his mouth and goes back to Raya, swiping left on someone who’s probably perfectly nice but committed the cardinal sin of having a bad first photo.

Bzzzzt-bzzzzt-bzzzzt.

Taehyung’s phone goes off again and he genuinely considers throwing it at the wall.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Marco asks, not looking up from his screen.

“Carlos has been on my ass all fucking day and I don’t even know why.”

“So pick up.”

“Did I say I want to know?” Taehyung’s jaw ticks. “I said I don’t know. I intend to keep it that way.”

“Very mature.”

“I’m in my twenties. I’m not supposed to be mature.”

“Pretty sure that’s the opposite of how that works—”

“Is this too much popcorn?”

They both turn.

Leo’s standing in the doorway, holding a bowl so full it’s practically spilling over the sides. The guy looks genuinely concerned about it, like popcorn quantity is a moral dilemma.

Taehyung looks at the bowl.

Looks at Leo.

“That’s like four bowls’ worth.”

“I know.” Leo shifts his weight. “But I didn’t know how much you guys wanted, so I just—”

“Brought enough to feed the whole squad,” Marco finishes, grinning. “Solid plan. Come here, give me that.”

Leo brightens, crossing the room and handing over the bowl. Marco immediately digs in with both hands like he hasn’t been eating popcorn for the last twenty minutes.

“There’s more in the kitchen if we run out,” Leo adds, dropping into the seat on Taehyung’s other side.

“We’re not gonna run out,” Taehyung says flatly.

“You don’t know that—”

“Leo. It’s popcorn. If we run out, we make more. It’s not a crisis.”

“But what if—”

“Jesus Christ.” Marco leans forward, looking past Taehyung at Leo. “You stress about the weirdest shit, bro. It’s popcorn. Chill.”

“I’m chill—”

“You’re the opposite of chill. You’re like, aggressively un-chill.” Marco’s already back on his phone, thumb moving in that practiced swipe-swipe-swipe rhythm. “Oh shit. Her.”

“Her who?” Leo asks.

“That model. The one from the shoot last month.” 

Marco shows them his screen—some girl with cheekbones that could cut glass and a caption in Spanish that’s probably poetic but comes across as try-hard.

“Ha! She liked me back.”

“Congrats,” Taehyung says, not looking. “You gonna message her or just stare at her profile like a fucking creep?”

“Fuck off. I’m crafting.”

“You’ve been staring at her for thirty seconds.”

“I’m using all my brainpower here, gimme a second.” 

Marco’s typing now, that little smirk on his face that means he’s saying something absolutely unhinged. 

“Okay. Sent.”

“What’d you say?”

Marco locks his phone, tossing it onto the empty seat beside him. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be fun.”

“It’s gonna be something stupid—”

“It’s gonna work—”

Bzzzzt-bzzzzt-bzzzzt.

Taehyung’s phone goes off again and this time it doesn’t stop. Just keeps buzzing, insistent and angry, and he knows—knows—that Carlos is about three seconds away from showing up at his house and breaking down the door.

“Dude.” Leo’s looking at him now, concerned. “That’s like the tenth time. Maybe you should—”

“I’m not picking up.”

“But—”

“Drop it.”

Leo shuts his mouth.

Marco doesn’t.

“What’d you do this time?” He’s already forgotten about the model, attention back on Taehyung with that knowing look. “And don’t say nothing. Carlos doesn’t call eleven times for nothing.”

“I don’t know what I did.” 

And he genuinely doesn’t. Could be anything. Could be the club thing from that night—the fifteen grand thing—or it could be some interview he forgot about or some sponsor event he blew off. Carlos keeps a mental list of Taehyung’s fuckups and pulls from it whenever he’s bored. 

“And I don’t care.”

“You’re gonna have to care eventually—”

“Why?” Taehyung shifts in his seat, finally looking at Marco. “He gets paid to deal with my shit. That’s literally his job.”

“Pretty sure his job is to manage you, not parent you—”

The phone stops buzzing.

Silence.

Taehyung exhales.

“See?” He settles back, eyes returning to the screen where someone’s getting thrown through a window. “He gave up.”

“He didn’t give up,” Marco says. “He’s regrouping.”

“You’re so dramatic—”

His phone buzzes once.

Text notification.

Taehyung ignores it.

Ten seconds later, it buzzes again.

Then again.

Then it starts ringing—that specific ringtone he assigned to Carlos after the man called him at 3 AM about a missed photo shoot. 

Loud. Aggressive. Impossible to ignore.

“Bro.” Leo’s practically cringing in his seat. “Just answer it—”

“No.”

“He’s not gonna stop—”

“I know.”

Marco’s laughing now, head tipped back against the seat. “Oh my god. You’re actually gonna let him have an aneurysm.”

“He’s fine. He’s got good health insurance.”

The ringing stops.

Starts again.

Stops.

Starts.

And then Taehyung’s phone buzzes with a text that lights up the whole screen, visible even from here.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝙿𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚛 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

Taehyung’s entire body goes rigid.

“Oh shit—” Marco’s cackling now, actually wheezing. “He’s bringing in the big guns—”

“He wouldn’t—”

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶.

Taehyung’s hand twitches.

Carlos wouldn’t.

Carlos absolutely would.

“Wooooow.” Marco’s grinning so wide it looks painful. “Leashed at last. Mama’s boy. Pussy.”

Taehyung flips him off without looking, already scoffing and about to put his phone back in his pocket.

“I’m not a—”

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝟷𝟶 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜.

He stands up. 

He swipes to answer, already walking toward the door because if he’s gonna get yelled at, he’s not doing it in front of Marco’s smug fucking face.

“What—”

“WHAT?” Carlos’s voice comes through the speaker so loud Taehyung has to hold the phone away from his ear. “WHAT? That’s what you’re starting with? WHAT?”

Taehyung reaches the hallway, door closing behind him, and yawns.

Long. Deliberate. Jaw cracking.

“Are you yawning—”

“Yeah. Long day.” Another yawn, just to make the point. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Carlos sounds like he’s about to spontaneously combust. “What’s up is that I’ve been calling you for two hours—”

“Has it been two hours? Didn’t notice.”

“—and you’ve been ignoring me—”

“Busy.”

“Busy doing what—”

“Watching a movie.”

“You’re watching a—” Carlos makes a sound that’s half laugh, half dying animal. “You’re watching a movie. While I’m having a stroke trying to manage your disaster of a—”

Taehyung leans against the wall, inspecting his nails.

This is gonna be a long one.

He can tell.

Carlos is one of those people who starts loud and just gets louder. Builds momentum like a freight train until he’s reached peak hysteria and Taehyung’s ears are bleeding.

He estimates 6 minutes at least. They’re at the beginning of the climb right now.

“—do you have any idea what I woke up to this morning? Any idea?”

“Your alarm?”

“Funny.” Carlos doesn’t sound amused. “I woke up to twenty-six messages from the PR team. Twenty-six. You know what they were about?”

Taehyung yawns again.

He genuinely can’t help it. His body’s doing that thing where it just shuts down mid-conversation, eyelids heavy, brain fog rolling in. Could fall asleep standing up right now if he let himself.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say me?”

“Correct.” Carlos’s voice sharpens. “You. Specifically, you and a very interesting set of photographs that are currently circulating on MadridGossip.”

Taehyung frowns.

Photographs?

He tries to think back—the party, but he was careful. Didn’t let anyone get photos of him leaving with Hot #848. Didn’t post anything stupid. Marco handled all the socials.

“What photographs?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Carlos sounds delighted in that specific way that means Taehyung’s about to get fucked. “Let me paint you a picture. Friday morning. Residential neighborhood. Very nice house. You, in the doorway—looking very intense—”

“I was just—”

“The photos say otherwise.” Carlos keeps going. “Your foot—quite clearly—shoved in the door. And a girl, also in very casual clothing, looking like she’s about to murder you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your house.

Friday morning.

When he showed up for the appointment and you were standing there in that sleep shirt and shorts, hair a disaster, face bare, looking at him like he was a stain on your carpet.

When he put his foot in the door because you tried to slam it on him.

Shit.

“Okay—” Taehyung starts.

“I’m not done.” Carlos cuts him off. “Do you know who that girl is?”

“Yeah—”

“Jesús’s daughter. The new head physio’s daughter. The man who literally just started with the club.”

“I know who she—”

“And now,” Carlos continues, voice climbing, “there are approximately fifteen different gossip accounts running with this story. Some think it’s a secret relationship. Some think it’s a hookup. But the majority—the one that’s trending—is that there’s trouble in the Madrid family. That the new physio’s daughter is causing problems with the players. That she’s—and I quote—‘already starting drama with Madrid’s number two.’”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens.

That’s not—

That’s not what happened.

He went there for treatment. For his back. Because Jesús offered home services and Taehyung’s schedule is fucked and it was convenient.

And yeah, maybe he pushed your buttons a little. Maybe he enjoyed making you snap. Maybe he got hard as hell and pressed up against you just to see what you’d do.

But that’s not drama.

That’s just—

That’s just him.

“It was a medical appointment,” he says flatly.

“I know it was a medical appointment.” Carlos sounds exhausted now. “But these photos don’t look like a medical appointment. They look like a fight. And now everyone’s speculating about what’s going on between you two.”

“There’s nothing going on—”

“I know that too!” Carlos’s voice spikes again. “But the narrative doesn’t care about reality. The narrative cares about what sells. And right now, what’s selling is ‘Taehyung and the physio’s daughter: trouble in paradise.’”

Taehyung lets his head fall back against the wall.

This is so fucking boring.

He didn’t even do anything. Just showed up, got his back worked on, flirted a little, and left. That’s it. That’s the whole story.

But somehow it’s become this whole thing.

“What do you want me to do about it?” he asks.

“I want you to kill the narrative.”

“How.”

“The usual way.” Carlos says it like it’s obvious. “Be seen with someone else. Publicly. Immediately. Give them a different story to chase.”

Taehyung processes this.

Blinks once.

“So you’re saying I just need to fuck around with someone.”

“I’m saying you need to be photographed with someone appropriate—”

“Yeah yeah, same thing.” 

He’s already running through his roster in his head. Hot #848—the blonde from the party—she’d probably be down. Or literally anyone else who knows how this works.

“That’s easy. I can do that in my sleep.”

He’s not really joking about that one. 

He’s pretty convinced he could. 

“This is not a joke—”

“I’m not joking.” Taehyung straightens up, suddenly more awake. “You want me seen with someone else? Done. I’ll take her somewhere real public. Wherever. Just text me the details.”

“Taehyung—”

“What? You just said kill the narrative. I’m killing the narrative.” 

He’s already thinking logistics. 

Tonight? 

Tomorrow? 

How fast does Carlos need this done? 

“I literally do this every weekend anyway. Now I just have to make sure someone’s watching. Easy.”

Carlos makes a sound like he’s being strangled.

“You’re missing the point—”

“No, you’re missing the point.” Taehyung’s patience is wearing thin now. “You want photos? I’ll give you photos. You want a new story? I’ll give you a story. But don’t act like this is some big complicated thing when we both know it’s not.”

“The point is that you need to be careful—”

“I’m always careful—”

“You had your foot in her door—”

“Because she tried to close it—”

“Why the FUCK are you harassing the physio’s daughter, Taehyung?!” 

Okay, that was definitely a yell from Carlos. 

Full volume. 

“Look—I don’t care about the context. I care about optics. And right now, the optics are that you’re causing problems with staff families. Do you understand how bad that looks? How much the club hates that?”

Taehyung’s jaw ticks.

He gets it.

He does.

The club has rules. Invisible lines. 

Don’t fuck the physio’s daughter. Don’t fuck your teammate’s sister. Don’t fuck anyone who can cause complicated political nightmares if it goes south.

He knows the rules.

They’re just fucking annoying and fucking boring.

And also—he  doesn’t really care about them.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “I’ll fix it.”

“You’ll—”

“I said I’ll fix it.” His patience officially hits zero. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. I’ll be seen with someone else and everyone will forget about the physio’s daughter thing. Happy?”

Carlos is silent for a long moment.

Then: “Just—don’t make it worse.”

“I never make it worse—”

“You always make it worse—”

Taehyung hangs up.

Stands there for a second in the hallway, phone in hand, staring at nothing.

He feels his thoughts slow down and his eyelids get heavier and everything feels like it’s moving through honey.

He could sleep right here. Right now. Just slide down the wall and pass out on the floor.

Shakes his head instead.

Pushes off the wall and heads back into the cinema room.

Marco and Leo both look up when he walks in.

“Sooo?” Marco’s grinning. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” Taehyung drops back into his seat, immediately propping his feet up again. “Apparently someone got photos of me at her house.”

Leo blinks. “The physio’s daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Why were you at her house?”

“Medical appointment.” Taehyung reaches for the popcorn bowl, shoving a handful in his mouth. “And I kinda wanted to test the waters at her house. See what it could lead to.”

Marco’s head snaps up from his phone, grin spreading slow and knowing. “Let me guess. Led to nothing.”

“She tried to slam the door in my face.”

Marco cackles. 

“Oh my god. She literally—” He can’t finish, already wheezing. “Bro, you called dibs and she’s still not biting.”

“She’ll bite.”

“When? You’ve been at this since like, what, training started?” Marco’s scrolling through his phone now, clearly looking for the photos. “Oh shit. Found them.”

He turns his screen around.

There it is.

Taehyung in your doorway, one arm braced on the frame, foot jammed in the door. 

And you—face caught mid-scowl, hand on the door like you’re about to shove him out.

The caption reads: TROUBLE IN PARADISE? Madrid’s #2 spotted in heated confrontation with new physio’s daughter. Witnesses say the argument lasted several minutes before he was let inside. 👀🔥 #RealMadrid #Drama #MadridGossip

“Heated confrontation,” Marco reads aloud, laughing. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I wasn’t confronting her—”

“You look like you’re about to either fight her or fuck her.” Marco zooms in on the photo. “Honestly could go either way.”

Leo leans over, squinting at the screen. “Wait. Is that—is your foot in her door?”

“She tried to close it on me.”

“So you blocked it.” Leo sits back, looking genuinely impressed. “That’s kind of psycho, bro.”

“It’s not psycho, it’s—” Taehyung stops. “Whatever. Carlos wants me to kill the narrative. Wants me seen with someone else.”

“Oh, so you need someone for optics.” Marco’s already thinking, that look he gets when he’s about to make moves. “I can make some calls. What’s your type for this? Model? Influencer?”

“I don’t care.” Taehyung’s eyes are getting heavy again. “Just someone who knows how it works. Someone who won’t make it weird.”

“I know this girl, Daiane. Brazilian model, did that campaign with Versace last month. She’s hot, good with cameras, doesn’t do clingy.”

“Fine.”

“Or there’s this actress—Eliana something—she’s always at the clubs, super photogenic—”

“I said fine.” Taehyung yawns, jaw cracking. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” Marco says, still scrolling.

“Yeah, well.”

Leo’s still looking at the photo on Marco’s phone, expression thoughtful.

“You know,” he says slowly, “you could just… not do anything.”

Both Taehyung and Marco turn to stare at him.

“What?”

“I’m just saying.” Leo shrugs, uncomfortable under their attention. “Like—if you’re not actually doing anything with her, why does it matter what people think? It’ll blow over in like a week when something else happens.”

“Because the club cares,” Taehyung says flatly.

“But do they?” Leo’s warming to his argument now. “Like, you’re Kim Taehyung. You’re the best defender. They’re not gonna do shit to you over some gossip photos.”

Marco snorts. “He’s got a point.”

“He doesn’t—”

“No, he kinda does.” Marco finally looks up from his phone. “You could literally get caught doing lines off a ref’s ass and the club would find a way to spin it. Some photos of you at a girl’s house? That’s nothing.”

Taehyung stares at them both.

They’re not wrong.

The club needs him more than he needs them. His contract’s worth too much. His performance stats are too good. They’re not gonna bench him or trade him over tabloid speculation.

But still.

Carlos sounded stressed.

And when Carlos is stressed, Taehyung’s life gets annoying.

“I’m still doing it,” he says finally. “Rather just fix it now than deal with Carlos having a breakdown every fucking day for the next week. I’m already exhausted with today.”

“Fair.” Marco goes back to his phone. “Alright, I’ll text Daiane. See if she’s free this week.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Carlos wants it done fast.” Taehyung closes his eyes. “So tomorrow.”

“You’re gonna make me work miracles here—”

“That’s literally why I keep you around—”

“I thought it was my charming personality—”

“Never that—”

Leo cuts in. “What if she says no?”

“She won’t,” Marco says confidently, typing rapidly. “Girls love being seen with him. Free publicity. Plus Daiane’s smart—she knows how this works.”

Taehyung lets them talk, brain already half-gone.

He’ll show up with her. Smile for the cameras. Put his arm around whoever. Let them take their photos. 

And by Wednesday, everyone will have forgotten about you and your door and the way you looked at him like he was nothing.

Problem solved.

Easy.

Marco’s still talking. “—and if Daiane doesn’t work, there’s always this DJ I know, super cool, always at the right parties—”

Taehyung’s not listening anymore.

He’s thinking about Friday morning.

About the way you looked in that sleep shirt.

About your bare legs and messy hair and the complete lack of interest in your eyes.

About the way his dick responded when you shoved him away.

He opens his eyes.

Stares at the movie screen without seeing it.

Yeah.

Tomorrow.

He’ll fix it… tomorrow.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The Valdebebas parking lot has never felt like a stage before.

Until now.

Taehyung pulls his Porsche into his usual spot—third from the entrance, prime visibility, close enough to the building that everyone coming and going gets a good look—and kills the engine.

Daiane's already checking her reflection in the visor mirror, touching up lip gloss that doesn't need touching up. She's got that model thing down—the constant performance, the awareness of angles even when no one's watching.

Someone's always watching.

That's what she said when he picked her up this morning, laughing like it was a joke but meaning every word.

She's right, too.

There's already a cluster of staff near the entrance pretending not to stare. Two equipment managers. Someone from media relations. A grounds crew guy who's been ‘sweeping’ the same three square meters for the past forty-five seconds.

Taehyung grins.

Perfect.

"Ready?" he asks, not really asking.

Daiane caps her gloss, tosses her hair—long, blonde, catches the morning light like spun gold—and gives him a smile that's pure camera-ready warmth.

"Always."

He gets out first. Takes his time about it. Stretches slightly, rolling his shoulders, letting his training jacket shift and settle. The chain catches light. The watch catches light. Everything about him catches light because that's the point—that's always the point.

Then he rounds the car and opens her door.

Holds out his hand.

She takes it, unfolding from the passenger seat with the kind of grace that comes from years of runway training. Her heels hit the asphalt. Her dress—short, designer, definitely not training-facility-appropriate—rides up just enough to show off legs that go on for approximately seven kilometers.

They start walking.

His hand finds the small of her back. Natural. Proprietary. The kind of touch that says she's with me without him having to say a word.

The equipment managers have stopped pretending to work.

Media relations girl has her phone out—probably texting someone, probably already spreading the news.

Grounds crew guy has given up on sweeping entirely.

Good.

This is exactly what Carlos wanted. Optics. A new story. Something to replace the narrative of him and the physio's daughter having some kind of dramatic confrontation.

And if it happens to cause a scene at the training facility?

If it happens to break that unwritten rule about keeping personal shit away from professional spaces?

Well.

Nobody ever accused Kim Taehyung of following rules.

They reach the entrance and he pushes through, Daiane's heels clicking against tile now as they step into the main corridor.

It's busier inside.

Players filtering toward the locker rooms. Staff moving between offices. That constant hum of activity that means training's about to start and everyone's running slightly behind.

Heads turn.

Every head turns.

He watches it happen in real-time—the recognition, the confusion, the double-takes. Players who've known him for years stopping mid-conversation to stare at the six-foot blonde on his arm like she materialized from another dimension.

Which, in a way, she did.

Nobody brings dates to training.

It's not a written rule. There's no policy, no clause in anyone's contract. It's just... not done. Training is sacred. Professional. The one space where the circus of their public lives is supposed to stay outside.

And Taehyung just walked in with a Versace campaign model in four-inch heels.

Marco spots him first.

Of course Marco spots him first.

The guy's got radar for chaos—can sense drama from three rooms away like some kind of gossip-detecting bloodhound.

His face goes through approximately seven expressions in two seconds: surprise, confusion, recognition, disbelief, and finally settling on pure, unfiltered delight.

"Bro," Marco says, loud enough that half the corridor hears him. "Did you seriously—"

"Marco." Taehyung's grin sharpens. "This is Daiane. Daiane, Marco."

"Charmed," Daiane says, all warmth and practiced charm.

Marco's still staring at Taehyung like he can't decide if this is genius or insanity.

Both, probably.

That's usually how it goes.

"You brought her to training," Marco says, not quite a question.

"She wanted to see how it works." Taehyung shrugs, completely unbothered. "Who am I to say no?"

"You're—" Marco stops. Laughs. Shakes his head. "Okay. Alright. You're actually insane. I respect it."

"I know."

They keep walking.

More stares. More whispers. Someone—he thinks it's one of the younger midfielders—actually takes a photo before remembering he's not supposed to and shoving his phone away.

Taehyung files that away for later. Might need to have a word with the kid about discretion.

Or not.

The whole point is being seen.

The physio room's coming up on the left.

His pulse does something, tiny uptick that he attributes to the adrenaline of causing a scene.

The door's propped open.

He can see inside—the treatment tables, the equipment, Jesús organizing something in the corner with his back turned.

And you.

You're there.

Standing by the cabinet, pulling out supplies, wearing scrubs that shouldn't look as good as they do. Your hair's pulled back—that ponytail you always wear when you're working—and your face is set in that neutral expression he's starting to recognize as your default.

You haven't noticed him yet.

Or you're pretending you haven't.

Same thing, really.

He slows his pace slightly. Just enough to make sure you'll see.

Daiane's still on his arm, still radiating that model energy, still dressed like she's about to walk a runway instead of tour a football facility.

Come on.

Look up.

Look—

You look up.

Your eyes find him.

Then Daiane.

Then back to him.

And your eyebrows draw together for half a second, your mouth pressing into a line, your whole demeanor radiating such profound ‘are you serious right now’ energy that he can practically hear it.

Then you roll your eyes.

Not a subtle eye roll. Not a polite, restrained, ‘I'll-pretend-I-didn't-see-that’ eye roll.

A full eye roll, the kind that involves your entire face, your neck tilting back slightly, your lashes practically brushing your hairline before returning to their original position.

He wants it framed. He wants it tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. He wants to text Carlos ‘worth every euro’ and not explain.

It's magnificent.

It's the most beautifully disdainful thing he's ever witnessed.

Marco—who's been walking slightly behind, still grinning like he's watching his favorite show—actually laughs. Out loud. A surprised bark of amusement that echoes off the corridor walls.

"Oh my god," Marco wheezes. "Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?"

Taehyung grins.

Victory.

A reaction. An acknowledgment. Proof that he exists in your consciousness, that you can't completely ignore him no matter how hard you try.

You might not care about him.

But you definitely noticed.

He holds your gaze for exactly two seconds—long enough to make his point, not long enough to seem desperate—before looking away and continuing down the corridor.

"She hates you," Daiane observes mildly, not sounding particularly concerned about it.

"She hates everyone."

"That's a lot of hate."

"She's got the capacity."

They reach the end of the corridor. He deposits Daiane in the players' lounge—nice couches, good coffee, plenty of staff who'll keep her entertained—with instructions to wait there until training's over.

"And then?" she asks, that knowing smile playing at her lips.

"And then we'll see."

She laughs, settling onto the couch like she belongs there, and he heads toward the locker room to change.

He tugs the shirt down. Runs a hand through his hair. Catches his reflection in the locker door and the grin’s still sitting on his face like it’s been left there.

You looked. You looked and you couldn’t keep your face still and that means—somewhere under all the bored and the blinking and the ‘is there a point to this’—there’s a wire he can pull. 

He just pulled it. 

Wants to pull it again. 

“You look like you just won the fucking lottery,” Marco says from the bench. “Stop.”

“Mind your business.”

“You brought a model to training—”

“And it worked.”

“What worked—”

“Forget it.”

Marco mutters something Italian. Probably a slur. He doesn’t care.

He finishes changing, grabs his cleats, heads out to the pitch.

The morning's bright. Clear skies, perfect temperature, that specific quality of Spanish light that makes everything look sharp and vivid.

Training's already starting—players spreading out for warm-ups, coaches calling instructions, the familiar rhythm of professional football in motion.

He joins them. Falls into the routine.

He jogs out, rolls his neck, stretches through his shoulders with extra. A little loose-limbed. A little ‘look at me.’

He looks toward the bench.

You’re there.

Tablet on your lap. Ponytail. That face you wear when you’re working that’s not really a face, it’s an absence of one. Your father’s by the cones with one of the juniors, and you’re three meters away pretending the entire pitch doesn’t exist.

You haven’t looked up.

Fine. Fine. It’s early. The session just started. He’s not going to be the guy who’s ten seconds into warm-ups and already tracking some girl’s eyeline.

Drills.

Defensive shape. He’s loud in the line, calling the center-backs, bossing the kid on the left who keeps stepping wrong. Reads a simulated overlap two beats early and pops the ball out with the outside of his boot, and the noise it makes is good, that thunk that means he hit it exactly where he meant to.

He glances toward the bench.

You’re scrolling.

Okay.

Drills again. He puts a shoulder into the forward coming down his side a little harder than the drill calls for. The kid stumbles. Marco’s eyebrows go up. He plants his feet, flicks the ball back into play.

Glance.

Your thumb’s still moving on the screen.

You didn’t even feel that. The whole wing collapsed and you didn’t feel it.

He wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Lets it ride up. He knows what he looks like. He’s spent enough hours in the gym to know exactly what the cut of his stomach does in the morning light, and he knows there are at least four cameras on the sidelines that just got fed a very good frame.

Glance.

Tablet now. You switched back to the tablet.

What the fuck is on that tablet.

Whistle. They run it again. 

He intercepts a ball that wasn’t really meant for him to intercept, just to do it, and pings it back across the pitch on a diagonal that makes one of the assistants whistle. 

"Excellent ball, Tae!"

Yeah. Obviously.

Glance.

Your phone now. You went from the tablet back to the phone. So whatever’s on the phone is more compelling than the tablet which was already more compelling than him. 

He’s rated below two pieces of consumer electronics in your morning hierarchy and one of them is probably just fucking dumb Whatsapp.

His jaw moves. Once. He shakes it out.

He’s the best right-back in this league. He’s the best right-back in most leagues. He just made a play that’s going to be on someone’s highlight reel by tonight. There are children in multiple countries who own a jersey with his name on it. 

And you’re texting?

Drills again.

He slides into a tackle that doesn’t need to be a slide. Lands clean—he’s too good not to land clean—but his body went down harder than the angle required. 

Ball pops up. Marco collects. Marco gives him a what. He gives Marco nothing.

Glance.

You yawn. You yawn. Hand to your wrist, polite, contained, not even a dramatic yawn—a bored yawn, a somebody’s lecture is going long yawn—and you don’t even bother to hide it because your eyes are still on the screen and your father isn’t watching you so why would you.

He hates that.

He doesn’t know what to do with how much he hates that.

He takes his position. Spits on the grass. Tells himself focus, in the voice he uses on himself when he’s about to do something he’ll have to apologize for in the post-match.

Whistle.

The play unfolds and he’s there, he’s exactly where he needs to be, body doing the work without his brain because his brain is—somewhere else. 

Somewhere on the bench. 

Somewhere on a small screen he can’t see the contents of. 

He intercepts. Wins the ball. Drives forward. Lays it off to Marco. Gets it back. Turns. Whips a cross in that nobody’s there to meet because it’s a drill, it’s not a real play, but the cross itself is clean, the cross is the kind of ball that makes people remember why his contract is what it is.

Glance.

Coach calls a water break and he’s barely sweating but he’s irritated in a way that feels like sweat, that prickly under-skin thing. 

He grabs a bottle. Squirts half of it into his mouth and the other half down his neck. The cold is good. The cold helps.

You’re still on your phone.

You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked up. There has been an entire match’s worth of action in front of you and you have, what—sat there. Scrolled. Yawned. Adjusted your ponytail at one point, he caught that because he was looking, of course he was looking.

What is on that phone.

Who are you texting.

You don’t even like people. You probably have like four contacts. That’s the whole thing about you, the whole bit, the whole reason the eye roll meant something—you don’t engage, you don’t perform, you sit in a room and let it happen around you and judge it silently. 

So who the fuck has earned enough of your attention that you’re typing back.

By the time coach calls the end of the session, Taehyung's drenched in sweat and his muscles are screaming and he's so fucking irritated that he doesn't trust himself to speak to anyone.

Fuck this.

It doesn't matter if you're watching.

It doesn't matter if you care.

He's here to train. To be the best. To prove—to everyone—that he's exactly as good as he knows he is.

Your attention means nothing.

Your complete lack of attention means less than nothing.

"Bro." Marco falls into step beside him as they head toward the locker room. "You okay? You were like... intense out there."

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you were—"

"I said I'm fine."

Marco holds his hands up. "Alright, alright. Just asking."

They walk in silence for a few seconds.

"Daiane's still in the lounge," Marco offers. "Saw her on my way out. She looks bored as hell but she's handling it."

"Good."

More steps in silence.

Then Marco, because he can never leave anything alone: "You gonna hit that later?"

"What do you think."

"I think you look like you need to hit something." Marco's grin is pure sleaze. "Or fuck someone. Preferably someone with legs like hers."

Taehyung doesn't respond.

Just lets his body do its usual thing again—that post-exertion crash where all the adrenaline drains out at once and leaves him hollow. Heavy. Like someone's slowly filling his veins with concrete.

He needs to sit down.

Needs to sleep.

Needs to fuck.

That last one's not negotiable. His whole body's wound too tight, irritation and exhaustion and something else he's not examining tangled together in his chest. 

Sex will fix it. Sex always fixes it.

They push through the locker room doors. The space is already filling up with players—the noise of conversation, lockers slamming, someone's music playing from a speaker in the corner.

Marco drops onto the bench next to Taehyung's locker, sprawling out like his balls need the air.

"You know what you should do?"

"I'm gonna regret asking."

"Take her in here." Marco gestures expansively at the shower stalls. "Right now. Before everyone clears out."

Taehyung pauses mid-reach for his towel. Stares at Marco.

"You're joking."

"I'm not." Marco's grinning now, that specific smile that means he's about to share wisdom nobody asked for. "Bro, locker room sex? Incredible. The risk. The thrill. Someone could walk in any second. Your heart's already pounding from training—"

"You've fucked in a locker room."

"Multiple times."

"Here?"

"Here, away games, that one time in Milan—" Marco waves a hand dismissively. "Point is, it's amazing. You should try it."

Taehyung shuts his locker. Turns to look at Marco fully.

"Let me explain something to you."

"Oh god, here we go—"

"Fucking in the locker room—" 

"I said shower stalls though—"

"—means you're so fucking desperate that you can't make it somewhere private. It means you're so goddamn horny that your brain has completely stopped functioning. That you literally cannot think with your actual head because all the blood's gone somewhere else."

Marco's grin doesn't falter. "Yeah. And?"

"And—" Taehyung grabs his bag. "—I don't get like that. Ever. If I'm fucking someone, I'm doing it properly. In a bed. Or at least somewhere with a lock on the door. Not in some tiled room that smells like feet where anyone could walk in."

"You're missing out."

"I'm really not."

"The adrenaline alone—"

"I get plenty of adrenaline." Taehyung slings his bag over his shoulder. "I’m just not that fucking down bad, Christ. As if I wasn’t getting any, get real."

Marco shrugs, unbothered. "Your loss, bro. Some of my best work has happened in locker room shower stalls."

"That says more about you than you think it does."

"It says I know how to have fun."

"It says you're a degenerate."

"Your degenerate." Marco blows him a kiss. "Now go fuck your model. You look like you're about to pass out."

He's not wrong. The exhaustion is hitting harder now—that all-consuming tiredness that makes his eyelids feel like they're weighted. His body's screaming for sleep, for horizontal surfaces, for unconsciousness.

But first: Daiane.

After a quick shower, he makes his way to the players' lounge, moving on autopilot, and finds her exactly where he left her.

She's scrolling through her phone, legs crossed, looking up when she hears his footsteps. Her smile shifts into something warmer when she sees him—genuine, interested, the kind of smile that says she knows exactly where this is going and she's into it.

"Survived training?" she asks.

"Barely." 

He stops in front of her, letting his gaze drag down slow. Taking his time. She's still in that dress—too short, too tight, absolutely perfect. 

"You bored out of your mind?"

"Little bit." She stands, closing the distance between them. "The coffee here is terrible."

"I'll make it up to you."

"Will you?" Her eyebrow arches. Playful. Knowing.

God, he loves this part.

The negotiation. The dance. Two people who know exactly what they want, circling each other until someone makes the first move.

He reaches out, fingers brushing her hip, pulling her closer.

"My place has better coffee."

"Does it?"

"And a bed."

"Oh?" Her lips curve. "What would we need a bed for?"

He grins. Leans down. Lets his mouth brush her ear, voice dropping low.

"I've got a few ideas."

She shivers. Just slightly. Just enough.

Yeah.

This is what he needed.

Something simple. Something easy. A beautiful woman who wants him, who knows how this works, who'll let him lose himself in her for a few hours until his brain stops racing and his body stops being so fucking heavy.

He takes her hand. Threads his fingers through hers.

"Come on."

She follows without hesitation.

They pass through the corridor, past the training rooms, past the entrance where staff are still pretending not to watch.

Let them watch.

Let them take their photos.

Let Carlos have his new narrative.

He's got better things to focus on, like the way Daiane's hand feels in his. The way her hips move when she walks. The way her lips look—full and glossy and biteable.

They reach his car. He opens her door. Watches her slide in, legs shifting, dress riding up.

Yeah.

This is exactly what he needs.

By the time he's behind the wheel, pulling out of the lot, the exhaustion's still there—that heavy, dragging thing that never fully leaves—but it's muted now. Pushed aside by anticipation.

Daiane's hand lands on his thigh.

Squeezes.

He grins.

Better things to focus on.

The thing about being the best is that it's exhausting.

Not the actual being part. That comes naturally. Taehyung's been the best at everything he's ever touched—football, women, looking good in a suit, knowing exactly what to say to make people love him or fear him or both. 

No, the exhausting part is the maintenance. The constant awareness of his own superiority. The energy it takes to project ’I don't give a fuck’ when, in reality, every room he enters is a chess board and every person in it is a piece to be positioned.

He's good at it.

The best, actually.

But tonight, none of that matters.

Tonight, he has dinner with Hyunwoo.

The restaurant is one of those places that doesn't need a sign outside because if you don't already know where it is, you can't afford to eat there anyway. Private rooms. Michelin stars. The kind of hushed, reverent atmosphere that makes everyone speak in murmurs like they're in church. 

Taehyung doesn't hate it—the food's excellent, the wine list is impeccable, and the staff know how to be invisible when you need them to be. He's been here dozens of times with sponsors, with teammates, with women he wanted to impress.

He hates that Hyunwoo always picks it.

Every month. Same restaurant. Same private room in the back. Same pretense that they're a normal family doing a normal thing, catching up over dinner like brothers who actually talk outside of these scheduled obligations.

They don't.

They haven't in years.

Not since Taehyung stopped coming home for holidays. Not since he started screening his mother's calls. Not since he realized that no amount of trophies or headlines would ever change the way his parents looked at him.

He pushes through the restaurant's entrance, nods at the maître who recognizes him immediately, and follows the familiar path to the private room. His reflection catches in a mirror as he passes—dark suit, perfect fit, the kind of effortless elegance that takes a stupid amount of money and an even stupider amount of time to achieve.

He looks good.

He always looks good.

That's the one thing nobody can take from him.

Hyunwoo's already there, because of course he is. Hyunwoo is never late. Hyunwoo is never unprepared. Hyunwoo is never anything less than exactly what he's supposed to be at any given moment. He's sitting at the table with a woman next to him—Nerea, his fiancée. Spanish. Beautiful in that effortless Mediterranean way, dark hair and warm eyes and the kind of easy smile that makes everyone around her feel comfortable.

She fits Hyunwoo perfectly.

Two people who've never had a messy moment in their lives, sitting there looking like a spread from some lifestyle magazine. There's a phone propped against a water glass between them, and as Taehyung approaches, he catches a glimpse of the screen—a video call, tiny hands waving at the camera, a babysitter's voice cooing in the background.

Tatiana.

Their daughter.

Seven months old and already the center of Hyunwoo's universe, if the way his entire face softens when he looks at the screen is any indication.

"Taehyung-ah."

Hyunwoo stands as he enters, and the warmth in his voice is genuine. That's the worst part—it always sounds genuine. 

He pulls Taehyung into a hug, one of those brief but firm embraces that feels like it means something.

"Hyung." Taehyung returns the Korean for as long as the hug lasts—exactly 1.5 secondsa—then pulls back, switching to English. "Nerea. Good to see you."

"You too." She tilts the phone toward him, and he catches a flash of round cheeks, dark eyes, a tuft of black hair that sticks up at odd angles. "Say hi to tío Taehyung, cariño."

He doesn't know what to do with the baby.

Never has.

He waves awkwardly at the screen—a gesture that feels foreign on his body, too soft, too normal—and the baby blinks at him with an expression that looks distinctly unimpressed. 

Fair enough. He's not great with kids. Doesn't know how to be. 

The babysitter says something in rapid Spanish, Nerea responds in kind, and then the call ends and the phone disappears into her purse.

"She's getting big," Taehyung offers, because that's what people say about babies.

"She's trying to crawl," Hyunwoo says, pride leaking into his voice despite his obvious attempt to sound casual. "Scooting everywhere. Nerea's baby-proofed the entire apartment."

"The entire apartment," Nerea confirms, laughing. "Even his office. She found his architectural models last week. Nearly ate a miniature Sagrada Familia."

Taehyung takes his seat across from them, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. 

"You look tired, Taehyung," Nerea says, tilting her head. "Long week?"

He doesn't flinch at the observation.

"Season's ramping up. You know how it is."

"I don't, actually," she says, smiling. "But I'll take your word for it."

"You've been sleeping a lot," Hyunwoo says.

Taehyung's jaw tightens, just slightly. He reaches for the wine list even though he already knows what he's going to order, using the motion to avoid his brother's gaze.

"Who told you that?"

"I have sources."

"Marco needs to learn to keep his mouth shut."

"It wasn't Marco." Hyunwoo's watching him with that expression—the one that's too knowing, too seeing. "Carlos mentioned you've been clocking fourteen-hour nights. Missing morning alarms. Showing up to early training looking like you haven't slept at all, even though you've slept half the day."

There it is.

The concern.

Taehyung fucking hates the concern.

"I'm fine," he says flatly. "It's recovery. Hard training means more sleep. Basic biology, hyung."

"Fourteen hours isn't recovery. It's—"

"It's nothing." Taehyung's voice comes out harsher than he intended, and he sees Nerea shift slightly in her peripheral vision. "I know my body. I know what I need. Can we talk about something else?"

Silence settles over the table.

Hyunwoo doesn't push.

He never pushes, not directly—that's not his style. He just waits. Observes. Files things away for later, building a case like it’s one of his blueprints, collecting evidence until the structure is irrefutable.

It's infuriating.

It's also, terrifyingly, effective.

A waiter materializes to take their orders. 

Taehyung asks for whiskey instead of wine—something to take the edge off, something to make the next two hours survivable—and picks at the bread basket while Hyunwoo and Nerea discuss appetizers. They do it seamlessly, that easy back-and-forth of a couple who've been together long enough to read each other's preferences without asking.

"The firm closed the Salamanca project," Hyunwoo says, filling the silence with something safer. "That mixed-use development I mentioned last month."

"The one with the rooftop gardens?"

"Sustainable drainage system, green corridors, the whole thing." There's genuine excitement in his voice—the kind Taehyung only ever feels about football. "Groundbreaking's in March."

"That's great, hyung."

He means it. Sort of.

Hyunwoo's architecture firm has been successful since he opened it five years ago—the kind of steady, respectable success that comes from talent and hard work and never once making a headline for the wrong reasons. He designs buildings that win awards and get featured in magazines, buildings that will stand for decades after he's gone.

Taehyung plays a game.

A beautiful game, sure. The most important game in the world, if you ask anyone who matters.

But still. A game.

"The wedding venue's confirmed," Nerea says, turning the conversation toward even safer ground. "That hotel in Jeju we looked at? The one with the ocean view?"

"The Peninsula," Hyunwoo supplies.

"Yes! It's going to be beautiful. Small ceremony, just family and close friends." She looks at Taehyung, genuinely warm. "You'll be there, won't you? I know the season makes scheduling difficult, but—"

"I'll be there," Taehyung says.

He doesn't know if that's true.

He'll try to be there.

But matches happen. Tournaments happen. Life happens in ways that conveniently prevent him from sitting in a room with his parents while everyone celebrates Hyunwoo's perfect relationship with his perfect Spanish fiancée and their perfect baby daughter in their perfect settled life.

Hyunwoo's eyes meet his across the table.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

"We'd really love to have you," Hyunwoo says, soft, snd Taehyung hates him a little bit more for it. "Tati’s going to be the flower girl. Well—flower baby. She'll probably just sit in someone's arms and look confused, but Eomma's already bought her a dress." A pause. "Eomma would... it would mean a lot to her. If you were there."

Everything circles back to their mother.

Taehyung takes a long sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle in his throat before responding.

"I said I'll be there."

"I know what you said."

Something unspoken passes between them—years of distance compressed into a single glance. 

Hyunwoo wants to push. Taehyung can see it in the set of his brother's shoulders, the slight tension in his jaw. He wants to ask the real questions, the ones that neither of them ever voice.

Why won't you come home? Why do you screen Eomma's calls? Why did you leave at seventeen and never really come back?

But Nerea's there.

And these dinners have rules.

So Hyunwoo swallows whatever he was going to say and reaches for his wine instead.

"Your match last week," he says, redirecting. "That tackle in the seventy-third minute. I watched it three times."

"And?"

"And I couldn't figure out how you knew he was going to cut left. The striker had been favoring his right the whole game."

Taehyung shrugs, but something loosens in his chest. 

Football. 

This, he can do.

"Watched his training footage. He favors his right when he's fresh, but when he's tired, he defaults to his dominant side. Left-footed. Most coaches don't catch it because they only watch match tape."

Hyunwoo nods slowly, something like respect flickering in his eyes.

This is what they have, Taehyung thinks. Not brotherhood, not really—not the kind that other people seem to have, the easy intimacy of shared childhoods and inside jokes. 

They have this—careful conversations about safe topics, analysis and observation, two people circling each other across a dinner table once a month.

It's not enough.

It's never been enough.

But it's what they've got.

The main course arrives—something elaborate with foam and microgreens that Taehyung barely tastes. He eats mechanically, nodding in the right places as Hyunwoo talks about a new commission and Nerea describes her work in hospitality management, how she's been juggling client calls with Tatiana's feeding schedule. They're good together. He can see it in the way they communicate without speaking, the way their movements sync unconsciously, the way Nerea touches Hyunwoo's arm when she laughs at something he says.

It's real.

Whatever they have, it's real and solid and the kind of thing that probably comes with a ten-year plan and conversations about the future that don't make both parties want to claw their skin off.

Taehyung doesn't have that.

Doesn't want it.

"You're seeing someone?" Nerea asks, somewhere between the main course and dessert. "I saw something online. A model? She was very beautiful."

"Daiane." Taehyung shrugs. "We're not seeing each other. Just... hanging out."

"Hanging out," Hyunwoo repeats.

"Yes. Hanging out. It's casual."

"Everything with you is casual."

It's not an accusation, because Hyunwoo doesn't accuse. Hyunwoo simply states facts in that calm, measured tone that makes Taehyung want to break a glass.

Nerea's hand lands on Hyunwoo's arm. A gentle squeeze. Let it go.

Hyunwoo takes the hint.

"Sorry," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "That wasn't fair. Your personal life is your business."

"It is."

"I just—" Hyunwoo pauses, and for a moment, his lips purse. "I worry about you. The sleeping. The—I just worry."

The sincerity in his voice hits Taehyung somewhere uncomfortable.

He looks at his brother—really looks at him—and sees something he usually ignores. 

The slight shadows under Hyunwoo's eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap against the table, a nervous habit he's had since childhood. 

All this little nonsensical tidbits that hold significance when you look at them together. 

Fatherhood has softened some of his edges but sharpened others.

Hyunwoo isn't just going through the motions.

He actually cares.

That makes it worse, somehow.

Because Taehyung doesn't know what to do with caring. Doesn't know how to meet it, how to return it, how to exist in a relationship where someone actually wants to know if he's okay. He's spent years building walls, and Hyunwoo keeps showing up with a ladder, and every time, Taehyung finds a way to make the walls higher.

"I'm fine, hyung," he says, and his voice comes out softer than he intended. "Really. It's just the season. I'll regulate once we hit the break."

Hyunwoo doesn't look convinced.

But he nods.

"Okay," he says. "Just... if you need anything. If the sleep thing gets worse. You know you can call me, right? Anytime. Even at three in the morning. Even if Tati’s screaming and I haven't slept in two days. You call me."

Taehyung doesn't know that.

Or rather—he knows it intellectually, knows Hyunwoo would answer the phone at three in the morning if Taehyung called, knows his brother would drop everything if he asked for help. 

But there's a difference between knowing something and believing it, and somewhere along the way, Taehyung stopped believing he was worth that kind of effort.

"Yeah," he says anyway. "I know."

Dessert comes and goes. The bill arrives. Hyunwoo insists on paying—he always insists, and Taehyung lets him because fighting about it isn't worth the energy. 

Then they do the familiar dance of goodbye: Nerea hugs him warmly, tells him to take care of himself, says ’we should do this more often’ in a way that sounds like she actually means it. She pulls out her phone, shows him one more photo of Tatiana—this one with her fist shoved in her mouth, staring at the camera with an expression of intense concentration.

"She looks like you," Nerea says to Hyunwoo. "Same serious face."

"She looks like Eomma," Hyunwoo corrects.

Taehyung looks at the photo and sees nothing. Just a baby. Just another person in his brother's life that he'll never really know because he can't figure out how to close the distance between them.

Outside the restaurant, the Madrid night settles. Cool air, distant traffic, the faint smell of a city that never quite sleeps.

“엄마한테 전화해.” Hyunwoo says. (Call Eomma.) “제발. 목소리 한 번만 듣고 싶어 하셔.” (Please. She just wants to hear your voice.)

“할게.” (I will)

“태형아.” (Taehyung-ah.)

“할게, 형.” (I will, hyung.)

They look at each other.

For a moment, Hyunwoo looks like he wants to say something else—something bigger, something that might finally splinter distance they've maintained for years. His mouth opens slightly. His hand twitches, like he might reach out.

Then the moment passes.

"Take care of yourself," Hyunwoo says. "Get some sleep. But also—" He pauses. "Maybe talk to someone about the sleep thing. A specialist. Just to rule things out."

"There's nothing to rule out."

"You've been averaging thirteen hours a night for weeks. That's not normal."

"I'm an elite athlete. Normal doesn't apply to me."

Hyunwoo's jaw tightens, frustration flickering across his usually composed features.

"You're impossible."

"I'm the best," Taehyung corrects. "There's a difference."

His brother’s expressions flicker for a moment. 

And it feels like he's watching Taehyung walk toward a cliff and knows he can't stop him.

"Yeah," Hyunwoo says quietly. "You are."

He takes Nerea's hand. Walks toward his car.

Taehyung watches them go—his brother and his beautiful Spanish fiancée, their futures mapped out in engagement rings and venue bookings and a baby girl who'll grow up with two parents who love each other and a tío who shows up once a month if the match schedule allows.

He stands there for a long moment after they've driven away.

Then he pulls out his phone. Opens his contacts. Stares at Eomma for exactly three seconds.

Closes his phone.

Gets in his car.

He thinks about calling her this weekend. 

He knows he won't.

The exhaustion hits him somewhere between the restaurant and the highway.

It's not gradual. It never is. One moment he's fine—alert, functional, thinking about Hyunwoo's voice when he said ‘I worry about you’ like worry was something that could fix anything—and the next his eyelids are made of concrete and his thoughts are swimming through molasses and the world goes soft at the edges like a photograph left in water.

Fuck.

He blinks hard. Reaches for the AC, cranks it to arctic. The cold air blasts his face and buys him maybe thirty seconds of clarity before the fog starts creeping back in.

This is getting worse.

He knows it's getting worse. Has known for months, actually, ever since the season started and his sleep went from a lot to fucking obscene. 

Fourteen hours last Tuesday. Thirteen on Thursday. Woke up Saturday feeling like he'd been drugged, like someone had injected lead into his bloodstream while he slept.

But he's fine.

He's fine.

He's the best right-back in La Liga, possibly in Europe, and he didn't get there by being weak. By needing help. By admitting that something might be wrong with the machine that is his body.

The highway stretches out ahead of him, empty this time of night. 

He should call someone. That's the obvious solution—the one his body's screaming for. Call Daiane, tell her he's on his way back, let her wake him up the way only a warm body can.

Sex works.

It always works.

Something about the exertion, the adrenaline, the way his whole body lights up when he's inside someone—it cuts through the fog like nothing else can. 

Better than caffeine. Better than cold showers. Better than slapping himself across the face, which he's definitely done before in moments of true desperation.

He could call.

Should call.

His thumb hovers over the screen.

But the thought of performing right now—of being charming, being present, being on—makes something in his chest clench with exhaustion. 

He doesn't want to talk. Doesn't want to flirt. Doesn't want to do any of the preliminary work that comes before the main event, even though he's usually excellent at it, even though he usually enjoys it.

Tonight he's just... tired.

Too tired to fuck.

Which is a new low, honestly.

He puts the phone down. Keeps driving.

The GPS is taking him home the long way—construction on the main street, some event closing down the usual route—and he follows the directions without really processing them. Left here. Right there. Merge onto the avenue that cuts through the residential district where the nice houses are, where the staff families live, where—

He blinks.

This street looks familiar.

Too familiar.

The houses here are set back from the road, gated and private, the kind of quiet wealth that doesn't need to announce itself. There's a park on the corner that he's driven past before. A café that was closed last time. And three houses down, on the left, a driveway he recognizes because he parked in it five days ago when he showed up unannounced and you tried to slam the door in his face.

Your house.

He's driving past your house.

Taehyung's hands tighten on the wheel, something prickling at the base of his skull that might be irritation or might be something else entirely. The GPS didn't take him here on purpose—it's just the route, just the construction detour, just coincidence—but his eyes still drift toward your windows as he passes.

Dark.

All of them dark.

You're probably asleep. Normal people sleep at this hour. Normal people don't drive aimlessly through Madrid at midnight because they can't figure out why their body won't stay conscious for more than a few hours at a time.

His eyelids droop.

The car drifts. Just slightly—just a few centimeters toward the center line—but the rumble of tires on the lane markers snaps him back to awareness with a jolt of adrenaline that tastes like blood on his tongue.

Fuck.

He overcorrects. The wheel jerks right. His heart hammers against his ribs, sudden and violent, and for one horrible second he's completely awake—every nerve firing, every sense wired, his whole body screaming ’you almost just killed yourself, you idiot, you absolute fucking idiot.’

He pulls over. Finds a spot on the street—quiet, residential, a few houses down from yours—and puts the car in park and sits there, breathing hard, hands still white-knuckled on the wheel.

Jesus Christ.

What is wrong with him?

He slept thirteen hours. Thirteen. That's more than most people get in two nights combined. He should be fine. He should be more than fine. He should be operating at peak capacity, not nearly wrapping his Porsche around a lamppost because he can't keep his fucking eyes open.

His forehead hits the steering wheel. Then his arms fold over it, creating a makeshift pillow, and he just... stays there. Breathing. Trying to make sense of his own body, which has apparently decided to betray him at every possible opportunity.

The exhaustion is worse after Hyunwoo.

It's always worse after Hyunwoo.

Something about those dinners drains him in ways that training never does—like his brother's presence is a siphon, sucking out all the energy Taehyung uses to maintain his walls. By the time he leaves, he's running on fumes. Empty in a way that sleep doesn't fix, that sex doesn't fix, that nothing seems to fix except time and distance and not thinking about the way Hyunwoo looked at him tonight.

«You're impossible.»

He is.

The silence in the car feels heavy.

He could sleep here. Just close his eyes for a few minutes, just rest, just let his body do what it so desperately wants to do. He's parked. He's safe. Nobody would know. Nobody would see Madrid's number two passed out in his car on a residential street at midnight like some kind of degenerate.

Except he's three houses down from you.

And that's—

That's fucking weird, actually.

Why did he stop here? Why didn't he pull over somewhere else, literally anywhere else, instead of the street where you live? 

It's not like he planned it. 

It's not like he was thinking about you, not consciously, not in any way that matters.

Taehyung lifts his head. Stares at nothing.

Five minutes.

He gives himself five minutes.

Just sitting there, head heavy, arms folded on the steering wheel, breathing in the leather-and-cologne smell of his own car while his heart rate slowly returns to normal. 

When the five minutes are up, he lifts his head. Checks his mirrors. Pulls back onto the street without looking at your house, without thinking about why he stopped here, without acknowledging any of the weird shit his brain is doing tonight.

He drives home.

The apartment's empty when he gets there—obviously, because he lives alone, because he's chosen to live alone, because the thought of sharing space with another person makes him want to claw his skin off.

He drops his keys in the bowl by the door. Shrugs off his jacket. Moves through the familiar motions of getting ready for bed even though it's barely past midnight and he's not tired anymore, not really, just that low-level exhaustion that's become his constant companion.

He should sleep.

He's not going to sleep.

Instead he ends up on the couch, phone in hand, thumb moving on autopilot. His main Instagram is a carefully curated nightmare of brand partnerships and match highlights, but the burner—the one nobody knows about, the one he uses to scroll without being watched—that's where he goes when he can't sleep.

The algorithm knows him too well.

Football content. Thirst traps. Car videos. The occasional cooking reel that he watches all the way through even though he's never made anything more complicated than toast.

He scrolls.

And scrolls.

And somehow, twenty minutes later, he's watching a video of a ferret stealing a sock.

He doesn't know how he got here.

The explore page, probably. Some chain of related content that led from football highlights to pet videos to this specific account—@ferret_diaries, just video after video of two ferrets causing absolute chaos.

The white one's dragging a sock across what looks like a living room floor, its tiny body stretched long with effort, determination radiating from every fluffy inch of it. The caption reads: ’she's been at this for ten minutes. the sock is winning.’

Taehyung snorts.

Watches it again.

There's something weirdly satisfying about it—the ferret's single-minded focus, the absurdity of the task, the way it refuses to give up even though the sock is clearly too heavy. 

It's stupid. It's so fucking stupid.

He likes the video.

Scrolls to the next one.

This one's the brown ferret—Hari, according to the caption—sleeping in a hammock while the white one tries to climb in with it. There's a whole saga happening in thirty seconds: failed attempts, dramatic tumbles, and finally success, both ferrets crammed into a space that's definitely too small for two.

He likes that one too.

The next video is the white ferret again—Nube, he's learning—doing some kind of war dance that involves bouncing sideways and making sounds that shouldn't come from something that small. The background shows a glimpse of a bedroom: neutral walls, a desk with textbooks, what looks like a Real Madrid scarf draped over a chair.

He pauses after liking that video as well.

Squints at the screen.

Then catches himself.

What the fuck.

Taehyung stares at his phone.

He just liked three videos on an anonymous ferret account at 1 AM because he couldn't sleep and his brain apparently decided this was a productive use of his time. 

Three videos. 

Of ferrets. 

On an account he's never seen before and will probably never see again.

What the fuck is wrong with him tonight?

He just spent—he checks the timestamp—eleven minutes watching ferret videos. Eleven minutes of his life, gone, absorbed by some stranger's pets doing stupid ferret things. 

He's Kim Taehyung. He has better things to do. He has anyone he wants to fuck, anything he wants to buy, anywhere he wants to go, and he's lying on his couch at one in the morning watching ferrets.

He closes the app.

Locks his phone.

Throws it onto the coffee table like it's personally offended him.

What the fuck is wrong with him.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﻌ'♥

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—taglist

@gaebestie @tan-veee @chocoltae-17 @kalmisaidso @thvsgirll @calmyourtitts7 @silverozy @svnk1ssd @anithv @yeahimacapricorn @6rnde @akirawhore @bonzoirparis Asstaeticcc @melizzzie @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

@hemmosfear @bettytta @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @sugak00kie134340 @cravingforbangtan @rpwprpwprpwprw @namgimini @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @j0cgr0c @kelsyx33 @nellbyy @jazzluvrr @zaf3ira @oliviawithluv @loverkiller @jjmyhusbandfr @louxmclll @aasthamoon @chiapetkinnie @billy-jeans23 @endlesssolace @margolisthesia @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jjeonjjk7 @sstass @joyjunk

[taetaespeaches]

m.lists - long term couples.

here are the masterlists for each member’s long term couple fics. each m.list is organized chronologically. (ongoing). 

☾ kim seokjin. 

further info (posts/asks tagged with “jin/poopsie”)

☾ min yoongi. 

further info (posts/asks tagged with “min/kid”)

☾ jung hoseok.

further info (posts/asks tagged with “hobi/petal”)

☾ kim namjoon.

further info (posts/asks tagged with “joon/daisy”)

☾ park jimin.

further info (posts/asks tagged with “jimin/dear”)

☾ kim taehyung.

further info (posts/asks tagged with “tae/peaches”)

☾ jeon jungkook.

further info (posts/asks tagged with “jk/holly”)

favorite asks and other info about the girls and couples.

☾ which of the girls from the longterm couples universe are you? quiz.

find out which girlie you are with this quiz made by the amazing @miragehoseok​

☾ couples timeline info. 

brief descriptions of when/how the couples got together. 

☾ stories behind the girls’ nicknames.

☾ songs that remind the boys of their longterm girlfriends.

brief descriptions of why these certain songs make the boys think of their lovers. 

☾ fun facts about the girls. 

just some random information about the girls. 

☾ more fun facts about the girls.

part two! just some more more facts.

☾ how the couples handle tours.

☾ how the couples act when the boys return from tour. 

☾ when the girls are on their periods.

just how the boys treat their girls when they have a painful period.  

☾ how the couples sleep together.

cuddle time! 

☾  the couples dress up for Halloween.

☾ the girls’ personality types.

idk how accurate this is but I tried.

☾ what the girls do for work.

☾ how the girls all get along. 

a brief outline of the friendships between the girls. 

☾ the friendships between the members and girls. 

a brief outline of how the boys get along with each other’s girlfriends. 

☾ if the couples went clubbing.

each couple’s club dynamic. 

☾ the girls’ love languages.

☾ which bts song reminds the boys of their girlfriends. 

☾ holiday drabbles- 2021

☾ what the couples fight about. 

☾ New Year’s Eve kisses. 

☾ small moments of comfort

☾ reaction to oc/reader wanting to join them in their hobbies

☾ showing care through tending to each other’s hair

☾ bts inspired by 70s classic rock songs

[percabething]

i wonder if this girl knows she altered my brain chemistry with these 😭

[imani4reading]

Heroes | Masterlist!

SUMMARY: An unexpected group of outcasts and nerds must come together to solve their small town’s mysteries, learning what it means to become found family and heroes.

PAIRING: Stranger Things x Fem!Adopted!Henderson!Reader

INTERACTIVE: This story is completely interactive! Place votes at the end of each chapter to dictate what decisions are made, romantic relationships (within the older teen group), friendships, and more! Every decision matters!!

A/N: Dates on chapters are subject to change, coming earlier if votes lean heavily one way, and chapters coming later if votes are tight.

WC: 106.1K (so far)

♫ We can be heroes, just for one day ♫

Suggestions/Ideas!

Dump all of your suggestions or ideas here! This story is interactive after all!!

SEASON 1

Chapter 1 - The Demogorgon

Chapter 2 - Skater

Chapter 2.5 - What If…

Chapter 3 - Monster Hunting

Chapter 3.5 - What If…

Chapter 4 - 16 Candles

Chapter 4.5 - What If…

SEASON 2

Chapter 5 - Hot Shit Hargrove

Chapter 6 - D’Artagnan

Chapter 6.5 - What If…

Chapter 7 - Electricity

Chapter 7.5 - What If…

Chapter 8 - You’re Pretty Metal

Chapter 8.5 - What If…

Chapter 9 - Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Chapter 10 - Who’s Gonna Drive You Home Tonight?

Chapter 10.5 - What If…

SEASON 3

Chapter 11 - Bummer Summer

Chapter 11.5 - What If…

Chapter 12 - The Wrong Soul Answered

Chapter 13 - Beginning of the Irreversible

Chapter 13.5 - What If…

Chapter 14 - Be My Lifeline

Chapter 14.5 - What If…

Chapter 15 - That Wasn’t Your Line

Chapter 15.5 - What If…

Chapter 16 - ¿¿¿ (Coming 04/03)

Chapter 16.5 - What If… (Coming 04/03)

Chapter 17 - ¿¿¿ (Coming 04/10)

Chapter 17.5 - What If… (Coming 04/10)

SEASON 4 (Coming soon…)

SEASON 5 (Coming soon…)

[wishesofficial]

I CANNOT WAIT for the peter parker fics to start rolling in once Spider Man: Brand New Day comes out

[slurpinondatfanta]

જ⁀➴ shut up

steve harrington x popular!fem!reader

𑣲 warnings: secret relationship, needy!steve, reader is bitchy, secret meet up, angsty, touchy!steve, janitors closet make out, nervous!steve, lowercase intended, fluff, jealous!steve, tension, tina aka madelyn cline mention.

𑣲 summary: steve harrington being a known player at hawkins high starts a secret, casual relationship with the school’s it girl

𑣲 authors note: soooo i may or may not do a part 2 just cuz i got kinda lazy and didn’t know how to finish so perhaps they go to steve’s place and the party and things happen lmk if there’s interest there!!

you weren’t sure why it had to be steve harrington you hooked up with that night. surprisingly, you weren’t even that tipsy; you had what, like two shots? the hair you would usually find stupid was now stupidly perfect, and those wide, pathetic, puppy dog eyes never failed to piss you off.

after you had hooked up for the first time at that random party, he had tried to play it cool, flirting with you expecting a flirty response from your side as well, but oh was he wrong. you and tina laughed right in his face and tommy and carol teased him about the interaction for weeks.

you and steve have been secretly hooking up for about two months now. you saw it as nothing but casual make outs and sometimes, those make outs led to casual sex. but steve, steve was completely hooked on you.

he was clearly upset when you told him that what you guys were doing was nothing serious. and of course, he tried to hide it, but steve harrington is a guy who can’t fake anything.

you and steve were familiar with each other before this all started, so he knew you were kinda known to be a bitch. you’ve made fun of steve since the day you met each other. it was just playful banter and teasing and he'd play along, but his words were never as harsh as yours.

yes, you’d be lying if you said that there weren't some feelings on your side. steve was obviously attractive and his style wasn't terrible, but he was still a player. he was literally called “king steve.” he was a total cliche, and you couldn’t help but feel mortified at the thought of people finding out you’ve been sleeping around with the famous steve harrington.

the halls were full of voices when the guy had just come up behind you while you and tina were talking about her being grounded yet again for the party she threw last weekend.

"well hello, ladies.” you turned around, confused at the random greeting.

oh god.

there he stood with his hair, of course looking as perfect as ever and his two friends, tommy and carol stood right by his side.

"hey steve," tina responded with a smile as she leaned against the lockers next to you. even though tina was your best friend, she was one of the many people who didn’t know that you and "king steve" hook up from time to time.

you sighed as you looked to tina, then to steve who had his stupid, pretty boy smile plastered on his face. "what do you want?" you raised your brows, waiting for a response. tommy and carol stood to the side of him; as usual, carol was chewing gum and tommy wore that cheesy grin.

"just wanted to see if you guys are gonna go to that party tonight? heard it's gonna be crazy."

you looked up at him, clearly unimpressed. "i don't know, tina's grounded so unless she sneaks out, i probably won't go," you said plainly.

"right, right, right." he turned to tommy, hoping he would save him right now, but he and carol just giggled at his nervous state.

"i could sneak out." tina shrugged and steve's gaze quickly went back to the both of you, clearly happy about the words that just came out her mouth.

"great! so you'll come then?" he directed the question to you, his eyes full of desperation.

those stupid puppy dog eyes. douche.

"i guess so," you replied. steve smiled and nodded his head before turning to tommy, whose arm was now wrapped around carol. "see you guys tonight," tommy said, keeping that grin on his face as the three of them walked off.

"what a nag." you rolled your eyes, which caused tina to let out a laugh.

"what's his deal?" she said and you turned to look at her, leaning against the lockers as well.

"what do you mean?"

she shrugs. "i d'know, he’s just been acting odd i guess."

“he’s always odd,” you reply.

tina bursts out in laughter and you shove her playfully.

you and tina were sitting with a couple of other girls in the cafeteria. steve’s eyes were on you—they always were. you only sat together once in a while mostly because your groups overlapped but you usually preferred your own friends.

steve watched as one of the guys who was on the basketball team with him approach you with a smug grin.

you looked away from the girl across from you, to the boy standing above you to the right. steve couldn’t hear what he was saying from here but it was clear he was flirting. you had that calm expression on your face that looked as if you had all the power in the conversation, which knowing you, you probably did.

steve was completely blocking tommy out, though tommy was sitting right across from him. tommy was talking about some teacher, but right now he couldn’t care less; he couldn’t help but study your face, watching your reaction to every single thing this guy was saying to you.

you could feel steve’s eyes on you. you always could. you were used to being watched, but his eyes? they were always the most obvious.

after lunch ended you went straight to class, talking to tina on the way over. fifth period went by quickly before you felt someone yank you into a room as you were walking the crowded halls.

your attempt to scream was stopped as a hand covered your mouth. you hit the hand before you recognized the voice that finally spoke up. “hey, hey, it’s me! calm down!” you rolled your eyes. “jesus, steve, i almost pissed my pants! and you probably ruined my lip gloss!” he laughs at your reaction.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles while his hands are moving towards you. he leans in to place a kiss against your soft lips, as he pulls away his eyes stay closed, taking in the whole thing.

“why couldn’t we meet under the bleachers or something? it’s so dark in here.” you said.

he shrugs. “i missed you, i guess. i didn’t have time to leave a note in your locker,” he explained while his hands started to play with the hem of your skirt. you weren’t sure how you should respond to that, so you just kept quiet.

“you’re right though. it’s so dark in here i can barely see your pretty face.” your face scrunched at his words. “shut up, steve” you rolled your eyes.

he searched for a light, moving his hand above the both of you for a pull switch. he pulled and the room was now cheaply lit.

he smiled softly as he moved your hair behind your ear. you looked down at your shoes as he did so, trying your best to not make any eye contact. you knew what he looked like. the puppy dog eyes weren’t something you could handle right now.

“you wanna hang out after school? we could go to mine, it’ll be fun. my parents are on some business trip…” you kept your gaze on your shoes until you responded.

“didn’t you just harass me about that party tonight?” you glared at him as he shrugged. “well, i figured it would be cooler, y’know? or we could go after we hang at the party for a while.”

you looked up at his brown eyes and could see the nervousness coursing through him. “what’s with you?” you asked a bit too harshly. his brows quickly furrowed and he looked at you defensively. “what do you mean?”

you sighed, looking away before speaking again. “you’re being weird. you were also being weirder than usual when you came up to me and tina.”

“well i didn’t think it was weird. we talk sometimes, right?” you didn’t know how to respond for a second. “i mean– i don’t know i guess but it was just awkward. tina could tell something was up,” you struggled to get the words out.

“i just wanted to see you i didn’t know it was a weird thing.” steve’s eyes were now avoiding yours as he tried to explain himself. “it’s not. i just–” you didn’t know what to say.

what was up with you?

“well do you just wanna go to the party then?” he asked, his tone soft but his face was still defensive. you rolled your eyes, “i guess. i don’t care.”

“do you wanna go to the party because of wilkins?” he asked out of no where. you looked up at him, your brows were now furrowed as well. “who?” you spat.

“he talked to you today. i figured he asked you about it he’s going tonight.” you let out a sharp laugh. “are you talking about chris? he was bothering me about it so what?” he shrugged, “so are you going for him?”

you shook your head and your jaw stays open in shock. “i’m not into chris wilkins, steve!”

he sighed, his eyes still avoiding yours. “why does that matter anyway? we’re not together?” you rose your brows but he didn’t reply, just stood there like an idiot.

you looked away from the sad sight in front of you. you didn’t mean to be so harsh, it just happened and you know you should apologize, but it felt weird to.

“listen, i didn’t–” you began but steve spoke up before you could finish, “it’s fine, you’re right, we’re not together i know that.” he looked different now, not like he usually did. his eyes were sad and they almost made you want to cry. he usually had that confident, charming expression. now it was gone and this new look had been because of you.

you weren’t sure what to say but you knew that you needed to escape the silence. you moved towards him even though you were already quite close with how tight the closet is. you touched his arm softly, then slowly moved up to his neck. his shoulders lost of confidence, were now slightly slumped.

he finally looks at you, his soft eyes looking at you waiting for what you have to say. “we can go to your place if you want?” steve didn’t respond, his eyes looked over you before he glanced to the floor. you follow his face to try to get an idea of what’s going on in his mind.

“do you not want to anymore?” you asked quietly as you were gently stroking his neck. he shook his head, “no, i want to.” you felt relief wash over you. he couldn’t be so upset and still want you to come over right?

you tried to read his expressions one more time before you leaned in to give him a soft kiss. he kissed back immediately, his lips pressing against yours with desperation.

“i missed you,” you mumbled into the kiss. you usually only said things like that in the heat of moments like this. steve barely groaned at your words you uttered. his hands clumsily roam your body, sliding down your back and gripping your ass through the short jean skirt you were wearing.

steve wasn’t angry, just hurt. he felt stupid that he always had this small thought you would be even a bit open to being something more than just dumb hookups. there were so many moments where he thought he loved you, which was weird because it was just two months ago where you almost couldn’t stand each other. when you would tease him like it was a part of your daily routine. when he looked at you as nothing but a friend of a friend. when he looked at you as just another girl at hawkins high.

he supposed he didn’t totally mind that you guys were casual. he just wanted to see you. hear your voice, talk to you, touch you.

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ S.H.

⭐︎ Warnings: 18+ mdni! post apocalypse, character death, angst, mean!steve, grumpy!steve x sunshine!reader, blood, wounds -- all the gory stuff, smut in the future chapters, hurt/comfort

⭐︎ Pairing: Grumpy!Steve Harrington x sunshine(fem)!reader

⭐︎ Summary: Everything he once knew, is gone, dead and buried, burned to the ground and turned into ash. All he has known is loss, death and pain, he despised this world, until it brought you to him -- the sunshine he had long forgotten. Light he will follow till the very end.

⭐︎ In collaboration with @hellfire--cult

⭐︎

Prologue ☀︎ When the sun hits, she'll be waiting

Chapter one ☀︎ Welcome and Goodbye

Chapter two ☀︎ Can you see right through me?

Chapter three ☀︎ You’re the greatest thing we’ve lost

Chapter four ☀︎ While I'm alone and blue as can be

Chapter five ☀︎ Watching cityscapes turn to dust

Chapter six ☀︎ The killing time. Unwillingly mine.

Chapter seven ☀︎ Fall back into place. Fall back...

Chapter eight ☀︎ Dead-eyed. Dead weight.

Chapter nine ☀︎ Pull the trigger on the gun I gave you when we met

Chapter ten ☀︎ Turn me into something tragic, just for you, I let it happen

Chapter eleven ☀︎ And I'll fear no evil because I'm blind to it all

Chapter twelve ☀︎ You’re a bandit like me. Eyes full of stars

Chapter thirteen ☀︎ Then this heart would break and fall as twice as far

Chapter fourteen ☀︎ The devil in your eyes, won't deny the lies you've sold

Chapter fifteen ☀︎ Every print I left upon the track has led me here

Chapter sixteen ☀︎ One day I am gonna grow wings...

Chapter seventeen ☀︎ Now I'm racing for what to do, all roads lead me right back to you

Chapter eighteen ☀︎ I'll give you all that I can, as long as you'll wait for me there

Chapter nineteen ☀︎ When you’re lying between my legs, it doesn’t matter

Chapter twenty ☀︎ If you can't survive, just try

Chapter twenty one ☀︎ Look into my eyes and baby, whisper

Chapter twenty two ☀︎ If anyone could’ve saved me, it would’ve been you

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: angst, drinking, mean! steve, crashout, errrrrrr idk... miscommunication words: 8.7k summary: steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort a/n: okay so... this chapter just needed to be standalone and so the next chapter will have quite a bit... masterlist | Rules/Playlist

Chapter 16

The group spent all day Monday at the beach—Polly came back briefly around noon to ask if you wanted to join them, standing in the doorway with her floppy hat and concern written across her sun-flushed face. You claimed to be sick, probably a stomach bug from the travel and the change in water. Your voice was hoarse enough to sell it, eyes red-rimmed enough to look convincing.

Nancy and Robin came in later that evening to check on you, bringing Gatorade and crackers they'd bought from the hotel gift shop. Robin sat on the edge of your bed, hand on your forehead checking for fever, while Nancy hovered near the door looking worried.

All you asked them for was earplugs. The industrial kind, the ones construction workers use.

They gave you questioning looks—brows furrowed, mouths turned down—but you claimed it was too loud outside. The music from the beach parties, the people in the hallways, the general chaos of spring break. You couldn't sleep.

They seemed to accept this explanation, returning an hour later with a plastic package of foam earplugs from the lobby store.

But Monday night, it happened again.

Polly didn't come back to the room at all, telling you around ten that she'd give you space since you were feeling sick, that she didn't want to disturb you. Sweet, considerate Polly.

At midnight, you smelled the stench of weed—thick and skunky, seeping through the thin wall that separates your room from Steve's. You could hear the mixture of laughter, low voices, the clink of glass bottles.

And then the bed. Hitting the wall. Again and again and again.

You shoved the earplugs in so hard it hurt, foam compressing then expanding to fill your ear canals, muffling sound but not eliminating it entirely. You could still hear it—feel it, really. The rhythmic thumping transmitted through the wall, through the bed frame, through your bones.

You could see the ugly decorative paintings hanging on your wall rattling with each impact. A sailboat at sunset, trembling. A palm tree, shaking like it was in a hurricane.

As you finally drift toward sleep—exhausted, defeated—you wonder if Steve decided to break the rules with Polly too. Or is it different because it's spring break, because what happens in Miami stays in Miami, because she's not you and therefore doesn't count?

You grab your pillow and scream into it, the sound muffled by fabric and foam earplugs and the knowledge that no one can hear you anyway.

It's Tuesday when you finally decide to come out of your room. Tuesday morning, you decide to keep your head up.

You wake up early—six-thirty, before the sun is fully up, the sky that pale gray-blue of impending dawn. You brush your teeth aggressively, scrubbing until your gums bleed slightly, the taste of mint and copper mixing. You put on your bikini under your regular clothes—denim shorts and a loose tank top, nothing special. And you head down to the hotel bar before most people are even awake.

You down three mimosas before eight a.m., the champagne and orange juice going down easy, bubbles popping on your tongue. The bartender—a guy in his early twenties with sun-bleached hair and a name tag that says "Tyler"—gives you a look after the third one, but he doesn't say anything. It's spring break. Everyone's drinking at inappropriate hours.

By the time you make it to the breakfast buffet, sunglasses firmly in place to hide your slightly glazed eyes, you're pleasantly buzzed. The edges of everything are softer, less sharp. You load a plate with eggs and toast and sit at a table near the window overlooking the ocean.

Robin and Nancy come down first, both looking sleepy but happy, fingers intertwined as they walk. They separate before reaching the buffet line, muscle memory, hiding even here— where they don't have to— but you can see them stealing glances at each other.

Eddie arrives next, looking like he rolled directly out of bed and down the stairs. He's yawning constantly, scratching his bare stomach under his Metallica t-shirt, eyes half-closed as he piles food onto his plate without really looking at what he's grabbing.

Robin slides into the chair next to you, immediately putting her head on your shoulder like a cat seeking warmth. "Does this mean you feel better?" Her voice is muffled against your shirt. "It was totally boring without you yesterday."

Nancy laughs from across the table, but there's an edge to it. "Wow. Thank you, babe. Really feeling the love."

Robin rolls her eyes, reaching under the table to tap Nancy's knee—a touch meant to be private, apologetic. "You know what I mean! Steve's still in a mood, and I don't think I can take another day of Munson nearly getting us kicked out of the hotel again."

"Buckley," Eddie interjects, dropping into the seat across from you and shoving a spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth, "if someone triple-dog-dares me, I gotta do it. That's the law. And I didn't get caught, so technically it never happened."

Nancy leans forward conspiratorially, eyes dancing with amusement. "He went skinny-dipping in the hotel pool last night. Around midnight. Jonathan got a picture—he can show you later."

"Mmm... I think I'm okay," you manage to laugh, though the thought of midnight makes your stomach twist. 

"So sad you weren't there, Hot Shot." Eddie's faux pout is exaggerated, theatrical. "You feeling better?"

You shrug, thinking about the past two nights, your stomach souring even as you try to maintain the smile. You push your plate away, appetite completely gone despite having barely touched anything. "Yeah. I'm ready to get out and get in the water today."

Robin perks up immediately, lifting her head from your shoulder. "Oh yeah! Jonathan gave us the word—they're filming a few miles from here on the beach, and if we show up in time, we might get chosen as extras. We're thinking about leaving in an hour."

Suddenly, Polly walks in, and the energy at the table shifts in a way you can't quite name. She's wearing a big floppy hat that looks like it belongs on a 1950s movie star and a flowing sundress in pale yellow. She looks fresh and rested and beautiful, and you hate her for it.

You notice how Eddie's mouth twitches when he sees her, how the spoon in his hand stops halfway to his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl in fat drops. He's staring at her with an expression you recognize.

When Polly sees you, her face lights up. "I was wondering if you were feeling better! I didn't see you in our room when I went in to change."

You smile politely, that tight feeling returning to your chest, squeezing your lungs until breathing feels like work. You can't help but look at her, cataloging details. Is her hair mussed from Steve's fingers? Is that a hickey barely visible under the edge of her dress? Did he kiss her the way he kissed you?

"Yeah! Much better."

Polly claps her hands together, genuine excitement radiating from her. "Great! So you're coming with us today? Wouldn't it be so fun if we were in a movie?"

Eddie snorts, reaching up to flick the rim of her enormous hat. "Might be trying too hard there, Penelope. A seagull might mistake it for a nest and try to lay eggs in it."

But he's smirking as he says it, looking up at her with soft eyes, interest written plainly across his features.

You feel a pang of sadness for him. Here's someone else caught in a cycle with someone who will never like them out loud, never claim them publicly. Eddie and Polly, you and Steve—variations on the same painful theme.

Polly's eyes shine looking down at Eddie, and you catch the way she scans him, gaze traveling from his face down to his chest, his arms, then back up. She bites her bottom lip, fighting a smile. "You'll be too pale to show up on camera, Edward. Like Nosferatu. They'll have to use special lighting just for you."

Nancy and Robin groan in unison, and Robin leans into you. "They've been flirting like this since yesterday morning. Walk away now before they start eating each other's faces."

You give them a questioning look, glancing back at Eddie and Polly, Eddie now stood, dramatically offering his seat to her, but she doesn’t go to move. They're standing too close, close enough that they must be able to feel each other's breath, close enough that the air between them feels charged.

They finally break apart when Steve walks in.

He's wearing sunglasses despite being indoors, and his plate is loaded with bacon and eggs and hash browns—more food than you've ever seen him eat at once. You can tell his gaze flicks to you even through the dark lenses, can see his jaw twitch, muscle jumping under skin.

He sits across from you without a word, slouching low in his chair and immediately shoveling food into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in days. He's wearing a striped button-up shirt—vertical blue and white stripes—and black swim trunks, sandals on his feet.

You notice how the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open enough that you can see chest hair and—

Your stomach drops.

A bruise. On his pec. Dark purple and roughly circular, with what looks like teeth marks at the center.

The bruise you left. Friday night in his room, when you bit him while riding him, when he'd whimpered and let you mark him, when everything still felt possible.

Your body betrays you—thighs tightening together involuntarily, heat pooling low in your belly at the memory. But then you force yourself to relax, to remember that you're mad at him. Sad and confused and so fucking angry.

You don't have time to examine the feeling too closely because everyone's standing up, gathering their things, ready to head to where Jonathan said the movie is filming.

Sure enough, you arrive early enough to have a chance.

The beach is sectioned off with ropes and barriers, keeping pedestrians away from the filming area. Camera crews swarm everywhere. There are massive cameras on dollies, boom microphones on long poles, lights on stands creating artificial sun. Makeup artists hover around different actors and actresses, touching up hair and powder, consulting with each other in hushed tones.

Nancy leans over to tell you it's not a huge movie. No A-list stars like Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford. 

A casting person makes her way down the line of gathered onlookers. She’s a stout woman with cat-eye glasses and a clipboard, surveying everyone with a critical eye. She walks slowly, deliberately, pointing at random people.

"You. Mmm, yes, you too... you, come on."

She gets to Nancy and Robin, looks them up and down, and nods. "Yes. And yes."

She looks at Eddie, pauses, then says, "Lift up your shirt."

Eddie does as she asks without hesitation, pulling his Metallica shirt up to expose his stomach.

The woman immediately grimaces, face twisting in disgust.

You see why. His entire torso is covered in bruised hickies—purple and red marks scattered across his pale skin like he got attacked by an octopus. They're everywhere, overlapping, some fading to yellow at the edges while others look fresh and angry.

Polly laughs in genuine amusement, reaching past Steve to poke at one of the bruises. Eddie flinches but grins.

"Got carried away," he sighs, directing the comment to either Steve or Polly—you're not sure which.

The casting woman shakes her head firmly at Eddie, moving past him. But she points to Steve. "Yes."

Eddie protests immediately. "Hey! You're not gonna make him take his shirt off? That's discrimination. I demand equal treatment."

"Pervert," Steve mumbles, but there's a smirk tugging at his lips as he flips Eddie off.

The casting director looks at Polly, smiling at first, but then her eyes land on the enormous floppy hat. Her smile drops. She shakes her head and moves on.

Then she stops in front of you, looks you over once, and nods. "Yes."

She continues down the line, and you're left standing there feeling awkward.

Polly and Eddie look genuinely disappointed, matching pouts on their faces.

"I'm sorry," you offer. "I can stay with you guys if you want. I don't need to—"

Polly and Eddie look at each other, some silent communication passing between them, and then Polly smiles at you warmly. She reaches up and takes off her sunglasses—expensive-looking Ray-Bans—and swaps them with yours.

"No, you go have fun! Me and Edward will be... fine. We'll find something to do." She draws out the last words, voice going low and suggestive.

Eddie's grin widens.

"Have fun, Hot Shot." Polly winks.

You hate that even though Polly is sleeping with Steve—the boy you have feelings for, the boy who's been inside you, the boy who broke your heart—she's still so genuinely kind. It would be easier if she were awful, if you could hate her without guilt.

You join your friends—Nancy and Robin bouncing excitedly, Steve standing off to the side with his hands in his pockets—when Jonathan runs up. He's holding a walkie-talkie, wearing a headset, looking official and slightly frazzled.

"Hey guys! Is it everyone?"

"Yeah, just us four," Nancy answers.

Jonathan nods. "Okay, great. Stick together and they'll know to keep you guys in the same scenes. Might take a few hours. Go over there for waivers and releases." He gestures toward a tent with a folding table. "Are we still good for seafood tonight?"

"Yep! Thanks, Jonathan!" Robin shrieks, grabbing Nancy's arm. "Oh my god, Nancy, we're going to be in a movie!"

Nancy laughs, letting Robin pull her toward the waiver tent.

You and Steve walk behind them, very far apart but somehow still awkwardly side by side. Neither of you speaks. Not when you're filling out the small stack of paperwork, not when you're being herded with other extras toward the filming location, not when you're standing in the hot sun waiting for instructions.

The four of you listen to Jonathan's advice and stick together. But when the assistant director starts placing people, he separates you—Nancy and Robin are instructed to go into the water, to play and splash and look like they're having fun.

You and Steve are told to sit on two beach towels under a striped umbrella.

You look at each other. Neither of you protests. There's no time—other extras are being positioned, the AD is moving quickly, and you could get dismissed for arguing. You're getting paid $200 for this. You need to cooperate.

So you listen, and Steve listens, and the two of you awkwardly sit down on the towels that have been laid out in the sand.

You pull off your shorts first, then your tank top, very aware of Steve's eyes on you. You're wearing a baby blue bikini—simple, modest by spring break standards, but it still feels vulnerable sitting here next to him.

You catch Steve's eyes peeking over the top of his sunglasses, see them land on the tattoo on your hip. "Hot Shot" in slightly wobbly script. His jaw tightens, and you see him shift on the towel, adjusting his position.

But he doesn't take off his button-up shirt. Doesn't even unbutton it further. He keeps it on, and you think, probably hiding evidence from Polly. More hickies, more marks, more proof.

"Camera rolling!" someone shouts.

The scene plays out—the main actors doing whatever they're supposed to be doing in the foreground while you and Steve sit stiffly on your towels in the background, barely moving, barely breathing.

"Cut!" The director's voice booms across the beach. "Let's go again. And background actors—you need to look natural. You're at the beach. Relax."

You see the director's eyes land on you and Steve briefly before he turns back to the main actors.

Steve sighs, leaning back and propping himself up on one elbow. His sunglasses are pushed up on top of his head now, but he's not looking at you. Staring at the sand, at the ocean, at anything else.

You awkwardly mirror his position, laying back, and your stomach twists at being this close to him for the first time since Friday night. Since he told you he was bored of you, since everything fell apart.

You swallow hard, eyes tracing his profile. He looks like he hasn't slept—dark circles under his eyes, deeper than they should be after just a few days. His facial hair is growing back in, that patchy stubble you remember from before he shaved it all off. And he's still wearing that shirt, fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeve, fidgeting.

Steve mumbles, so quiet you almost miss it, "I'm glad you're feeling better."

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth hurt. "Yep. I think it was probably lack of sleep." The words come out bitter, sharp-edged.

Steve looks at you through the hood of his lashes, hazel eyes briefly meeting yours. "Oh."

That's all he says. Just "oh."

"Yeah," you continue, unable to stop yourself. "If it continues tonight, I'm calling in a noise complaint to the front desk."

You're dead serious. You're not above sabotaging another night of their obnoxiously loud sex if it means you might actually sleep.

Steve's brows crease together, confusion clear on his face. "Uh. Okay?" He says it like he's asking why are you telling me this, but he doesn't say the words out loud.

"Cut!" the director yells again. "Reset!"

Another hour ticks by. You and Steve continue to pretend to relax, laying fully on your backs now, staring up at the striped umbrella fabric flapping in the ocean breeze.

You turn your head and can see Robin and Nancy in the water, not entirely pretending to be playful. They're splashing each other, laughing, fingers probably getting pruned from the salt water. Their joy is real. Their love is real.

Steve and you were never real.

After another reset, you prop yourself up on one elbow to face him. Your eyes finally meet properly, and you feel that tightness in your chest again—that feeling like someone's squeezing your heart with a fist.

Steve's brows furrow, then relax. With one hand, he cautiously reaches over and takes your sunglasses off, fingers gentle as they slide the frames away from your face.

He's searching your eyes, and you don't understand him. Don't understand how he could say he was bored of you, could sleep with Polly practically in front of you, but then do this. Look at you like you still matter.

And why do you let him? You're so angry, so hurt, but your body is on fire with the memory of him, aching and burning for something you can't have anymore.

"I'm sorry," Steve murmurs, voice low enough that no one else can hear. "About not telling you Polly was coming."

It pisses you off even more. Because if he was actually sorry, he wouldn't be fucking her. Wouldn't be touching her. Wouldn't be making you listen to it through thin walls.

"It wasn't your job to tell me," you manage. "You all blindsided me. Robin, Nancy, Eddie—none of them warned me either."

"That's my fault," Steve says quickly. "I told them I would tell you. And I didn't. I didn't want you to think—" He stops himself. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever." You sit up fully, hugging your legs to your chest. "I don't really care."

"Yeah." Steve's voice goes hard, bitter. "I know you don't."

He sits up too, pulling a flask out of the pocket of his shirt. But he doesn't take a sip—he tilts his head back and chugs, throat working as he swallows. Once, twice, three times.

You watch him, jaw tight, teeth grinding together. "Maybe slow down, yeah?"

Part of you says it bitterly, angry at him for everything. But part of you says it because you care. You care that Polly joined the trip. You care that she knows secrets you thought were sacred. You care that you haven't seen Steve sober once on this trip—not Sunday on the plane, not Monday, not now. He's always drinking, always chasing something, and it reminds you of stories you've heard about him and Billy, about the accident, about things you don't fully understand.

"Get off my back—" Steve stops himself before he can say "Hot Shot," and the absence of the nickname feels like another loss. He says your name instead, sour and sharp. "Relax a little, will you?"

"Why is she here?" The question comes out before you can stop it, jealousy dripping from every word.

You've never wanted to be this person. Never wanted to show it, especially not when you see the hopeful glimmer that appears in Steve's eyes, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.

"Cut!" the director yells. "Reset!"

Steve takes another swig from his flask, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. You can smell it now—rum, cheap and strong.

"She had nowhere else to go," Steve says, not looking at you. "She was seeing this douchebag, and he left her hanging. Decided to go backpacking through Europe instead of spending spring break with her like they'd planned."

"Right." Your words are hot on your tongue, burning. "And because you're so loyal, you felt like you needed to take care of her?"

Steve's face twists, eyes rolling. He holds out the flask to you. "Here. You need this more than I do."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Because you're acting like a fucking bitch right now."

The director calls cut, and it's a good thing he does, because you were about to do serious damage to Steve's pretty face.

A crewmember approaches—young guy with a headset and a nervous expression. "Hey, so... the director wants to know if you two are a couple. If you’d be okay with you making out for the next shot. He feels like something's missing from the scene and wants to try it."

You and Steve both look up at him, dumbfounded.

You glance past the crewmember's shoulder and see Jonathan, who must know what's happening. He's holding a water bottle out to the director with an apologetic look on his face, clearly trying to do damage control.

You're ready to say no—absolutely not, no way in hell—but then Steve speaks.

"Sure."

Your head snaps toward him, but he's not looking at you. He's staring straight ahead, jaw set, expression unreadable.

The crewmember doesn't wait for your agreement. He jogs back to the director, giving a thumbs up.

"Camera rolling!"

The tension between you and Steve settles like a physical thing—thick and suffocating and electric all at once. You grab his flask without asking and take a long drink, the rum burning down your throat, because you know you're not getting out of this.

And maybe a part of you doesn't want to.

You hope Polly is watching from somewhere on the beach. Fuck, you hope Robin sees. You're tired of the secrets and lies and wishful thinking. You're tired of this not being real, tired of Steve not knowing how much he's hurt you, tired of wanting him to regret everything he said.

"Action!"

Steve's hands find your waist, pulling you closer. Your hands go to his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the muscle underneath.

Your lips connect.

It's slow at first—softer than you expected, gentler than the anger between you should allow. His mouth tastes like rum and something underneath that's purely Steve, and the familiarity of it breaks something open in your chest.

His hands slide to the small of your back, settling where they belong, where they've been a hundred times before. You sigh into his mouth without meaning to, and he responds by deepening the kiss, tongue tracing the seam of your lips.

Sand is everywhere—in your hair, on your skin, gritty between your toes. The ocean crashes in the background. People are watching, cameras are rolling, and none of it matters because Steve is kissing you like he means it.

But then you remember.

The moans through the wall. The bed hitting plaster. Steve's voice saying Polly's name, or maybe not saying anything at all, just the sounds of pleasure that you recognize, that you know intimately.

A sob catches in your throat, tears stinging behind your closed eyelids. You feel them start to fall—hot and unwelcome, tracking down your cheeks.

You push at his shoulders, breaking the kiss, and Steve pulls back immediately. His pupils are blown wide, brows furrowed in confusion and concern. His eyes are searching your face, landing on your tears, and they go even wider with something that looks like panic.

Your hand moves before you can think about it—hot against his cheek, the slap echoing across the beach. Not hard enough to really hurt him, but hard enough to make a point.

Then you're standing up and running, sand kicking up behind you as you flee the set, the cameras, Steve's shocked expression, all of it.

Behind you, you hear the director shout, "Cut! That's a wrap on scene forty-two! Great work, everyone!"

Eddie and Polly are nowhere to be seen when you stumble back toward the hotel. Your vision is blurred with tears, and you're planning on hiding in your room for the rest of this godforsaken trip.

But when you walk through the lobby, you see them—Eddie and Polly sitting close together at the bar, laughing about something, shoulders touching, completely absorbed in each other.

You go straight to them, sliding onto the barstool next to Polly.

You flash your fake ID at the bartender, who barely glances at it. "Tequila sunrise, please."

You reach for your keycard to give him so he can charge it to your room, but Eddie's hand shoots across you, stopping your movement.

"Nuh-uh." He flashes you a smile, pulling out a different keycard and handing it to the bartender. "Put it on this one."

"Eds, I can't let you pay for my sorrows," you drone, but there's no energy behind the protest.

Eddie laughs, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Love you, Hot Shot, but this is the key to Steve's room. Big boy is paying for us tonight." He winks.

An hour later, you and Polly are drunkenly hanging off each other as you stumble up to your room, Eddie having guided you through the lobby and into the elevator. Another hour after that, Eddie finally leaves, but not before sharing a joint between you three.

Now you're on the bed, staring at the swirling ceiling, watching the fan blades rotate slowly. Polly is sprawled out on the floor like a starfish, arms and legs spread wide, staring up at the same ceiling from a different angle.

Neither of you is talking. You should probably start getting ready for dinner—Jonathan made reservations at some seafood place for six-thirty—but moving feels impossible.

Then Polly speaks, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence. "You're why Steve ended it with everyone, aren't you?"

You swallow hard, the burnt taste of leftover weed bitter on your tongue. You could say yes. Could tell her the truth, get back at her somehow, make her feel guilty.

But why would you be mad at her? She's not the one who wronged you. Steve is. Polly is allowed to enjoy sex just like you do. She didn't know what was between you and Steve—probably still doesn't know, not really.

And even if it was the case that you were the reason Steve ended things, he's taken it all back now. He doesn't want only you like he said he did.

"Does it matter?" you ask, but not harshly. Genuinely asking.

Maybe Polly understands that you know. That you've figured out she and Steve are hooking up, breaking his once-a-month rule the same way you did.

But instead of looking guilty or defensive, Polly giggles. She raises up off the floor and puts her head on the bed next to yours, looking at you with sparkling eyes. You realize you look like teenagers at a sleepover, sharing secrets about boys.

She's biting her bottom lip, grinning wide. "Is he a good kisser?"

Your brows furrow. "You saw that? On set?"

Polly laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "Before Eddie and I left to go back to the hotel," She pauses, then adds more quietly, "But also, I saw you two in his car last week. Outside the library. I'm not a creep or anything! I was just walking by and happened to see—"

Your heart drops. Everyone saw it. The kiss on set, the desperate way you grabbed at each other, the tears.

But then your brain catches up to the rest of what Polly said, and more confusion floods in.

Polly really doesn't care that you and Steve have history, does she? Or is this some weird way of pretending not to care before she eventually sabotages you?

No. Looking at her face—open, earnest, genuinely curious—you don't think so.

No one else knows what Steve's lips taste like. No one else you can talk to about boys like this, giggle about stupid things that feel important when you're young and drunk and heartbroken.

You're tired of lying about simple things.

"Yeah," you admit, a half-hearted smile tugging at your lips. "He's a really good kisser."

"I knew it," Polly breathes, and then her demeanor changes. Goes more sheepish, shy. She's picking at the threads in the carpet, not meeting your eyes. "Do you think... do you think he's a better kisser than Munson?"

You might fucking hate Steve Harrington. But he doesn't have to know your honest answer to this question.

"Yes," you tell Polly, heat rising in your cheeks. "Steve's a better kisser."

Polly grins, then asks softly, shyly, "So you don't like him?"

"Steve?"

"No." Polly's voice drops even lower. "Eddie. You don't like Eddie, right?"

You tilt your head to look at her properly, reading the hope and fear written plainly across her face.

"No," you say firmly. "He's like my brother. I think. I don't have a brother, so I can't say for sure, but—" You laugh. "No. Definitely not."

Polly doesn't laugh with you this time. Instead, her face slowly breaks into the biggest grin you've seen from her yet, and she bites her bottom lip like she's trying to contain pure joy and failing completely.

.-.-.-.

The restaurant sits directly on the beach, built on a weathered wooden deck that extends out over the sand like it's trying to reach the water. String lights are draped overhead, crisscrossing in lazy patterns, casting warm yellow light that competes with the sunset painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and pink and deep purple. The air smells like salt and grilled fish and lime, mixed with the sweet smoke from tiki torches placed at intervals along the railing.

The waves crash rhythmic and steady beneath you, loud enough that you have to raise your voice slightly to be heard. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in circles, probably hoping someone will drop food. In the distance, you can hear music from one of the beach parties—something with a heavy bass line that thumps faintly like a second heartbeat.

You're three margaritas in, seated between Steve and Polly at a long table that's been pushed together from two smaller ones. You're not sure how Steve ended up next to you—whether it was intentional or just bad luck, some cosmic joke at your expense.

You know you're being loud. Annoying. Laughing too hard at jokes that aren't that funny, your voice carrying over the general din of conversation. Your words are starting to jumble together, consonants sliding into each other, and your face feels hot—from the alcohol, from the weed you smoked earlier, from the way Steve's thigh keeps brushing against yours under the table.

Your eyes are red and glassy, and you can feel them getting heavier with each blink.

Polly was laughing along with you at first, matching you, but as the night has worn on her concern has started to show. She keeps glancing at you with worried eyes, touching your arm gently when you sway in your seat.

Your brain starts moving in slow motion, thoughts sticky and hard to grasp. You watch as Eddie, who's sitting on Polly's other side, leans close to say something in her ear. She laughs, blushing, and touches his arm—a gesture that would be casual if not for the way her fingers linger.

You know—or at least you suspect after your conversation in the hotel room—that Polly is interested in Eddie. That she wants him the way you want Steve, with that desperate aching need that makes everything else feel small and insignificant.

But she's sleeping with Steve, isn't she? Or you thought she was. Your head is starting to hurt, a dull throb behind your eyes that pulses in time with your heartbeat.

You wonder if Eddie feels like Sammy felt. Being around the girl he likes while she doesn't know what she wants, or knows but thinks she can't have it, stuck in limbo and hoping for scraps of attention.

Or maybe Polly does know what she wants but doesn't think she can have it. Doesn't think she deserves it. Doesn't think it's allowed.

Maybe you know what you want too.

You take another long drink from your margarita, the salt on the rim stinging your lips, tequila burning down your throat.

Steve is next to you, equally drunk. Maybe more drunk. His face is flushed red, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the ocean breeze. He hasn't touched his food—grilled mahi-mahi sitting untouched on his plate, going cold. He hasn't talked either, not really. Just mumbled responses when directly addressed, otherwise silent and staring at nothing.

You can tell he's slipping into that state—the one where the world goes soft around the edges, where gravity feels different, where you're floating and sinking at the same time. His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide and black, and he keeps blinking slowly like he's trying to reset his vision.

Robin notices when Steve's fork slips from his hand, clattering against his plate with a loud metallic sound that makes several people at nearby tables glance over.

"Shit," Steve mutters, fumbling to pick it up, his movements uncoordinated.

Robin laughs, but there's an edge to it—worry masked as amusement. She leans across Nancy to look at him. "Steve. No more, okay? You're done."

And you don't know why it pisses you off.

Why this, of all things, is what makes it all come crashing in—the weight of the past few days, the confusion and hurt and jealousy and love and loss all hitting you at once like a riptide you didn't see coming. It pulls you under, fills your lungs, and suddenly you're drowning in feeling, gasping for air that won't come.

"Geez, Robin," you hear yourself say, voice sharp and unfiltered. "Stop acting like he's actually your boyfriend."

You stab at the food on your plate casually, like you didn't say something explosive, and bring it to your mouth. Chew. Swallow. The food tastes like nothing.

You feel Steve tense next to you—his whole body going rigid, muscles locking. Actually, you can feel everyone tense around the table. The conversation dies mid-sentence. They're all looking at you now, mouths slightly agape, frozen in various states of shock.

Robin's eyes flash with hurt first, then confusion, her face cycling through emotions too fast to track. "I know that," she says slowly, carefully. "But he's been like this every night since we got here, and I'm tired of dragging his ass to bed when he passes out in random places."

Your mind is too jumbled to connect the dots, to understand what she's actually saying. You're still seeing red, vision tinged with anger and tequila and heartbreak. "Stop treating him like a kid."

"Maybe I will when he stops acting like one," Robin snaps back, and her voice has an edge now too, sharp enough to cut.

"Are we..." Steve finally speaks, his words thick and slow. "Are we going to talk about me like I'm not here?"

Robin ignores him completely. She looks you up and down, assessing, and you can see her putting pieces together that you didn't mean to reveal. "And what's it to you? You're not his girlfriend either."

Nancy kicks Robin under the table—you hear the thump of shoe against shin, see Nancy's face twist in alarm. "Robin!" she hisses, low and urgent.

Eddie and Jonathan look at each other awkwardly, having one of those silent conversations that happens when you've witnessed something you weren't supposed to see. Jonathan shifts in his seat, looking like he wants to disappear. Eddie takes a long drink of his beer.

Polly's hand suddenly grabs yours under the table, squeezing tight in what you think is meant to be comforting. But your mind is too slow and too single-minded to figure out who you want to be pissed off at.

Maybe everyone. Yes. Everyone.

"Robin," you say, pulling your hand away from Polly's. "I'm not really in the mood, okay? So let's drop it."

You reach for your margarita glass, fingers closing around the stem, but someone's larger hand wraps around your wrist. You look up and catch Steve's hazel eyes—clouded with alcohol but clearer than they've been in days, focused entirely on you. He's subtly shaking his head, a small movement that says please don't, please stop, please.

"You know what..." You snap your wrist away from his grip, and your words come out slow and drawling, heavy with alcohol and something darker. "You guys are all fucking bullshit, you know that?"

The word—bullshit—gives Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve a visceral reaction. You see them all flinch like you've physically struck them.

You point at Robin, your finger wavering slightly. "You don't even see that your own fucking girlfriend is miserable." Your head lolls to the side, mouth hanging open slightly, wet from the alcohol. "Actually... we're all miserable because our lives have to go according to the Steve and Robin show."

You can see Nancy out of the corner of your eye, her face crumpling slightly, tears threatening.

"I might like attention, Robin," you continue, and your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. "But at least I'm not selfish."

Robin scowls, and when she speaks her voice is tight with barely controlled anger. "If I was selfish, I would be pissed off that you kissed Steve today. Even though my parents could see that movie, and if they see him kissing some random girl—"

"I'm not some random girl, Robin," you snap, leaning forward.

"Oh, you know what I mean." Robin waves her hand dismissively. "If they saw him kissing someone that isn't me, they're going to lose their shit. But no, I haven't brought it up because Jonathan reminded me it's a movie and the scene might get scrapped anyway. And I'm the selfish one?" She pauses, and you can see her winding up for the kill shot. "What about Sammy? He asks you to be your boyfriend, and the moment you're away from him, you're playing tonsil hockey with someone else."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Polly looks at you with wide eyes. You look away, unable to meet her gaze. You glance at Eddie, who has his elbows on the table, both hands covering his mouth, impossible to tell what expression he's making behind them. Jonathan is leaned all the way back in his chair, hands rubbing his face like he can erase this entire conversation through sheer force of will.

But Nancy gives you a look—her eyes wide, eyebrows lifting, something in her expression that looks almost like encouragement. Like she's saying do it, tell the truth, blow it all up. Or maybe you're imagining it because you're too drunk to read people properly anymore.

You look up at Steve. His eyes are glassing over with tears, but his expression stays carefully neutral, locked down and giving nothing away.

"We were doing the job, Robin," Steve says, and his voice is cold, flat, empty of emotion. "It didn't even mean anything."

Your chair scrapes against the wooden deck floor—loud, violent, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of waves and music and conversation. Your knees are wobbly from the alcohol, and you have to brace yourself on the table for a second before you can stand fully.

You're looking directly at Steve now. He's staring down at his plate, jaw clenched, like he can feel your eyes boring into his skull but refuses to meet them.

"Bullshit," you say again, and the word comes out quiet this time but no less devastating.

Then you turn and walk out of the restaurant, leaving your half-finished margarita and untouched food and the stunned silence in your wake.e

You walk the beach for what feels like hours but is probably only thirty or forty minutes. The sky has gone fully dark now, stars appearing overhead in clusters and constellations you don't know the names of. The moon is nearly full, hanging fat and bright, painting a silver path across the water.

Your feet sink into the sand with each step, making walking harder than it should be. You kick off your sandals at some point and carry them, letting the cool sand squeeze between your toes.

You pass parties—bonfires surrounded by college students, music blaring from boom boxes, the smell of weed and cheap beer thick in the air. Couples walk past you, arms around each other, whispering and laughing, and each one feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

Finally, you find an empty spot—a stretch of beach far enough from the parties that the music is just a distant thump, close enough to the water that the waves are loud, rhythmic, hypnotic.

Your stomach sinks as you stand there, toes in the wet sand where the waves reach, and tears fill your eyes. You're a little less drunk now—the walk and the ocean air have burned off some of the tequila fog—but your head is still heavy, pounding in time with your heart.

You feel like you're breaking apart. Like all the pieces you've been holding together through sheer force of will are finally coming loose, scattering, and you don't know how to gather them back up.

Behind you, a voice says, "We've been looking everywhere for you."

You jump, spinning around, and see Steve standing a few feet away.

His shirt is flapping in the breeze, the striped fabric snapping like a flag. His hair is mussed—more than usual, like he's been running his fingers through it compulsively. He's breathing hard like he's been running, searching, frantic.

You roll your eyes, anger blazing hot and immediate again. You turn back to look at the ocean, crossing your arms over your chest.

Steve's hand touches your shoulder—gentle, tentative, warm even through your shirt. "Come on," he says your name softly, like you're something precious and breakable. "Please. Let's go back to the hotel."

You jerk away from him, spinning around, your hair whipping across your face in the wind. Your eyes are already brimming with tears that threaten to spill over. "Go away, Steve. Like you even care."

"But I do care," Steve's voice cracks, breaking on the words. "I always care about you. I've always—"

"Why?" Your voice raises, carried away on the wind. "So I can go back and listen to you and Polly again? Is that what you want?"

"W-what?" Confusion crosses his face, brows furrowing. "What are you—"

"Every night!" The words tear out of you, raw and painful. "Every night I've had to hear you two together through the wall, and I can't do it anymore. I can't—"

"No." Steve adjusts his feet, tilting his face to look at you fully, eyes widening. He's shaking his head frantically. "No, no, you have it wrong. I—"

"Oh, please, Steve. Give me a break. I don't have time for this." You step back, but he grabs your wrist, holding you in place.

"Polly came on this trip for Eddie," Steve says, words tumbling out fast and desperate. "You have to believe me. When I ended things with her, I told her she should give Eddie a chance. But she said she was talking to someone already, and then Friday after the party, they—" He takes a breath, steadying himself. "Please," he says your name like a prayer. "You have to believe me. It wasn't me. It was never me and her."

Your lips quiver as you think, as the dots finally start connecting through the haze. Eddie's hickies covering his entire stomach. The constant flirting between him and Polly. The way you saw her hand squeeze his knee at dinner. Them being okay alone together for hours while you all went to the movie set. Eddie having Steve's keycard, charging drinks to his room.

And the voice—you thought it was Steve's voice humming in the shower, but earlier when Eddie was smoking the joint with you and Polly, he was humming too. That same tuneless, happy sound. The same toothy grin.

"I believe you," you say quietly, and you do. But your voice hardens. "But it doesn't make a difference. It doesn't change anything. Leave me alone."

You shake your head, pulling your wrist from his grip. You start walking away from him, not toward the hotel but further down the beach, into the darkness.

You hear him swallow hard, hear him curse under his breath. Then your name again, gentle and broken. "Is it true?"

You stop. Turn around. "Is what true?"

"Did Sammy really ask you to be your boyfriend?" Steve's expression is shattered, pieces of it scattered across his face—hope and fear and desperate need all warring for dominance. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

"Why do you want to know?" you challenge, even though you already know the answer.

And then he breaks. His voice is gone, reduced to barely a whisper. "You know why, Hot Shot."

The nickname feels like a wave crashing over you—sharp and painful and overwhelming. You're shaking your head again, looking away because you can't bear to see his face. Your lips purse together, trying to hold back the sob building in your throat.

"No, Steve. No, I don't." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "How could I when you said those things to me?"

"I know." He's quick, frantic, stepping toward you. "Please, I know. I messed up." Then quieter, voice cracking completely. "I messed up so bad."

He steps forward again, closer now, and his face catches the moonlight. You can see tears on his cheeks, silvered tracks running down to his jaw.

"Please don't," Steve begs, and he sounds wrecked, destroyed. "Don't do it. Don't be his girlfriend. Please say no when you go back. Please."

Your breath hitches. You're crying harder now, chest heaving with sobs you can't contain anymore. "And why not? Sammy's nice. He's good. He's—"

"But I can be good too." Steve's voice is desperate, pleading. "I've been trying. I've been trying to change, to be better. I have changed." He says the last part with slightly more confidence, but it's still broken at the edges, like he's not entirely sure he believes it himself.

"Okay? And what?" You take a step back, needing distance, needing space to breathe. "Are you trying to say I should be with you? Join you and Robin in your miserable lie?" Another step back. "Because I would never be happy. You love Robin. And that's not going to change. You're always going to pick her."

"But I don't love her." The words come out soft, broken, honest. He lifts his hand like he wants to touch your face, but instead it comes to his own chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his heart. "Not like—not in the way I love you."

Your eyes widen. You feel yourself step forward involuntarily, pulled toward him like gravity, but then you shake your head and force yourself to step backward instead.

"I thought maybe you didn't feel what I was feeling," Steve continues, looking out at the ocean now. His profile in the moonlight is beautiful and heartbreaking—the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the way tears catch the light as they roll down his cheeks. He closes his eyes, swallows hard, his throat working. "That you didn't want more. But then today, when we kissed—"

He looks back at you, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart stop. Like he's seeing you again for the first time. Like he's doing what he says he feels—loving you, wanting you, needing you more than air.

And that's what makes it hurt the worst.

"I didn't mean it," Steve says your name like it's sacred. "When I told you I was bored of you, I didn't mean any of it. It's the opposite. I could never be bored of you." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I think I became alive when I met you. That there was this missing piece of me I didn't know was missing until I realized it was you."

Your face softens despite yourself, tears flowing freely now. "What about Robin?"

Steve ducks his head, looking at his feet, and his whole body radiates pain—shoulders curving in, back bowing like he's trying to make himself smaller.

You take a moment to watch him. To really see him—Steve Harrington, golden boy, heartbreaker, your best friend's fake boyfriend, the boy who showed you the stars. You sniffle, wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

"Steve," you say carefully. "I can't deny that I've been feeling things for you. And I do want more. I—"

He looks up at you immediately, hopeful, searching for confirmation, trying to grasp onto the possibility. He steps forward, reaching for you.

But you take a step back, hands coming up between you like a barrier. You swallow hard, tilt your head, bite your lip. Let out a shaky breath that tastes like salt and tears and regret.

"But I don't love you," you force yourself to say. "Not like that."

The lie tastes like poison on your tongue.

There's that weird feeling in your chest again—guilt, heavy and suffocating, mixed with something that might be self-preservation or might be cowardice.

Steve's mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. He's crying openly now, face crumbling, and he pinches the corners of his eyes like it will stop the tears, like this moment will end if he can reset his vision.

"I should've said something at dinner," he manages to get out through the sobs. "I should've—" His shoulders shake, his whole body trembling. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes anymore.

You steady yourself, planting your feet in the sand, forcing yourself to stay upright when everything in you wants to collapse. You look at him one last time—really look, memorizing him like this. Broken and beautiful and more honest than he's ever been.

"Goodnight, Steve."

And you turn and walk away.

You can't stay. Don't trust yourself to stay. Because you want to ask him to run away with you, to let the tides carry you both far from Robin and Nancy and expectations and futures that have already been decided. You want to give yourself a chance to see if there's a possibility of knowing what loving Steve Harrington could feel like.

But you can't.

So you walk away from the boy you might love, leaving him crying on an empty beach in Miami, and you tell yourself it's the right thing to do.

You tell yourself the pain in your chest will fade eventually.

You tell yourself you made the right choice.

You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk back to the hotel alone, and you don't believe any of them.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: confusion, prob eventual miscommunication! drunk sex... biting (for u maya) riding, unprotected sex............. angst mean!steve (like... u guys might not forgive him.......) mentions of heavy drinking... hot shot is feeling a lot... crying... sammy words: 14k summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: i don't have a lot to say. please don't hate me. trust me masterlist | Rules/Playlist

Chapter 15

It's Friday, and you're sitting in American Literature with Robin, watching the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. The class is lighter in numbers than usual—half the seats empty because students have already fled campus to start their spring break early. Even Professor Morrison seems aware that no one wants to be here, his usual passionate lectures about Hemingway reduced to a monotone drone that makes your eyelids heavy.

You're in the back row, your usual spot, notebooks open but mostly ignored. The afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of golden light across the floor that are slowly creeping toward the front of the room as the earth turns. Dust motes float lazily in the beams, and somewhere outside you can hear the distant sound of a lawnmower, the smell of fresh-cut grass drifting in through the cracked window.

Robin is antsy beside you. You can feel her restless energy radiating off her in waves—the way her leg bounces under the desk making the whole row of connected seats vibrate slightly, the way she keeps shifting her weight, the constant clicking of her pen cap on and off until you want to reach over and take it away from her.

You glance over and see her writing something in her notebook, but it's clearly not notes about "The Sun Also Rises." Her handwriting is messier than usual, more frantic, crossing out and rewriting the same lines over and over.

You lean slightly to peek at what she's written.

Nancy... I've been trying to find the perfect time to tell you...

Robin grunts in frustration, scribbling it out so hard the pencil nearly tears through the paper. She scratches at it with aggressive strokes, then throws her pencil down with more force than necessary. It rolls off the desk and clatters to the floor.

She puts her head down on the table with a soft thunk, sighing so heavily you feel the gust of air. Then she turns her head, cheek pressed flat against the fake wood grain surface, looking at you with those big, expressive eyes.

"How do you do it?" Robin asks, voice low enough not to disturb the handful of students actually paying attention up front.

"Do what?" you whisper back, genuinely confused.

Robin sighs again, breath stirring the loose papers on her desk. "How do you not feel things intensely?"

You're startled, brows furrowing together, a little offended by the question. You snort. "What?"

Robin shrugs, as much as she can while still laying on the desk like a deflated balloon. "I don't know... even when you're mad or upset, you don't—" She pauses, searching for words. "I don't know how you're always kind of cool about it. Like, sure, you can say things that let me know you're pissed, but I don't think I've ever seen you yell. Or cry in front of people. Or have a total meltdown." She groans, lifting one hand to place it on top of your head like she's actively trying to merge your souls together through physical contact. "Can we share a brain? Or like, swap bodies? Just for one day?"

You laugh—awkward and slightly too loud. Professor Morrison glances back at you with a disapproving look, and you duck your head apologetically. You move Robin's hand away from your head, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself.

You lean in closer, voice dropping even lower. "Rob, saying 'I love you' doesn't have to be a huge deal."

Robin's face immediately transforms like you've said a curse word in church. Her eyes go wide, scandalized. "But it's my first time ever!" she hisses. "I want it to be special. I already have it all planned out." Her voice goes dreamy, wistful, and she props her chin in her hand, staring off into the middle distance with a soft smile. "A late-night walk on the beach. The waves crashing. Maybe the moon reflecting on the water. And I'll turn to her and say it, and she'll say it back, and it'll be perfect."

You pretend to pay attention to Professor Morrison, who's now drawing something on the chalkboard that might be a timeline or might be abstract art—you honestly can't tell. You chew on your bottom lip, not looking at Robin when you ask quietly, "What does it feel like?"

"What?" Robin asks, startled like she's been pulled from her daydream mid-kiss.

"Being in love," you clarify, voice even softer now, almost shy. "What does it feel like?"

Robin turns her whole body in her seat to look at you, eyebrows raised. "You've never been in love before?"

You shrug, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the corner of your notebook where the pages are starting to come loose from the spiral binding.

Robin's expression softens, going tender in a way that makes your chest tight. "It feels like..." She pauses, thinking, then smiles. "Like coming home after a really long day and everything is exactly where you left it. Like being understood without having to explain yourself. Like laughing so hard your stomach hurts and knowing the other person thinks you're funny even when no one else gets the joke." Her smile grows wider, more radiant. "It's terrifying and safe at the same time. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing someone will catch you if you fall, so you're not afraid to jump."

You try very hard not to think about the way Steve flashes across your mind as Robin explains this. Try not to picture his smile when he sees you, the way his whole face lights up. Try not to remember how it felt waking up in his arms in the tent, or the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he says your name.

You fail spectacularly.

"You okay?" Robin asks, nudging your shoulder. "You look weird."

"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about all the packing I still have to do."

Robin accepts this with a nod, going back to staring at her ruined confession in her notebook, and you spend the rest of class trying very hard not to think about Steve Harrington and failing at that too.

After class finally, mercifully ends, you and Robin step out of the building into the warm afternoon sun. The campus is already half-deserted, groups of students loading cars with suitcases and coolers, excited chatter about beach destinations and ski trips filling the air.

Steve is waiting off to the side of the building, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He's wearing his glasses and you can tell the exact moment he spots you because his posture changes—shoulders straightening slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

He catches your eyes first, and you both break into huge smiles simultaneously. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing lately, and you almost forget yourself—almost forget that you're not the one "dating" him, almost start running up to give him a hug the way your body is screaming at you to do.

But you catch yourself, stopping short when Robin brushes past you and goes straight to him. She plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it out under her sneaker with more force than necessary.

"What the hell?" Steve complains, looking down at the crushed cigarette with genuine mourning. "I just lit that."

"I'm not going to be stuck in a car with you smelling like cigarettes," Robin says firmly, brushing ash off her fingers.

"You've never complained before," Steve grumbles, pouting at the cigarette on the ground like it personally betrayed him. Then he looks up, and his eyes find yours over Robin's shoulder. His pout transforms into a smile—soft and private and meant only for you. "Hey, Hot Shot."

You feel your face heat up immediately, a bashful smile taking over your features before you can stop it. "Hey, you."

God, you want to mentally kick yourself. You've had this man inside you multiple times in multiple positions, and now—just because you've realized you have a crush like some ridiculous teenager—you're acting like this? How pathetic.

But also, how is he so attractive? Standing there in his navy blue polo that brings out the blue in his hazel eyes, that mustache you spent twenty minutes kissing yesterday, his honey-brown hair catching the sunlight and turning golden at the ends. His glasses gleam in the afternoon sun, and you can see the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

He chuckles—low and warm and knowing—like he can read exactly what you're thinking. Then he turns to Robin, slinging an arm across her shoulders in that easy, familiar way they have. "Ready to go pick up your sweetheart?"

Robin beams, her whole face lighting up like she's been plugged into an electrical socket. She turns to you, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Hot Shot, you sure you don't want to come?"

Your eyes go wide, panic fluttering in your chest. Steve and Robin are driving to the bus station to pick up Nancy so she'll be in town for the weekend, and then you're all leaving together for the airport Sunday morning for Miami.

But the idea of being trapped in a car with Steve for that long sounds like actual torture. And that's not even considering the dread of the spring break trip itself. A whole week of this. Of pretending you’re not feeling what you’re feeling. 

You shake your head quickly, maybe too quickly. "Uh, no. I'm gonna finish some last-minute things before break. Laundry and packing and stuff."

You glance at Steve, who's still grinning at you, hazel eyes twinkling. There's something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or affection, or something else you're too afraid to name.

"Guess I'll see you at the party tonight?" he says, and you hate how much your stomach flips at the casual way he says it, like you're just friends, like you haven't memorized the taste of his skin. "It won't be that big, but some of the guys wanted to have one last blowout before everyone ditches town for the week."

You nod, not trusting your voice to come out normal.

Robin leans over and kisses your cheek, her lips warm and slightly sticky from lip gloss. "See you in two hours, babe! We'll come grab you before the party!"

And then you watch Steve and Robin walk off, hand in hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand the way he does with you when he thinks no one's looking. They're laughing about something, heads bent close together, and they look perfect. They look real.

You know it's fake. You know it's not real, that it's all an elaborate performance for parents and society and the future they're building together.

But standing there watching them go, a part of you wishes it was you holding Steve's hand in the sunshine, you making him laugh, you walking to his car with the promise of two hours alone together.

You turn and walk back to your dorm, and you absolutely do not let yourself think about how Steve's hand felt in yours, or how he smiles differently when it's just the two of you, or how many days you have left before this crush becomes something you can't ignore anymore.

Two hours later, Robin and Nancy show up at your dorm, but something is off immediately.

Robin's mood is completely different than it was earlier—all the nervous, giddy energy from class has been replaced with something darker, more agitated. She's snapping at nothing, moving with jerky, frustrated movements as she rifles through her closet looking for something to wear to the party.

Nancy, on the other hand, is still chipper, seemingly unbothered. She's sitting on Robin's bed, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine and humming softly to herself.

"How was the drive?" you ask casually, pulling your own outfit from your closet—a simple top and jeans, nothing special.

Robin huffs loudly, yanking a shirt off a hanger so hard the hanger goes flying. "Fine."

Nancy looks up from her magazine, gives you a look that clearly says don't ask, and goes back to reading.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but apparently it's not between Robin and Nancy because Nancy seems completely at ease. So what happened?

You open your mouth to ask, but Robin disappears into the bathroom with her clothes, slamming the door harder than necessary. You hear the shower turn on, the water pressure making the pipes groan.

Nancy catches your eye and shakes her head slightly. Later, she mouths.

So you get ready in silence, the only sound the running water and the occasional curse from Robin when she drops something in the shower, and you wonder what could have possibly happened in two hours to change her mood so completely.

.-.-.-.

Robin, Nancy, and you walk up to the Pike house as the sun is setting, the sky streaked with orange and pink. You can hear the muffled roar of voices and laughter spilling out onto the front lawn. The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of recently mowed grass.

You're shocked to see a miserable Eddie stationed at the front door, playing bouncer. He's slouched against the doorframe, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, barely glancing at people as he waves them through. His usual manic energy is completely absent, replaced with a kind of defeated exhaustion that sits wrong on his features.

When he sees the three of you approaching, his frown deepens, carving lines around his mouth.

"I thought you wouldn't have to do this anymore since Steve became president," Robin laughs. She has her arms looped through yours and Nancy's—her excuse to touch Nancy in public without raising suspicion, though anyone paying attention would notice how her thumb keeps stroking Nancy's wrist.

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend is PMSing or something," Eddie grumbles, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his lips without lighting it. "He's been a total dick since he got back from dropping you two off. Snapping at everyone, drinking like it's his last night on earth."

Robin rolls her eyes, but there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before. "He's still pissy? Don't worry, Eds. He's mad because I told him something he didn't want to hear on the way to pick up Nancy."

"That's why he was acting like that?" Nancy asks, a small laugh escaping despite the concern evident in her voice. "What did you tell him?"

Robin opens her mouth, then gives you a sideways look—quick, furtive, guilty. "Nothing important. The truth about something. He didn't like it, so now he's acting like a baby." She tugs at both of your arms, pulling you toward the door and effectively ending the conversation. "Eds, where is he?"

Eddie shrugs, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. "Probably out back doing another keg stand. Been at it for the past hour."

"Oh my god," Robin says, exasperation coloring her voice with frustration and something that might be worry.

Robin cuts through the side gate to the backyard, pulling you and Nancy along with her. The moment you step through, you're hit with the full force of the party—the air thick and humid with body heat, drenched in the smell of spilled beer and weed and cigarette smoke layered so thick it's almost visible. The music thrums against the windows, bass so heavy you can feel it in your chest, vibrating through your ribcage. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors called in a noise complaint within the hour.

There's chanting and hollering coming from the middle of the yard, voices raised in drunken unison.

"Steve! Steve! Steve! Steve!"

You can only see a pair of feet in the air at first—New Balances with the laces untied, dangling loose. Robin pulls you and Nancy toward the crowd, bodies pressing close as you push through the ring of onlookers.

Closer now, you see Buck holding Steve up by his legs, Steve's face red from being inverted, his navy blue polo riding up from gravity to expose his stomach. His happy trail. The scars on his torso glistening with a mixture of sweat and amber liquid, like someone had sprayed him with beer. His arms hang down toward the ground, hands gripping the keg, throat working as he chugs.

Finally, he jerks his legs forward, signaling Buck to bring him down. Buck helps him right himself, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Steve is smiling—grinning, really—licking beer off his lips, more of it rolling down his chin and soaking into his collar. You can't deny how attractive he looks, flushed and pleased with himself, hair falling into his eyes.

But then you notice it.

His hair is shorter. Much shorter than you've ever seen it, cropped close on the sides and longer on top, parted down the middle instead of swept back. The blonde highlights are completely gone, cut away, leaving only his natural dark brown. And his face—he's clean-shaven again, the mustache you'd spent the better part of this week kissing completely gone.

He still looks attractive, objectively handsome in that way Steve Harrington has always been handsome. But you're grieving the old look, the version of him you'd woken up next to Wednesday morning, the one who'd made you Eggo waffles and kissed you goodbye in his car.

Robin lets go of you and Nancy, crossing her arms over her chest. A scowl settles on her face, jaw tight.

You're still staring at him—ogling him, really, unable to help yourself—when a girl materializes at his side. She's blonde, wearing a tight top and high-waisted jeans, and she places her hand on his chest like she has every right to touch him. Her smile is wide, practiced.

"Steve, that was so awesome," she coos, voice pitched high and breathy.

You can hear him through his smirk, words slightly slurred. "Hey, Amanda. How are you?"

The name clicks into place. Amanda. One of Steve's old hookups—you remember Robin mentioning her once, remembered seeing her at a party months ago hanging off Steve's arm.

You're waiting for him to remove her hand, to step back, to do literally anything to create distance. He doesn't push her off. Amanda sees Robin's glare and lets go of his chest, but she doesn't step back, doesn't leave. If anything, she moves closer.

"I'm good," she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that would be comical if it wasn't making your stomach twist. "How are you?"

He looks her up and down—slow, assessing—and even though Steve told you he ended things with all of them, Amanda clearly didn't get the memo. She's biting her lip, looking him up and down in return, playing the game they used to play.

You don't have time to fully process the sharp pang of jealousy that shoots through your chest, or to question why it hurts so much to watch, because Steve's eyes flicker over to Robin. His face falters, the smile slipping for a fraction of a second.

Then, for the briefest moment, his gaze shifts to you.

Your breath catches. His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you can't read—something dark and hurt and angry all at once. Then he looks away.

"Yeah... good. I'll see you later, yeah?" He pats Amanda's shoulder dismissively and starts walking toward you, Robin, and Nancy, a grin spreading across his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He immediately embraces Robin in a hug, and you're close enough now to smell him—that deep musky scent that is distinctly Steve, but mixed with beer and weed and something sharper, more acrid. Desperation, maybe. Robin grimaces when he plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, his hands gripping her waist, only looking at her like you and Nancy aren't even standing there.

He puts his forehead against hers, swaying slightly.

"Steve—" Robin scolds, trying to pull back.

"What?" He draws the word out, lazy and defiant. "I'm playing the part, right?" His voice drops lower, meant to be private but still audible. "Isn't that what you want?"

Robin and Nancy exchange a look—awkward, uncomfortable, like they're witnessing something they shouldn't. Your stomach twists tighter.

Robin's jaw tightens, muscles flexing under her skin. "That's not what I'm talking about," she hisses in a whisper. "How much have you had to drink already?"

Steve blows a raspberry, the sound wet and childish. "What? You're the only one who can have fun?"

Nancy steps in, voice gentle but firm. "Steve, that's not why she's concerned."

He rolls his eyes, head lolling back dramatically. "Relax. I'm having fun, yeah? Not going to do anything stupid." He leans his head back forward, hands running up Robin's arms, squeezing. "Come on, let's go dance, Rob. You always want me to dance with you. I feel like dancing..." His words run together, vowels blending, consonants softening, and you don't know how he manages to sound drunk and coherent at the same time.

You realize with a sinking feeling, Steve has not once looked at you. Not directly. Not acknowledged your presence at all.

Robin sighs, defeated. "Okay, but you're drinking water first."

Steve kisses her cheek again—wet and loud—already pulling her away toward the coolers by the back porch. Robin looks over her shoulder at you and Nancy, and the expression on her face is pure apology, eyes saying I'm sorry and help me all at once.

"What was that all about?" you ask Nancy, unable to tear your eyes away from Steve and Robin. He's forcing down a bottle of water now, Robin's hand on his shoulder, both of them bobbing slightly to the music pumping through the outdoor speakers.

Nancy sighs, watching them too, but her expression is distant, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. "Apparently they've been fighting all day. She won't tell me what about. But she mentioned something about people noticing they've been distant lately, asking questions about whether they're okay."

You look over at them. Robin's back is pressed to Steve's front now, his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them swaying awkwardly to a song that doesn't match their rhythm. They're both staring off in different directions—Robin toward Nancy with naked longing, Steve toward nothing in particular with empty eyes. Neither of them looks like they want to be touching the other.

Your heart flips violently when Steve's eyes catch yours across the yard. His jaw flexes, muscles jumping under skin. Then he looks away again, pulling Robin closer in a way that looks more like desperation than affection.

"I thought things were better," you say out loud, voice small.

It was true. You thought everything had improved since you helped fix the spring break situation with Robin's parents. You thought it was better now that Steve was making choices for himself, declaring his major, standing up to his father in his own way.

Nancy swallows hard, throat working. "I think they forget they're not really together sometimes."

The words hit you like cold water.

You think about your own feelings—the ones you only admitted to yourself last night, staring at the ceiling of your dorm room while Robin snored softly in the bed next to yours. You don't know how long you've actually felt this way. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time Steve kissed you and you realized kissing him was different from kissing anyone else.

Last night you couldn't stop smiling, caught in the memory of the planetarium, of Steve's hands on your face, of the way he said your name like it meant something. And then you'd looked over at Robin sleeping peacefully, and the guilt had settled over you like a heavy blanket.

Nancy's observation sits uncomfortably in your chest because she's right. Even you forget they're not really together. It feels like betrayal—like cheating—to entertain the idea that maybe, possibly, you could change Steve and Robin's minds about their arrangement, about their promises to each other.

But you're not different. You're not special. Nothing will change.

"Can I tell you something, Nancy?" you ask softly, still watching the couple that's not really a couple swaying in the middle of the lawn.

Nancy looks at you, and when you turn to meet her gaze, her expression isn't pity. It's sympathy—soft eyes, gentle understanding, the look of someone who already knows what you're about to say.

"I know," Nancy offers quietly, saving you from having to speak it into existence. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Undeniable.

You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat. You've never been quick to emotion—or maybe you've never allowed yourself to be. The same way you've never allowed yourself to feel this way about anyone, to get close enough for it to hurt.

Your chest feels like it's caving in, ribs pressing toward your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

You think about the rule Steve made—that if either of you caught feelings, you'd end it. But then he'd said the rules didn't apply to you, that there were never really rules when it came to you. So does that mean all of them? Or none of them? Or only the ones that were convenient?

You chew on your bottom lip, tasting cherry chapstick and uncertainty. "I need to end it, don't I?"

For a second, you think Nancy might tell you no. Might tell you to go for it, to fight for what you want, to be selfish for once in your life.

But Nancy closes her mouth. Looks back at Robin and Steve—his arm slung over her shoulder now, talking to a group of Pike brothers like they belong exactly like this, like they'll always belong like this.

"Before you fall in love with him," Nancy says slowly, carefully, each word deliberate. "Before it's too late to turn back, then yeah. You should."

Her honest truth hits you like a million tiny blades, each one finding a different soft spot to sink into.

And then Nancy's eyes light up, something hopeful sparking there. "Do you..." She pauses, choosing her words. "Do you love him?"

The same clouded, confusing thoughts that ran through your head when Max asked you this question on Tuesday come rushing back. You look at Steve across the yard—at the way the string lights catch in his newly short hair, at the strong line of his shoulders, at his hands that know every inch of your body.

You think about the pieces of yourself that belong to him now. The ones you gave freely, the ones he took without asking, the ones you didn't even know you had until he found them. Pieces you've refused to give anyone else because they were his before you knew what you were giving away.

It started because of trust, because he was your friend, because it was safe and uncomplicated. Something he wasn't six months ago when he was someone you actively avoided at parties.

Your heart races looking at him. Your stomach flutters. Heat pools low in your belly even from across the yard, even angry at him, even knowing this can't go anywhere.

You open your mouth to answer—not really sure what will come out, not ready to hear yourself say it—when a voice calls out.

"Hey, Hot Shot! You want a turn?"

You look over to see Buck grinning at you, pointing at another keg that's been set up near the fence. The crowd around it is already chanting, waiting for the next victim.

Suddenly, the idea of standing upside down chugging cheap beer out of a questionable spout seems infinitely better than answering Nancy's question.

You see Steve look over the moment Buck touches you—Buck's hand on your lower back, helping you up onto the keg platform. Steve's face transforms, features twisting into something dark and possessive. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the yard.

And it pisses you off. He let Amanda touch him. Let her flirt with him, look at him like that, put her hands on his chest. You're not dating—you've never been dating—but how could he say the things he said to you and then ignore you tonight? How could he touch you the way he touched you and then pretend you don't exist?

You don't only get drunk on the keg stand—though you do, Buck's hands firm on your stomach as you chug, the crowd counting, your vision swimming when he rights you and everyone cheers. You don't only get drunk on the cheap tequila shots that burn going down, or the beer pong game you lose against one of the Tri Delt sisters who's wearing a "Spring Break or Bust" tank top.

You get drunk on something worse, something more dangerous.

You get drunk on the pathetic, inevitable realization that you're going to have to talk to Steve tonight. That you're going to have to tell him this isn't working anymore. That you can't do this—can't keep pretending you don't feel what you feel, can't keep being his secret while he plays boyfriend to your best friend.

But finally—finally—he's looking at you.

You're dancing with Robin and Nancy now, the three of you pressed close, giving Robin and Nancy the excuse to touch each other, to be close in a way they can't be normally. Nancy's hands are on Robin's hips, Robin's head thrown back in laughter, and you're moving with them, lost in the music and the alcohol and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.

And Steve is watching you from across the room.

His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, tracking your every movement. You can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over your exposed collarbone where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder, down to where your jeans sit low on your hips, back up to your face. The air between you feels electric, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.

You dance harder, throwing yourself into it, letting your hips sway in a way you know drives him crazy. You run your hands through your hair, tilt your head back, expose your throat. You're playing a game you know you shouldn't be playing, weaponizing your body against him the same way he's weaponizing his indifference.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip. His fingers tighten around the red Solo cup in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself in his jeans in a way that would be subtle if you weren't watching for it.

The song changes—something slower, bassier, all rhythm and want—and you turn, putting your back to him, rolling your body in a way that's absolutely, unquestionably meant for him to see. Nancy and Robin are lost in each other now, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing, and you're alone in the crowd but you don't feel alone because Steve's eyes are burning holes in your back.

You glance over your shoulder, find him still staring, and the look on his face is pure hunger mixed with something that might be anger or might be desperation or might be both.

Steve crosses the room.

He moves through the crowd like he has a purpose, shouldering past people without apology, eyes locked on you the whole time. When he reaches your group, he slides in next to Robin, his hand grazing across the small of your back as he passes. His fingertips find the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.

"I'm going upstairs to lay down for a bit," he tells Robin, voice rough and low. But his hand is still on your back, fingers pressing slightly, a message meant only for you.

He walks over to the makeshift bar someone has set up on the porch table, pours a shot of something clear—vodka or tequila, you can't tell—and shoots it back without a chaser. His eyes find yours as he swallows, throat working, and he jerks his head toward the foyer where the stairs are.

"Gotta... pee," you announce to Nancy and Robin, trying to sound casual even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

Nancy and Robin nod, barely hearing you, completely entranced in each other now that the alcohol has lowered their inhibitions. Nancy's hand is tangled in Robin's hair, Robin's lips close to Nancy's ear, and you leave them to it.

Steve has already started making his way inside. You trail behind him, keeping enough distance that it won't be obvious you're following him, but close enough that you won't lose sight of him in the crowd.

Your core is already warm, heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of what's about to happen. Your heart hammers against your ribs—anticipation and dread in equal measure.

Steve says something to the two pledges guarding the stairs—PJ and someone whose name you don't remember—and they look back at you still a few paces behind. Steve must have said something convincing because they part immediately, letting him through, then stepping aside for you when you reach them.

You climb the stairs, legs unsteady from alcohol and want and the weight of what you know you need to do. Steve is ahead of you, taking the steps two at a time, and occasionally he glances back over his shoulder—checking that you're still following, eyes dark with intent.

Neither of you says anything. Not when you reach the second floor, not when he leads you down the familiar hallway to his room, not when he opens the door and holds it for you to enter first.

The moment the door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the party below, you're on each other.

Your lips crash together with the force of tension finally breaking. It's not gentle—it's desperate and messy and tastes like beer and tequila and want. His hands are immediately in your hair, gripping, angling your head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, trying to pull him closer even though there's no space left between your bodies.

He walks you backward until your back hits the door, the solid wood cool against your shoulder blades. His body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is already, pressing insistent against your hip.

He breaks the kiss to mouth at your jaw, your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks you'll have to hide tomorrow. His hands slide down your sides to grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

But then he stops. Pulls back slightly, breathing hard, and his hands move to the hem of your shirt. He pauses, fingers just under the fabric, eyes searching yours.

"Do you want this, Hot Shot?" His voice is rough, wrecked, but the question is genuine. Even drunk, even desperate, he's checking. Making sure.

And even though you're both drunk, even though this is probably a terrible idea, even though you know you should end this before it goes any further—you want him. You want this. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

"Yes," you breathe. "Of course I want you, Steve."

Something flashes in his eyes—relief or pain or something else you can't name—and then he's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his in a way he has no right to do but you're letting him anyway.

Your feet don't work properly as he tries to pull your jeans down, fingers fumbling with the button. You're both too drunk, too eager, coordination shot. You stumble, and he catches you, but the momentum sends you both tumbling to the floor.

You land on the carpet with an "oof," Steve's weight half on top of you, and you should probably be more concerned about the fact that you're on his floor, but instead you're pulling him back down into a kiss, refusing to let the moment break.

"Where's your glasses?" you ask between kisses, breath hot against his lips. You're used to them now, used to the way they press against your face when you kiss, the way he pushes them up his nose when he's concentrating.

"They broke earlier," he says, and the casual way he says it—like it doesn't matter, like they were disposable—makes something pinch in your chest. "Fell off during a keg stand. Someone stepped on them."

The way he says it, the tone of his voice, the emptiness in his eyes when you pull back to look at him—it all feels wrong. Different.

He's touching you differently too. His hands are on you—sliding under your bra, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples—but there's a hesitation to it. A heaviness. Like he's memorizing rather than discovering. Like this is the last time.

The thought sends a spike of panic through your chest, sharp enough to cut through the alcohol haze.

"Steve—" you start, but he kisses you again, swallowing whatever you were going to say.

You ask if you can take off his pants, and he nods, helping you, both of you too eager to do it properly. You only manage to drag them down to his thighs—those thick, hairy thighs you've become intimately familiar with—his cock springing free, already hard and leaking.

Your bra is still on, your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and visible through the thin lace. Your jeans and panties are somewhere across the room, abandoned in your haste.

You straddle him right there on the floor, the carpet rough under your knees, and his eyes are drunk—from weed, from alcohol, from lust, from all of it. He bites his lip watching you spit into your hand, pump him a few times, watching the way his cock twitches in your grip.

Then you're sinking down onto him, taking him in slowly, and your head lulls back at the stretch, at the familiar burn and fullness. You sit there for a moment, completely still, just feeling him inside you. His warmth, his thickness, the way he twitches like sitting still is torture for him too.

His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn't make you move. Doesn't thrust up into you. Like this moment—being buried inside you, connected in the most intimate way possible—is enough. Like he's trying to make it last.

It's nearly sobering, the intensity of it grounding you through the alcohol. The stretch of him, the way he fills you so completely, the way his eyes are locked on yours like he's trying to memorize your face.

Finally—finally—you lift up almost all the way off him, and then slam back down. The sound you both make is obscene—half moan, half sob, pure desperate pleasure. You bounce on him, setting a punishing rhythm, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. You push his shirt up with your fingers, revealing his soft stomach first, then his chest, pushing the fabric all the way to his collarbone but not removing it entirely. Holding it there while you continue to ride him, his skin hot and damp with sweat under your palms.

The pace gets more erratic, sloppier, your thighs burning from the exertion but you can't stop, won't stop. He's hitting spots inside you that make you gasp for air, that make stars burst behind your closed eyelids, that make you forget why this is a bad idea.

The usual banter is lost—no teasing words, no challenges, no playful arguments. Just moans and whimpers and the obscene sound of skin on skin, of wetness, of your bodies coming together again and again.

You lean down, changing the angle, and the new position sends pleasure pulsing through you both. Steve's hips buck up involuntarily, back arching off the floor.

"Fuck!" he whines, voice high and wrecked.

You lean further, putting your mouth right over his pec, and bite. Hard. Your teeth sink into his skin, and Steve lets you, lets you mark him, a moan torn from his lips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers under his breath, the words running together. He says your name—your actual name, not Hot Shot, not baby, not anything else. Your name like a prayer, like a confession, like goodbye.

You kiss the spot like you can fix it, like you can erase the damage, but you can already see the teeth marks in his skin, the tiny bit of broken skin surrounded by red that will absolutely bruise by morning. Evidence. Proof. A mark that says I was here.

"Baby," he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as you put your hands back on his chest to steady yourself, to get more leverage.

Steve's grip tightens on your hips, fingers grabbing at the soft flesh there before one hand moves between your bodies to find your clit. He slaps it once—sharp and surprising—and you mewl, the sound embarrassingly needy.

He rubs it with his thumb, sloppy and uncoordinated but still good, still enough. The pressure builds in your core, winding tighter and tighter like a spring about to break.

You feel your walls start to clench around his cock, fluttering, and Steve groans at the sensation.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants. "So fucking good, baby. Come for me, please,” he begs. 

Until finally you can't hold back anymore, crying out his name, "Steve!" Your orgasm crashes through you. Your whole body goes taut, back arching, stars bursting white behind your closed eyelids.

Steve grips your hips hard, keeping the brutal pace, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He groans, head lulling back, and you can see the tendons in his neck, the veins protruding, his mouth falling open as he gasps through his own release. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you with warmth.

His hand comes up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair at the base, gripping and pulling you down into a heated kiss. Desperate and messy and tasting like salt and want and ending.

Then, even though you're both still buzzing with alcohol and endorphins, the kiss settles into a steadier rhythm. Slower. Softer. Small pecks that feel more intimate than anything that came before.

You're still hovering over him, both of you breathing hard, when you look into his hazel eyes. He brushes a strand of hair back behind your ear, his touch gentle, reverent.

And you can see it. The emptiness in his eyes. The finality.

You have to tell him. Have to let him know what you're feeling. Or maybe—maybe you need to make sure this is the last time before you say something you can't take back.

"I'm going to go clean up," you say, voice shakier than you'd like.

You hurry to his bathroom, gathering your clothes as you go, not looking at him because if you look at him you might start crying and you refuse to cry over Steve Harrington.

You clean up mechanically, movements robotic. You sit on the closed toilet seat after, face in your hands, breathing hard—either from the exertion of sex or the dread pooling in your stomach or both.

When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your stomach drops at the sight that greets you.

Steve is fully dressed again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded through his short hair. Clearly thinking. Clearly working up to something.

When he looks up at you, you know from his eyes—from the set of his jaw, from the way his shoulders are tensed—that he has something to say.

Your throat tightens. You lean back against the wall, not looking at him directly, focusing on a spot just over his shoulder because if you look at him you'll break.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it hurts. "I think this is the last time we'll be seeing each other," he says quietly. Almost too quiet, like if he said it any louder he would mean it more, and he's not sure he can handle meaning it more.

And even though you were thinking the same thing downstairs with Nancy, hearing him say it out loud makes you realize you didn't actually want this to happen. That some part of you hoped you could have both—could keep sleeping with him and keep your feelings and somehow make it work.

Your defenses slam into place immediately—anger, deflection, anything to find blame in him rather than face the complicated mess you've brought upon yourself.

"But I didn't break any rules," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

A curl falls on his forehead when he looks up, and he straightens, jaw tense. He's looking you up and down, evaluating you, scanning your face like he's trying to figure something out, solve an equation that keeps changing.

"Yeah, we did," he says slowly. "And we—I think we took it too far."

"You're kidding me." You can hear the venom in your own voice, the way it drips with hurt disguised as anger. "You told me—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I followed your rules. You were the one who told me it was okay. That I was the exception."

"Yeah, well..." He trails off, searching for the right words. He groans, putting his face in his palms before standing up to face you properly. "Maybe I said that so I could see what it was like to be normal for once."

The words hit you like a slap.

You nod slowly, mechanically. "So you wanted one last fuck? Is that it? String me along until you got what exactly?"

Steve shrugs, his expression stony, unreadable. His tongue presses into his cheek, a habit you've come to recognize as him holding back words he doesn't want to say. "Look, Hot Shot, I'm sorry. I really tried to see if it would work for me, but it doesn't. Can't."

You cross the room in three strides, closing the distance until you're right in front of him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when you get near.

"You don't get to call me that anymore," you snap, finger jabbing into his chest right over where you bit him.

Steve rolls his eyes, looking away, arms crossing over his chest in a mirror of your defensive posture. He lifts one hand in a placating gesture that makes you want to hit him. "Look, this doesn't mean we can't still be friends—"

"Oh, fuck off, Steve." You press your finger harder into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your fingertip, fast and erratic. "Friends don't fucking cum inside other friends. Friends don't say the shit you said to me. Don't look at me the way you look at me." Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. "Admit you're an asshole who can't decide what he wants."

"Or maybe I'm an asshole who's bored of you," Steve snaps back, and his eyes burn with something dark and empty and hurt all at once.

The words steal the air from your lungs.

Your face falls, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind only the raw, exposed hurt underneath. Tears brim in your eyes, hot and unwelcome, blurring your vision.

"Go to hell, Steve," you whisper, voice breaking on his name.

You take a deep breath, trying to hold yourself together for a few more seconds. Your lip quivers despite your best efforts. You take one last look at him—really look at him, memorizing his face because this is it, this is the end—and your heart breaks into a million pieces, each one cutting you on the way down.

Then you turn and walk out, leaving him standing alone in his room, and you don't look back.

.-.-.-.

Your eyes are caked with crust when you finally wake, eyelids heavy and stuck together like someone glued them shut while you slept. You peel them open slowly, immediately recognizing you're not in your own bed. The sheets are wrong—navy blue instead of your floral pattern, softer than the scratchy dorm-issue linens. The room smells different too—like laundry detergent and cologne you don't recognize, masculine and clean.

You know where you are before you're fully conscious. Sammy's room. The minimal furniture, the textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, the clothes strewn on the floor that aren't yours.

You sit up, still wearing your clothes from last night—jeans twisted uncomfortably around your legs, shirt wrinkled and smelling like cigarette smoke and spilled beer and something else underneath that makes your stomach turn. Steve's cologne. You can still smell him on you.

On cue, Sammy walks in, already dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater, hair a little messy like he slept on the couch and didn't bother with a mirror. He's holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up from both. He smiles at you—awkward, uncertain, like he's not sure what the protocol is for this situation.

"Good morning," he says, handing you one of the mugs.

"Morning." Your voice comes out rough, throat raw from crying or screaming or maybe both. You can't quite remember.

The coffee is hot against your palms, almost too hot, but you hold onto it anyway because it gives you something to focus on that isn't the pounding in your head or the hollow ache in your chest.

"You sleep okay?" Sammy asks, hovering near the door like he's afraid to come too close, like you're a wild animal that might bolt.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. "Yeah... thank you. For letting me crash here."

"Of course," Sammy mutters, looking down at his own mug.

The memories from last night come back in fragments, disjointed and painful. Leaving the Pike house through the back gate, tears streaming down your face, mascara probably running in black streaks. Finding Eddie smoking by his van in the driveway, asking him to tell Robin and Nancy not to worry about you. The look on his face—concern mixed with understanding, like he knew exactly what had happened upstairs even though you didn't say a word.

You didn't want to face Robin. Didn't want to see the pity in her eyes or hear her try to make excuses for Steve or worse—didn't want to hear her say she'd warned you this would happen, that getting involved with Steve was always going to end badly.

And you didn't want to face anyone else either. But someone who felt safe enough, someone who wouldn't ask questions or demand explanations, was Sammy.

You'd arrived at his frat house around midnight, still crying, and he'd seemed surprised to see you. Especially since you still hadn't really talked to him except for that one awkward encounter in the library and the brief exchange about picking up your things.

But he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand to know what happened or who hurt you. He pulled you inside, gave you a glass of water, and told you that you could take his bed. That he'd sleep in the common room downstairs.

You'd crawled into his bed fully clothed and cried into his pillow until you finally passed out from exhaustion sometime after two in the morning.

He slept on the couch in the common room, and you don't know whether to feel guilty, relieved, or disappointed about that. Guilty because he gave up his bed for you. Relieved because you couldn't handle anything more complicated last night. Disappointed because—

You cut that thought off before it can finish forming.

You rub your face with one hand, the other still clutching the coffee mug like a lifeline, and swing your legs off the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and the shock of it helps clear your head slightly. You chew on your bottom lip, and your stomach sours at the memories flooding back.

Yesterday morning feels like a lifetime ago. Waking up happy, excited about spring break, thinking about Steve and the planetarium and the way he'd looked at you like you hung the moon. Everything had been honey and sweet and perfect, and you had no idea it was all about to crumble.

What changed? What did you do wrong? What did Robin say to him in the car that made him look at you like you were nothing?

Sammy clears his throat, pulling you back to the present. "I, uh... need to leave soon. Going home for spring break. Not trying to rush you out or anything—you can stay as long as you need. I don't mind."

You look over at him, really look at him for the first time this morning. He's a good person. Kind, patient, understanding. All the things you should want.

"Sorry, yeah. I'll leave now." You stand up, and the movement makes your head pound harder, dehydration and hangover and heartbreak all mixing together into one miserable cocktail.

You hate that you can still smell Steve on you—his cologne mixed with the smell of sex and sweat, clinging to your skin, your hair, your clothes. It makes you want to vomit. Makes you want to scrub yourself raw in the shower until every trace of him is gone.

You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, and you rub them aggressively, refusing to cry in front of Sammy. You put on your shoes—the ones you'd kicked off carelessly last night, now sitting neatly by the door where Sammy must have moved them.

"Hey," Sammy says your name gently, softly, like you're something fragile that might break. "Everything okay?"

"What?" You shoot up too fast, and your head pounds in protest. "Oh... yeah. I'm fine. I'm—" You look at him, really look at him, and you wonder what's wrong with you. Here's someone who is simple and easy and showed genuine interest in you. Someone who wanted to know you, who asked you out properly, who didn't play games or set up impossible rules.

"I'm sorry," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

"What for?" He tilts his head, still looking hesitant, unsure.

"For never really allowing us to have a shot." You mean it to a degree, though your feelings are so clouded and confused right now that you're not sure you mean anything you say. 

Sammy looks taken aback, eyebrows rising. He shrugs, trying for casual but not quite hitting it. "It's okay. Really."

"No... I..." And then you understand why you feel so horrible, why the guilt is sitting so heavy in your stomach. "It's not cool what I did to you. Making you feel disposable or used. I'm really sorry."

Sammy doesn't argue against it, which somehow makes it worse. He nods in acknowledgment, arms crossing over his chest. "Look, I... know I wasn't the best either. I wanted to know things about you, but I didn't want you to feel smothered or pressured or anything like that. I was trying to give you space, but maybe I gave you too much."

You can't help it—feeling vulnerable and raw and desperate for something that makes sense. "Do you still want to know things about me?"

Sammy laughs, a real smile breaking through the awkwardness. "Of course I want to know things about you." Then his expression shifts, going shy, earnest. "But... not like the way before. Not casual. Properly, like..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Like dating. Like... I don't know. Like a boyfriend."

Your breath hitches, caught in your throat.

You feel a flash of anger at Steve for breaking his own rules, for making "once a month" meaningless, for letting you get close enough to fall. If he'd kept his distance, if he'd stuck to the original arrangement, maybe you'd feel less confused. Maybe you could see yourself as Sammy's girlfriend. Sammy, who knows what he wants. Sammy, who isn't afraid to say it.

"I..." You don't know what to say. Don't know what you want. Don't know anything except that everything hurts.

"You don't have to answer now," Sammy says quickly, seeing the panic on your face. "Think about it. Over break. And when we get back, you can let me know."

You nod, grateful for the escape, and leave before he can say anything else.

When you get back to your dorm, Robin and Nancy are both there, and they visibly relax when you walk through the door.

"Oh thank god," Robin says, launching herself at you and pulling you into a tight hug. "Eddie said you left with him but wouldn't say where you went. I was worried."

"I'm fine," you lie, extracting yourself from her embrace. "Sorry I disappeared."

"Where'd you go?" Robin asks, and there's genuine concern in her eyes, no judgment.

For once, you're honest. "Sammy's."

Nancy, who's been sitting quietly on Robin's bed, perks up. "Who's Sammy?"

Robin grins, immediately latching onto the distraction, her voice going sing-song. "Hot Shot's boooyfriend."

Nancy looks confused, glancing between you and Robin.

"He's not my boyfriend," you say quickly, turning away to hide your expression. Then you sigh, because you need at least one thing out in the air, one burden not sitting solely on your shoulders. "But he did ask to be. This morning."

Robin gasps, bouncing slightly. "What'd you say?"

Nancy's expression stays neutral, but her eyes are sad, knowing.

You turn away from both of them, pretending to look through your suitcase for tomorrow's flight, organizing clothes you've already organized three times. You chew on your bottom lip, the skin already raw from nervous biting. "I told him I'd think about it over spring break and let him know."

Your words come out soft, uncertain, and when you turn back around Robin is squealing like it's the best news she's heard all year. But Nancy is looking at you with sad, sympathetic eyes that see right through you.

The next morning, everyone is packed into Eddie's van again—bright and early to drive to the nearest airport. The sun is barely up, the sky still that pale gray-pink of dawn, and you're all moving like zombies, running on coffee and determination.

Steve looks rough. Rougher than you've ever seen him. He's wearing sunglasses even though the sun isn't up yet, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and he hasn't said a word to anyone. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, and he radiates an energy that says don't fucking talk to me.

You hear Eddie tell Robin in a low voice, "He's got a hangover. Drank more beers than I could count last night. Found him passed out on the bathroom floor around three."

Robin winces, glancing at Steve with concern, but she doesn't approach him.

In the van, Steve puts headphones on and plays his Walkman, sitting in the front passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. You can see his reflection in the glass—eyes closed, jaw clenched, looking like he's in actual physical pain.

You're in the back with Robin and Nancy, trying not to stare at the back of his head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to make himself smaller.

Before you take the highway to the airport, Eddie makes one last stop. Your heart sinks when you see bright red hair, a cheerful wave, a familiar face standing on the curb.

Polly.

Steve is the one who gets out, greeting her with a side hug that looks stiff and uncomfortable. He takes her luggage—a large pink suitcase covered in stickers—and throws it in the back of the van. The force of it hits the back of your seat hard enough that you feel it, and you snap around to look at him.

His jaw tightens when he sees you looking. He slams the trunk shut without a word.

Polly crawls into the van, all smiles and sunshine, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thank you guys so much for letting me join last minute!" She turns to you specifically, beaming. "Especially for letting me room with you! We're going to have so much fun."

You look at Robin and Nancy, and neither of them looks surprised by this news. They already knew. Everyone knew except you.

Finally, Steve turns and looks at you—still wearing those sunglasses so you can't see his eyes. "Shit, sorry. Must have slipped my mind to mention it. Hope you don't mind."

You could punch him. For putting you in this position, for making you the bad guy if you say anything. How did they even manage to find another plane ticket so last minute? Spring break flights are always booked solid.

But you can't tell Polly no. Can't say you do mind without looking like a petty bitch. So you force your best smile, the one that doesn't reach your eyes but looks convincing enough. "Of course not! We're going to have a blast."

Polly squeals and throws her arms around you, and you catch Steve's expression over her shoulder—something that might be guilt or might be satisfaction. You can't tell with the sunglasses.

Polly ends up sitting next to you on the plane, chattering away about how excited she is and how she's never been to Miami before. Steve sits next to Eddie several rows ahead, and Nancy and Robin are somewhere in the back—you can hear Robin's laugh occasionally, bright and happy.

You watch Steve flag down the flight attendant for his third glass of whiskey, even though it's not even noon yet. He and Eddie are the only ones old enough to order alcohol on the flight, and Steve seems determined to take full advantage.

Polly is a talker, and you find yourself not shying away from the conversation. In fact, you hate how much you actually like her. She's studying to be a STEM major, still figuring out if she wants to go into pre-med eventually. She's smart and funny and kind, and under different circumstances, you could see yourself being friends with her.

Which somehow makes everything worse.

The plane lands in Miami in the early afternoon, and the moment you step off and into the airport, you're hit with a wall of humid heat. It's different from the heat back home—thicker, wetter, smelling like salt and tropical flowers and jet fuel.

Outside, palm trees sway in the breeze. The sky is impossibly blue, dotted with white puffy clouds that look like they were painted on. You can hear the distant sound of car horns, music playing from someone's radio, the chatter of tourists in a dozen different languages.

They all pile into a bus that will take them to the resort, bags shoved into the overhead compartments. Nancy tells everyone that Jonathan will meet them for dinner that night—he's been on set all day but will be done by six.

The resort is huge, sprawling across what looks like several acres of beachfront property. It's packed with other college-aged students, all in various states of undress—bikini tops and swim trunks, sunglasses and flip-flops. The lobby is chaos, people checking in and out, bellhops rushing around with luggage carts, the smell of chlorine from the pool mixing with sunscreen and coconut.

It's not a fancy hotel, but it's not trashy either. It seems designed specifically to encourage partying—the staff all look young and fun, wearing Hawaiian shirts and leis, and there's already a group doing shots at the tiki bar even though it's barely two in the afternoon.

Eddie manages to flirt with a bellhop—a cute guy with dark curly hair and dimples—into sneaking a bottle of rum into his room without charging for it. Eddie winks at him, slips him a twenty, and the bellhop grins and promises to "take good care" of him.

You're able to forget about the tension and anger and sadness for a few minutes, caught up in the energy of the place, the excitement of being somewhere new.

Until you get stuck in an elevator with Steve and Polly, heading to the same floor because of course you are. Because someone—you and Steve—made the stupid decision to have his room and your room right next to each other.

The elevator is small, mirrored on three sides, and you can see infinite versions of yourself standing stiffly in the corner while Steve and Polly chat. He's taken off his sunglasses now, and you can see his eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath dark and puffy.

Steve only talks to Polly, catching up about school, asking about her classes. She mentions his big test next Thursday, and he motions to the backpack slung over his shoulder that apparently contains his textbooks.

"Gotta study," he says, and his voice sounds rough, damaged. "Can't fuck this up."

You stare at the elevator numbers, watching them tick up. Third floor. Fourth floor. Fifth floor.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Polly bounds out first, already digging in her purse for the room key. You follow more slowly, and you can't help but watch Steve over your shoulder.

He glances at you briefly—so quick you almost miss it—and there's something in his expression you can't read. Then he turns and disappears into his room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a decisive click.

"Oh my god!" Polly squeals, and you turn to see her standing in your doorway, looking inside with wide eyes. "We have a balcony!"

She runs inside, and you follow, dropping your bags just inside the door. Polly is already sliding open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of crashing waves immediately filling the room along with the smell of salt and seaweed.

She steps out onto the balcony and leans over the railing, breathing deeply. "We don't have water this pretty in Texas," she sighs dreamily, looking out at the ocean—turquoise and sparkling in the afternoon sun, waves rolling in steady and hypnotic.

She turns back to you, beaming. "Do you want to go down to the beach with me? I'm dying to feel the sand between my toes."

You look at the clock on the nightstand. It's barely three. Dinner isn't until six. You should go, should say yes, should try to have fun.

"Oh... uh... I'm feeling a little tired. I think I might take a nap before dinner."

"Okay!" Polly shrugs, already stripping off her clothes right there in the middle of the room. "I'll ask the others."

You look away quickly, startled by her lack of self-consciousness.

Polly gasps. "I'm sorry! I should've asked if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Oh, no... I didn't expect it, is all." It's not like you and Robin don't get dressed in front of each other. But you and Robin are best friends. You barely know Polly.

Polly continues to undress, and you try not to look, try to give her privacy. But you catch a glimpse anyway as she pulls on her bikini top—a fresh purple hickey on her breast, just visible above the line of her swimsuit.

Your stomach drops. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

"I think I'm going to take a shower first," you manage to say, stumbling toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

You run the shower as hot as it will go, strip off your clothes, and finally let yourself cry. Really cry, the way you've been holding back since last night. Ugly, gasping sobs that echo off the tile, mixing with the sound of running water.

Two hours later, the phone on the nightstand rings, jarring you awake. You'd fallen asleep without meaning to, curled up on top of the covers in your towel, hair still damp.

You grab the receiver, groggy and disoriented. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Nancy. We're meeting at the restaurant downstairs in forty minutes. The one off the lobby. You can't miss it."

"Okay," you mumble, still half-asleep. "I'll be there."

You hang up and drag yourself out of bed, finally bothering to put on actual clothes. You wander over to the balcony, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the warm evening air.

The sun is lower now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The beach is still packed with people—students playing volleyball, couples walking hand in hand at the water's edge, groups gathered around bonfires even though it's not dark yet.

The breeze is warm and smells like salt and sunscreen and grilled seafood from one of the beachside restaurants. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in lazy circles.

Then you hear laughter—familiar laughter—and your eyes are drawn down to the beach below your balcony.

Steve and Polly are walking together, close enough that their arms brush with every step. Steve is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest, and black swim trunks. His hair is messy from the wind, and he's smiling—actually smiling, not the fake one he's been wearing since yesterday.

Polly is wearing jean shorts and her bikini top—purple, the same one from earlier—and her breasts bounce perfectly with each step. She's laughing at something Steve said, head thrown back, hand coming up to touch his arm.

The jealousy bubbles up inside you again, hot and acidic and all-consuming. You watch Steve look up, like he can feel you watching, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a second before you quickly back away from the railing, heart pounding.

You're out of tears. All cried out. Nothing left but this hollow, aching anger.

Dinner with everyone is surprisingly normal, or at least everyone is pretending it is. The restaurant is open-air, right on the beach, with tiki torches and string lights and a live band playing reggae covers of popular songs.

Robin and Steve seem to have gotten over whatever they were fighting about—or at least they're pretending they have. Though you notice they're not sitting next to each other, not touching the way they usually do when they're playing couple. Maybe it's because they finally don't have to pretend here, where no one knows them.

Robin does lean over occasionally to tell Steve to slow down on his drinking, giving Nancy a knowing look whenever he mutters bitterly, "It's vacation, Rob. I can do what I want."

Before dinner started, Robin had pulled you aside and quietly informed you that Polly knows everything—about the fake relationship, about Robin and Nancy, all of it. "You can trust her," Robin had said.

And that makes more jealousy bubble up inside you. Polly gets to be in on the secrets now. Gets to be part of the inner circle. Gets to be close to Steve in a way you never will be again.

Why did she have to come? Why is she here, inserting herself into this trip, into your room, into your life? Why is she so fucking nice? 

Jonathan spends most of dinner telling everyone about what filming in Miami is like. Which is him spealing most of his day in a golf cart driving different crew members to different sets, but he seems to genuinely love it. He can't talk about the movie—signed an NDA—but maybe he could sneak them onto set one night if they wanted.

Eddie immediately perks up at that. "Hell yes. I want to see behind the scenes of a real movie."

"It's not that glamorous," Jonathan warns, laughing. 

Eventually, as dessert is being served, Polly leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, a boy from UCLA told me about this party on the beach tonight. Like a huge one. Apparently they do it every year during spring break."

"Count me in," Eddie says immediately.

Robin and Nancy exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them, and they both nod.

"We're in," Robin says.

Everyone looks at you. At first, you almost tell Polly you're not going. The thought of going to some massive beach party, of watching Steve flirt with other girls, of pretending everything is fine—it sounds like torture.

But later, back in your room while Polly is getting ready, she insists. "Come on! This is the perfect time to let loose. Get drunk, dance, make out with random people you'll never see again."

She's slipped into another bikini top—red this time, equally small—and jean shorts that sit low on her hips.

And suddenly, the thought of making out with some random stranger to get the lingering taste of Steve Harrington off your lips sounds incredibly appealing.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Yeah. Let's go."

The beach party is exactly what you expected—chaos barely contained. There must be two hundred college students packed onto this stretch of beach, music blaring from speakers the size of refrigerators, a bonfire so large it looks dangerous, red Solo cups everywhere.

The air smells like beer and weed and salt water and smoke. The music is so loud you can feel it in your chest, bass thumping with each crashing wave. People are dancing, making out, playing drinking games, swimming in the ocean despite the darkness.

Nancy and Robin disappear into the crowd almost immediately, finally able to dance together and kiss without anyone batting an eye. You catch glimpses of them occasionally—foreheads pressed together, Robin's hands on Nancy's waist, both of them smiling so wide it makes your chest ache. They look free. Finally, truly happy.

Eddie has somehow already made friends with a group of stoners, sitting in a circle and sharing stories about the craziest people he's sold to before. You even take a hit of a joint being passed around, letting the smoke fill your lungs, make everything softer around the edges.

But your focus keeps drifting to Steve, who's drinking a beer and letting some girl roam her hands over him—fingers in his hair, touching his chest, his arms, his face. They're dancing, or what passes for dancing when you're drunk. More like grinding, really.

You notice Steve isn't really paying attention to her. His eyes are distant, unfocused, and he's not touching her back. She's all over him, and he's standing there like a mannequin, letting it happen but not participating.

You can't help it. Angrily, you stand up from the circle, brushing sand off your shorts. You need to get away from this, need to find a drink yourself, need to do something other than watch Steve let that girl touch him.

Instead of finding the makeshift bar, you find yourself walking toward the water's edge, away from the noise and the people and the chaos. You stand there staring at the empty dark sky—no stars visible through the light pollution and cloud cover—with the music still blaring in your ears but more distant now.

You wish you could melt into the water, let the tide carry you out to sea, drift away from all of this. You regret coming on this trip. Regret every choice you've made this year. Regret Steve Harrington and his stupid rules and his beautiful face and the way he made you feel things you didn't want to feel.

You see Jonathan off to the side, away from the main party, nursing a beer and looking out at the ocean. And you can't help it—you walk up to him, and he looks startled when you appear at his elbow.

"What did you mean?" you ask without preamble. "At the camping trip. You said Steve talks about me all the time. Why?"

Jonathan's eyes widen, and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Oh... uh... what?"

"You told me that he talks about me. Why does he talk about me, Jonathan?"

Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I... I don't think it's my place—"

"Please, Jonathan." Your voice comes out teary, desperate, and you hate yourself for it. You're buzzed from the drinks and the joint, and everything feels too big, too raw.

He looks at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell you. Then he sighs again, deeper this time.

"I don't know exactly. He brings you up a lot when we talk. Tells me about things you do, things you say. How cool you are and you don't even know it. How you're different from other girls he's—" Jonathan cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable. "He told me that you're pretty. That if things were different, he'd ask you on a date. But..."

"But?" you demand, voice shaky, tears threatening.

Jonathan looks down at the sand, digging his foot into it. "You know why. Robin."

"But Robin isn't even—" You stop yourself, because Jonathan knows. He knows it's fake. "Right. Robin."

Jonathan looks at the ocean, giving you privacy for your pain. "I'm sorry. I really am."

You look out at the dark water, waves rolling in steady and relentless. "I fucking hate him."

"No, you don't," Jonathan says quietly.

You snap your head toward him. "Yes, I do."

He gives you a knowing look, sad and sympathetic. "Our brains can get hate and love mixed up sometimes, you know? The wires cross."

The tears burn hot against your cheeks, and you don't bother wiping them away. The ocean breeze is cool on your wet face.

"Let me take you back to your room," Jonathan says gently. "You look exhausted."

You don't argue, and you let him guide you back across the beach, trudging through sand that keeps getting in your shoes, making each step harder.

Polly spots you halfway to the hotel and runs up, slightly out of breath, giggling. "Hey, uh..." She looks sheepish. "Don't worry about me if I don't make it back to the room tonight, okay?" Then her expression shifts, concern creeping in. "Wait, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'm tired. Jonathan's walking me back." You nod, and you're not sure if you're pissed that Polly gets to enjoy her night with whoever she wants while you feel alone and miserable, or if you're grateful she won't be there to witness your breakdown.

Jonathan walks you all the way to your door, and you thank him quietly.

Before he leaves, he stops you with a hand on your arm. "If you need anything—anything at all—let me know. I'm in room 412."

You nod, watching him walk back down the hall toward the elevators, his footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet.

You end up actually taking a shower this time, sand everywhere making you feel uncomfortable and grimy. You scrub your skin until it's red, wash your hair twice, trying to wash away the feeling of Steve's hands on you, the memory of his skin against yours.

You take one last look outside from the balcony, down at the party still raging on the beach a few hundred yards away. You wonder if Steve is making out with that girl he was dancing with. Wonder if he's thinking about you at all, or if you've already been completely erased from his mind.

A feeling of resentment toward Robin arises—sharp and unexpected and unwelcome. But you quickly push it away, not ready to examine the complicated depths of your friendship with her, especially when she has no idea what's been happening. None of this is her fault. She didn't know. She couldn't have known.

You can't sleep. You toss and turn, tangling yourself in the sheets, punching the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. You tell yourself it's because of the music from the beach, still faintly audible through the closed balcony door. But really, you can't stop your brain from thinking.

Around two in the morning, you hear the door to the next room—Steve's room—finally close.

You try to talk yourself out of it. Try not to get up, not to open your door, not to stare at the door next to yours. But you fail. You find yourself standing in your doorway in your pajamas, staring at Steve's door like it holds all the answers.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you knock three times. Quick, light, barely audible. You're already turning to run back to your room when the door opens.

Polly stands there in a towel, hair wet, face flushed. She looks surprised to see you, but she's smiling that bashful smile that means something just happened.

Inside, you can hear the bathroom door open, the shower still running. Someone—Steve—humming in the shower. Some song you don't recognize, voice slightly off-key, and it's so painfully domestic it makes your chest constrict.

Your eyes widen. "Oh... sorry!"

Polly looks at you questioningly, head tilting. "It's okay... do you need something?"

Your mind blanks. You can't tell her the truth—that you wanted to see Steve, to yell at him or kiss him or both. "Is there an extra pillow? There weren't any in our room."

It's a terrible lie. You have plenty of pillows.

Polly's smile widens. "Oh! Yeah, hold on." She closes the door, and you stand there in the hallway feeling like an idiot, listening to Steve's muffled humming through the wall.

She comes back with a pillow—one of the decorative ones from the bed. "Here you go!"

You stand there for a moment, both of you looking at each other awkwardly. You can smell Steve's cologne wafting out from the room, mixed with steam from the shower and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.

"Right. Thanks. See you... tomorrow," you manage, and then you bolt back to your room like something is chasing you.

You wrap yourself in your bed, pulling the covers over your head like you did as a kid when you thought there were monsters in the closet. Hiding from things that couldn't actually hurt you, except this time the monster is real and it's wearing Steve Harrington's face.

You listen to the distant music from the beach party still going, gradually getting quieter as people filter back to their rooms.

And then you hear it.

The wall across from your bed starts thumping. The rhythmic sound of a bed hitting against thin plaster, over and over. Creaking springs. A high-pitched moan that definitely isn't Steve.

Then Steve's voice, low and rough, saying something you can't make out. Another moan, louder this time. The unmistakable sounds of two people coming together, of pleasure, of intimacy.

The thumping gets faster. The moans get louder. And you lie there in your bed, covers pulled up to your chin, choking on a sob you refuse to let out.

The sounds reach a crescendo— Polly’s whines, Steve groaning, the bed slamming against the wall one final time before everything goes quiet except for heavy breathing and low murmurs.

You know with absolute certainty now that you would never be the exception. That what Steve said was true—he was bored of you. That everything he made you feel was a lie, a game, a way to pass the time until something better came along.

And you know with equal certainty that you do fucking hate Steve Harrington.

You hate him for making you fall for him. Hate him for every soft word and gentle touch. Hate him for the planetarium and the tent and the way he looked at you like you mattered.

But most of all, you hate him for proving that you were right all along—that letting someone in, letting yourself feel something real, only leads to this. To lying in bed listening to him fuck someone else through paper-thin walls, your heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until there's nothing left but dust.

[cielasolana]

Cigarettes After Sex

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: Steve has only one vice: smoking. Y/N hates it and refuses to kiss him when he smokes. Naturally, Steve quits smoking.

Warnings: Use of Y/N, Fluff, Cursing, (French) Kissing, Smoking lol, Making Out, the tiniest bit of second hand embarrassment

Word Count: 2.7K

Masterlist

Steve Harrington has few vices. Admittedly, that’s a more recent development. Since reforming his entire personality after many near-death experiences— he’s been forced to reflect on past behavior and change. Overall, a great experience but… it didn’t mean he had to give up all his vices. 

He likes to smoke. 

It’s a good stress reliever, simple and easy. All he needs is a pack of cigarettes and a light, and he’s good to go. Yeah, he’s heard it might not be the most healthy but it wouldn’t kill him. He’s encountered things that could kill him— a tiny cigarette wouldn’t be the thing to make him kick the bucket just yet. 

Steve steps outside, away from the kids and everyone else. Reaching into his pocket to fish out the pack of cigarettes, he picks one from the box and brings it to his lips. Once he flicks open his lighter, he’s quick to light the bud. His eyes flutter shut as he inhales the smoke, taking the cigarette from his lips to puff it out with a sigh. 

His smoke breaks are brief, and not too frequent. He stamps out the cigarette and tosses it in the small trash can at the entryway before stepping back inside. The kids don’t notice his brief absence, too absorbed in the movie he’d brought for them from Family Video. 

Y/N notices though, she always does. She’s meandering in the kitchen of the Harrington House, unnecessarily large and needlessly empty, washing dishes from earlier this evening. Steve nods to her awkwardly, a small smile on his face. “I can do that.” He offers immediately, waving her off, his voice a bit hushed as he hears the kids roar in laughter in the other room. 

She shakes her head. “You’re already hosting, I can wash the dishes. It’s the least I can do.”

He steps closer, reaching out to grab one of dishes she’d placed onto the rack to help with drying it at least. Though she pauses for a moment, only the sound of the water running in the kitchen, Y/N can’t help but scrunch her nose. “Did you smoke?” She asks.

Steve blinks, looking at her, he offers a bashful smile. “Ah, yes I did.” 

She only hums, clearing her throat. “That stuff is bad for you.” Comes her quiet murmur as she resumes scrubbing the dishes. 

He breathes out a laugh and nods along. “So I’ve heard.” 

“Smells bad, too.” She adds quietly, looking up at him for a moment before averting her gaze back to the dishes. The comment has Steve’s smile fading a bit, his brows furrowing in contemplation as he hums in acknowledgement. 

Y/N hates when Steve smokes. 

For a lot of reasons. The smell being one of them. Typically, Steve smells… good. As embarrassing as it is for her to admit, he takes care of himself, he’s always been pretty hygienic. With all the products he uses and the time he spends making himself look good, he has a nice scent. But, the smoke clings to his clothes, to his skin, to his breath. It’s not a pleasant smell. It’s the type of thing that makes her wrinkle her nose and step the tiniest bit away. 

It’s also unhealthy. All signs point to long term smoking as a factor in a myriad of health problems, yet Steve smokes anyways. She doesn’t ask him about it often, he’s only offhandedly mentioned it as something that relaxes him. 

There’s the taste, too. Y/N had only tried smoking once, a social thing really. But the taste had been enough to throw her off and make it a one time thing. It lingers on your tongue, gross and pungent. There’s no appeal to it. 

She pushes those thoughts away as she focuses her attention on the dishes and not the man next to her and his singular, awful vice.

The Harrington House, empty as ever, is home to the party’s more indulgent operations. Beyond movie nights, there are pool nights and study nights and board game nights. His house is perfect for sleepovers with the countless extra rooms and ridiculous amount of space. Hence the number of teenagers crowded into his living room as of right now, yelling out their reactions at the screen as they watch some new horror movie. 

Y/N can count on one hand the number of times she’s been alone with Steve. It’s hard, the party has a bad habit of interrupting their solo time together, but she enjoys herself nonetheless. He’s pleasant, much sweeter than he was in high school. She can certainly see the… appeal of Steve Harrington. Especially ever since they’d started their relationship-thing. She didn’t really have a name for it quite yet, they’d gone on a couple dates on the down-low. It was private, quiet, just between them. But she likes it, likes him. 

And right now, the party is… occupied. 

Steve clears his throat as they wrap up the dishes, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms as he looks at Y/N. She’s pretty, he thinks. With a sort of elegance about her. He likes to look at her, to observe. She seems to notice this as she dries her hands off on a ridiculously soft dish towel, gazing up at him through her lashes. 

“Thanks for coming.” He manages words, thankfully, a flush rising up his neck. He feels as though he’s been caught staring. “It’s nice to be around someone my age.” 

She laughs softly, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, it is nice.” She purses her lips. 

Steve finds himself straightening his posture as he looks at her, a small grin on his face. “Right.” He shifts to face her. “You’re staying the night?” 

“As if I’d leave you alone with all of them.” She smiles, “I’m not evil.”

He breathes out a laugh, nodding along with her words. “‘Course not.” He says. “Perhaps us adults can indulge once the children go to bed then? There is plenty of unloved vintage wine in this house.” 

She hums in acknowledgement at the offer, and she swears her face warms a bit as she tilts her head at him. “That would be nice.” The words come out soft, maybe a bit shy. But it has Steve grinning like he’s won the lottery, his head ducking down a bit so he can be closer to her. 

Y/N blinks at the proximity, her face warming again as her gaze flicks to his. She’s not blind, and she’s certainly not stupid. Steve has been actively pursuing her for a short while now and she’s been indulgent. Her tiny crush on Steve had imploded a bit once he started pursuing her. 

So, she’s not opposed to this. She lets his hand come to her cheek, watches his gaze flit over her face. They’ve kissed before, a couple of times on the dates they’d been on. Yet it always flustered her without fail. But when Steve Harrington ducks to finally, finally kiss her, she tilts her head to the side and absolutely curves him. 

Ouch. 

He blinks, his face reddening in embarrassment, Steve is pulling back immediately. “Sorry— sorry I thought—”

“No I—” She shakes her head, grabbing his wrist to keep him from going too far. “I want— I mean—” She can’t help but stumble over her words, flustered now as she lets out a nervous laugh. “Sorry.” The words leave her lips once more. 

Her nervousness is endearing, and it seems to relax Steve as he lets out a shaky laugh as well. “It’s fine.” He waves it off, shaking his head. “I should’ve asked or…” He nods, a bit awkward, pressing his lips together. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

She shakes her head again, the back of her hand coming to press against her mouth. “No I— I want to.” She admits quietly, almost shy. The words have his eyes widening a bit, lips forming an ‘o’ and then confusion washing over his face. 

Steve tilts his head, like a lost puppy. “Then… why…” His voice trails off, awaiting an explanation. 

She purses her lips, looking away, a touch embarrassed. “Just… you were smoking.” Comes her quiet mumble. “I don’t… the taste. I don’t like it.” 

Oh.

It’s at this moment that Steve feels dirty. Smoking is something he does to relax, he’s never had a problem with it. Not with the smell or the taste. But, she does. Suffice to say, Steve Harrington runs up to his bathroom and washes out his mouth. He changes his clothes and sprays on some cologne before returning to her for his kiss. 

Smoking becomes a frequent problem in the blossoming relationship. If he’s just smoked, she’ll never kiss him. Dodging his lips, letting him kiss her cheek instead, she’s found countless strategies to avoid it. He gets it, he does. She has a right to her opinions. He doesn’t complain, never complains. Just pecks her cheek and offers her a sweet smile because that's who he is. 

But, Steve hates it. 

Not being able to kiss her feels criminal, he can’t deal with it. He’ll be itching for it, staring her down, yearning for her lips on his. But the smoke he’d had earlier that day would hang over his head. And as they get deeper into their not-so-casual dating, his feelings only get worse. He’s aching for his girl and he just can’t have her. 

Smoking wouldn’t kill him. But not kissing her? That would kill him. That would end him. So, Steve resolves to quit. He doesn’t mention it to her, just tosses out the pack he’d recently bought and stuffs his light in his glovebox as if that will prevent temptation. 

Quitting sucks. He quickly realizes it’s nowhere near as easy as he’d anticipated, the urge to smoke washing over him frequently. The first week without smoking is by far the worse, he vaguely wonders if he has some sort of oral fixation and resolves to buying a jumbo pack of lollipops in an effort to simulate the feeling of a good smoke.

Y/N notices, of course she notices. They’re on the couch at his place, and his knee is bouncing, the lollipop between his lips as the movie plays on the screen. Her head is resting on his shoulder, his arm thrown over the back of the couch behind her. She shifts to look up at him, hand coming to his knee to cease the bouncing. “You good?” She asks, tilting her head at him.

He blinks, gaze flitting down to her hand on his knee, he hadn’t even noticed his own restlessness. Steve simply shoots her a smile and a shrug, “fine.” 

She hums, gently squeezing his knee. “You sure?” She asks, voice gentle. 

He nods, albeit a bit absently. She hums in acknowledgement, her brows a bit furrowed. When she sits up and straightens her posture a bit, he takes that as his cue to sit up as well— facing her on the couch now. “‘M good. Promise.” He says, shooting her a sweet smile.

She accepts his answer, her hand on his knee sliding up to his thigh as she looks at him through her lashes and— oh. 

This. This makes it all worth it. She looks at him like she wants him, and suddenly he’s taking the lollipop from between his lips and letting it rest on the wrapper he’d left out on the coffee table. This time when he dips his head down to kiss her— she meets him halfway, her eyes fluttering shut. Eager and sweet, her lips press to his, her hand coming to his cheek while his goes to her nape. A content hum escapes her. 

When Steve doesn’t smoke, she kisses him all the time. She’ll initiate affection left and right. He loves it. Adores it. Needs it. All thoughts of the smoke he’d been aching for are gone, replaced by her her her. All her. The only thing he aches for now is her. It’s silly how quickly she wipes his mind clean of all other thoughts, but Steve doesn’t mind at all. When she kisses him, he feels wanted, and that’s all that matters. 

Steve pulls away to speak, but her lips are chasing his and god who is he to deny her? Immediately, he kisses back, just as eager as she is. The hand on her nape tightening just a bit. “C’mere.” He murmurs against her lips, hand finding her hip to tug her closer. A soft giggle escapes her and their lips finally break apart as she shifts, slipping into his lap easily. He hums contentedly, hands sliding to her hips, moving up and down absentmindedly. “Pretty girl.” 

She smiles at his compliments, shifting a bit to get comfortable in his lap, her knees bracket his sides and dig into the couch cushions. Her hand slides to his hair, gently tugging at the strands in a way that has him letting out a sharp exhale. “You taste good.” She remarks softly, just a bit shy. “Sweet.” 

Steve thinks he might die. He was wrong. She’s gonna kill him. 

He leans forward to kiss her again, instantly deciding his lips are never touching another cigarette again, it’s an easy conclusion to reach when she feels like this. Steve swears he’s in heaven. He’s a simple guy after all, he likes kissing. It’s nice and intimate, offering a sense of closeness he yearns for. 

This time, she pulls back, hands sliding to his shoulders, she tilts her head at him. “You sure you’re alright?” She dips her head down to nose at his jaw affectionately, his hand coming to scratch at her scalp in response. 

“Yeah.” He breathes out, and Steve finds himself pursing his lips. When she pulls back to look at him, rather unconvinced, his hand comes up to rub his jaw. “Just… I just wanted to smoke.” He admits. 

Y/N blinks. “Oh.” She sounds a bit disappointed, probably because smoking means no more indulging in him. “Do you… not have a light?” 

He shakes his head, and he finds himself starting to feel antsy again. “Nah, I just— I’m not doing that anymore.”

“Not… smoking anymore?”

He nods in confirmation. 

“Oh.” She says again, but this time she smiles a bit. “Why not?” 

He shrugs, nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter at all. “You don’t like it.” And she blinks, staring at him for a moment, registering his words. He’s quitting smoking because she doesn’t like it? 

Ah. She swears her face heats up at the thought, she flusters a bit, sitting up a tad straighter. “So, you quit?”

“So, I quit.” He lets his head fall back onto the couch with a sigh. “Or at least I’m trying.” He murmurs, lifting his head to look at her again. 

She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, and his thumb immediately comes to gently pull it free. “That’s kinda romantic.” She remarks, gaze flitting back to his lips again. 

At this, he grins, “is it?” Steve leans forward to peck her lips again, this kiss far more chaste than the previous one. The type of kiss he gives her just because he can. “Just wanna make sure I can kiss you all the time.” 

She giggles, pleased. “Yeah?” She leans forward to knock her nose against his, eyes lidded. 

“Yeah.” He breathes out. 

She kisses him again, her hand sliding to his nape to hold him steady. Her head tilts to further deepen the kiss and— oh. That’s her tongue. He can feel her tongue on his lips, a silent request for them to part. Okay. Okay he can do that. Yes. Immediately, his lips part, letting her explore his mouth. Steve is pretty sure his brain starts to melt as he grips her hips to tug her closer. He tastes good. Better, knowing that the taste of smoke will soon be a distant memory. His recent lollipop addiction has him tasting like candy though, not that she minds. 

When she finally pulls back, satisfied, Steve decides it’s his turn to have fun. His hand coming to her jaw to hold her firmly, a soft whine escapes her as he presses his tongue into her mouth this time. Though she’s happy to let him, reveling in his affections. 

Yes. Quitting smoking is easily the best choice Steve Harrington has ever made.

Note: lowk my fave thing i have written also i yearn for requests lowk

note2: I FORGOT TO ADD TAGS THE FIRST TIME I POSTED

feel free to tip ☕️ — always appreciated, never expected 💛

[givemeantypsychotics]

i don't want to heal i want them pay for what they did

[thesweetiepienovels]

I think a lot of people have their own definitions of trauma and I think a lot of people forget trauma is not just a word to be thrown around for anything. Trauma is a real, clinical, psychological injury. And is a serious word that deserves care when we use it. Again, Trauma is a real psychological injury, NOT a synonym for “that hurt my feelings.” When I think of the word trauma, I think of surviving something you never thought you would ever survive and you fucking DID. And THAT deserves respect and celebration.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: mentions of sex, fingering, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of reader having a period words: 11k (i ended up cutting some stuff ignore me) summary:When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: okay PLEASEEEE the last part of this chapter- i don't mean to defend it. but there will be a point to it. i'm praying you guys see my vision. im so nervous. masterlist | Rules/Playlist

chapter 12

A few days after the formal, you find yourself walking to the record store after classes. Your mind has been gnawing at you, chewing on the same thought over and over until it feels raw and exposed. You can't take it anymore.

You can't talk to Robin about this. Robin will make assumptions—will immediately jump to the conclusion that you like Steve or something equally stupid. Or worse, Robin will remind you that she doesn't talk about the complicated stuff when it comes to Steve and his affairs, that there are boundaries she won't cross even for you.

But there is one person who might know Steve Harrington better than Steve Harrington knows himself.

Eddie.

The record store is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon, classic rock bleeding through the speakers at a volume just loud enough to discourage conversation but not loud enough to actually disturb anyone. Eddie is behind the counter, flipping through a magazine, and he looks up when the bell above the door chimes.

"Hot Shot," he greets, grin already spreading. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can we talk?" you ask, and something in your voice must convey the seriousness because his expression shifts immediately.

"Yeah, 'course." He closes the magazine, glancing around the empty store. "Come on."

He leads you behind the counter, sinking down to sit on the floor with his back against the cabinet where they keep the cleaning supplies. You join him, pulling your knees up to your chest, and he pulls out a joint from his jacket pocket with the ease of someone who always has one ready.

"You look like you need this," he says, lighting it and taking the first drag before passing it to you.

"I very much do," you admit.

The first hit fills your lungs with familiar burn, and you hold it before exhaling slowly. The tension in your shoulders starts to ease almost immediately, the sharp edges of your thoughts beginning to blur.

You sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth, and then you say it. The thing that's been sitting on your tongue, demanding to be acknowledged.

"I had sex with Sammy."

Eddie doesn't react dramatically. Just a slow, knowing smile as he takes another drag. "Oh, you did now?"

You sigh, handing him back the joint, pressing your palms to your forehead. "At the formal."

"Ohhhh, so that's where you disappeared to." He sounds amused, taking his time with the next drag before passing it back. "Well, how was it?"

You lick your lips, considering your words, then take your own drag. "It was good. He definitely knows what he's doing."

"But?" Eddie asks, because of course he does.

"What do you mean?" you counter, playing dumb.

"Please, sweetheart." He levels you with a look that's too knowing, too perceptive. "You would not be here just to tell me you had sex and it was good."

"Sure I would." You try for teasing, aiming for light. "I mean, you probably already know all about my sex life with Steve anyway."

Eddie's face gets serious, the playfulness dropping away entirely. "Steve doesn't talk about your guys' sex life. Now... hearing it is another story." His mouth quirks. "The whole goddamn city of Hawkins probably thought an earthquake hit when you two were—"

"Oh my god, stop." You roll your eyes, snatching the joint from him.

Another odd fact about Steve that unsettles you. Another piece that doesn't fit with everything else you thought you knew. You're about fed up with collecting these pieces, with trying to make sense of a puzzle you don't have the full picture for.

"Fine, okay," you say, the words coming out in a rush. "The 'but' is... this is so embarrassing. He's too—I don't know. Sounds so stupid, but he's too soft." You look at Eddie, needing him to understand. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I can do slow, passionate sex. But..." Your head thumps back against the wooden counter. "I don't think it's fair that Steve gets to have amazing sex with a bunch of girls and I had to finish myself off in the bathroom when I said I needed to go pee."

Eddie is clearly amused, shoulders shaking as he tries to choke back a laugh.

"Shut up," you mutter. "I don't know why I even told you any of this."

Eddie takes another drag, composing himself. "Who says Steve is having amazing sex with the other girls?"

You roll your eyes. "Please. Why would he still sleep with them then?"

Eddie shrugs, completely unbothered. "'Cause he's an asshole."

You snort at that despite yourself. You look up at Eddie, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "I don't want to only depend on him for giving me mind-blowing sex, Eds."

"Then talk to Sammy about what you like and don't like," Eddie says, like it's obvious. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Communicate and shit?"

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. Huh. You hadn't thought about that. And the weird truth you don't want to admit—the one that's been lurking at the edges of your consciousness—is that before Steve, you didn't really know what you liked. Not specifically. Not in the way that you know now, with such acute clarity it sometimes takes your breath away.

You're not going to tell Eddie that.

After a beat of respectable silence, a question rises in your mind. "Were you mad when Steve started hooking up with Polly? You know, since you asked her out on a date first?"

You watch the way Eddie's eyes glisten at the mention of Polly's name, something softening in his expression despite his best efforts to stay neutral.

"Yeah," he admits, voice honest in a way Eddie rarely is about feelings. "But it was because I was kind of a pussy. Before I followed Rob and Steve up here, I got in some hot shit back in Hawkins. Met Polly at a party and I was so used to rejection from high school that I didn't think she'd say yes." He pauses, taking another hit. "But the night of our date, Corroded Coffin got asked to do a gig last minute, and... not my proudest moment."

"And Steve still hooked up with her?"

"Yeah." Eddie's mouth twists. "Not his proudest moment either. But I got over it. I mean, you saw her at the formal. She hates me."

You smirk. "Yeah... and as we know, Steve would get jealous if you made another pass at her."

Eddie laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, head falling back against the cabinet. "I make passes at her all the time. He's just that way with you."

The words land heavy in the smoke-hazy air between you. You don't respond, just take another long drag, letting the words settle and trying not to think about what they mean.

He's just that way with you.

Once a month, Polly had said. The rule that apparently isn't for you.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of classes and studying and carefully maintained distance. Steve is still rough around the edges with you—not ignoring you completely, but there's a carefulness to his interactions now, like he's trying to figure out new boundaries and keeps overcompensating.

He asks nonchalantly one night if you want to go study in the library. You say yes, because you're weak and you've been thinking about him too much, and it ends up with you pressed against the door of his BMW in the dark parking lot behind the building, his mouth on your neck and his hand up your skirt.

The next week he asks if you can come proofread his essay for his child development class. You're about to say yes when Sammy calls and invites you to an Alpha Tau get-together that same night. You tell Steve you can't make it, and you see something flicker across his face—disappointment, maybe, or hurt—before he shrugs and says "no problem" like it doesn't matter at all.

You go to the Alpha Tau party. You let Sammy introduce you to his friends, let him keep his hand on your lower back all night, let him lead you up to his room afterward. The sex is fine. Better than the first time, at least—you've learned where to touch him, how to move, what makes him gasp.

But it's still not...

You don't finish the thought. You finish yourself off in his bathroom afterward, again, running the water so he won't hear, and tell yourself this is fine. This is easier. Easier than asking Steve for the truth about rules that don't seem to apply to you. Easier than admitting you might want something you're not supposed to have.

.-.--.

Valentine's Day falls on a Sunday this year. Robin left Friday afternoon for Boston to visit Nancy for the weekend, promising to be back Monday morning in time for classes. She'd been giddy about it in a way that made your chest ache—not with jealousy, but with something softer. Happiness for her, maybe. Or longing for something you can't quite name.You have been feeling that recently, like an itch you haven’t scratched right. 

Sammy hadn’t brought up any plans, and neither had you.

Steve had mentioned, in passing earlier in the week, that he, Eddie, and Robin usually buy candy and watch a shitty movie together on Valentine's Day. He apparently didn’t do any hook-ups on Valentines. Didn’t want to give a girl the wrong idea. 

So making themselves sick with sugar was some tradition they'd started freshman year, a middle finger to the holiday and everyone taking it seriously. You'd been planning to join them—Steve and Eddie, since Robin would be gone—but yesterday your head had started hurting. A dull throb behind your eyes that you'd dismissed as stress or lack of sleep.

This morning you woke up with a stuffy nose, a throat that feels like you've swallowed broken glass, and a pounding headache that makes even the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains feel like needles in your skull. Your body aches, muscles protesting every small movement, and earlier you'd managed to drag yourself to see look in the mirror on your dresser— you'd looked like death warmed over.

You've gone in and out of sleep all morning and afternoon, drifting in a fever haze where dreams and reality blur together. You haven't eaten. The thought of food makes your stomach turn.

There's a faint knock on your door. You ignore it, burrowing deeper under your blankets even though you're simultaneously freezing and sweating through your t-shirt.

Then another knock, closer. And a voice. "Hey! You have a call!"

It takes you a long moment to process this, to force yourself upright. Your head swims, the room tilting slightly, and you have to sit on the edge of the bed for a few seconds before you trust your legs to hold you.

You trudge down the hall in your rumpled clothes—the same t-shirt and sleep shorts you've been wearing since yesterday—not caring what you look like, not caring that your hair is probably a disaster. The girl from your floor who knocked is already walking back to her room, and you pick up the payphone receiver hanging from its cord.

"'Hello?" Your voice comes out stuffed up, barely recognizable.

"Shit, you sound terrible."

Sammy. Of course.

"Thanks," you croak, irritation flaring hot in your chest. Sickness always makes you grouchy, strips away whatever patience you normally have, and it doesn't matter who catches the bullets. Even a handsome six-foot-one green-eyed boy who's semi-good at sex. "What do you want?"

"Well..." There's a pause, like he's reconsidering. "It doesn't seem like you're really in the mood, but I was going to invite you to the bar with me and some of my buddies."

"Yeah, no. I have—" A coughing fit overtakes you, harsh and painful, and you have to lean against the wall to stay upright. When you can finally breathe again, you rasp out, "Shit, sorry. I think I have a bad cold or something."

You would've said no anyway, you think but don't say.

"Okay. I, uh... hope you feel better soon."

"Thanks," you mumble.

"Alright. Bye."

"Mhm." You give it a beat, then hang up, the receiver clattering slightly as you replace it.

You walk back to your room, each step feeling like you're wading through honey, and collapse face-first onto your bed. Your eyes flutter closed immediately.

You're not sure how long it's been—minutes? hours?—when another rap on the door jerks you awake. It's starting to get darker outside, the weak winter sunlight fading into dusk, and you feel even worse than before. Your fever has climbed higher, making everything feel distant and hazy, and your throat is on fire.

You roll off the bed slowly, every movement deliberate and careful, and shuffle to the door. You're not sure who to expect—maybe Robin back early, or Eddie checking on you, or another girl from your floor with another phone call.

You don't think it would be Steve Harrington. Not when you’ve purposely been avoiding him. 

But there he is, standing in your doorway. His hair has been growing out at the roots, the natural brown starting to show, but the blonde streaks are still luminous under the hallway fluorescent lights. He's wearing a simple outfit—a polo shirt tucked into jeans, nothing fancy—and his stupidly cute glasses are perched on his nose.

He's holding a big plastic bag of assorted candies in one hand.

Your heart does something strange in your chest. A backwards tumble, a skip and stutter that's new and unsettling. It's been happening more lately whenever he crosses your thoughts. Which is a lot. More than you'd like to admit.

You frown at him.

His eyes immediately soften when he takes you in—the matted hair, the sweat-drenched clothes, the exhaustion written in every line of your body. You're ready for it, for the inevitable "shit, you look terrible" that you've been getting from your reflection all day.

But he doesn't say that.

Instead, his face does something complicated—concern mixing with tenderness—and he says, voice gentle, "Hot Shot? Are you okay?"

He doesn't wait for you to let him in. He's already moving past you, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. He sets the bag of candy down on your desk, and then he's turning back to you, one hand coming up to press the back of his fingers against your forehead.

The touch is cool against your burning skin, and maybe it's because you're secretly a baby when it comes to being sick, but your eyes flutter shut and you lean into his hand, actually lean into it like you're starved for the contact. You pout when he takes his hand away too soon.

"Honey, you have a fever."

The word "honey" lands soft and sweet, melting over you like warm caramel, coating all your sharp edges and making something in your chest go liquid and warm. He hasn’t called you that sense last semester when it was thick with sarcasm. The casual intimacy of it makes you feel like you're floating slightly outside your body.

"M'sick," you mumble, because obviously.

Steve chuckles under his breath, and even that small sound feels like comfort. "You are? Couldn't tell."

He lifts the blanket that's draped over your shoulders—when did you grab that?—and you shiver at the loss of warmth, adjusting it back around yourself with clumsy fingers.

"Let's get you back in bed," he says, and his hand finds the small of your back, guiding you gently toward your mattress.

You make it approximately three steps before your legs give up on the whole walking concept. You fall forward, face-down on the bed, feet still dangling off the edge touching the floor. You don't even care. This is fine. You could sleep like this.

"Steve, I'm too weak," you say, the words muffled by the mattress and stuffed up from your congestion. A small cough escapes you.

You hear Steve laugh again, soft and fond. Then his hands are on you—large and warm, have they always been this big?—wrapping around your waist and under your arms. He picks you up gently, like you weigh nothing, and repositions you properly on your back in the bed, your head actually on the pillow.

You frown up at him, suddenly acutely aware of how disgusting you must feel. "Steve, I feel gross. And sweaty."

Steve looks down at you for a long moment, something tender in his expression. "Maybe you should get into a fresh pair of clothes? That might help."

You pout, the expression childish but you can't help it. "I'm too weak."

His throat works in a swallow. "Let me help."

You stare at him, searching his face for... you're not sure what. Some sign that this is too much, too intimate, crossing some invisible line in whatever fucked-up arrangement you have. I mean, just last week you were barely speaking. 

But all you see is genuine concern and a willingness to take care of you that makes your fever-addled brain feel even more confused.

You nod.

Steve moves to your dresser, rummaging through the drawers with surprising efficiency. He finds a fresh oversized t-shirt—one of yours, soft and worn—and a pair of clean sleep shorts. When he comes back to the bed, he sets them down beside you and then pauses, his hands hovering.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Arms up."

You raise your arms obediently, and he carefully peels off the sweat-damp shirt you've been wearing, pulling it up and over your head. You're not wearing a bra underneath—haven't been all day, too sick to care—and you're bare from the waist up.

Steve's eyes flick up immediately. Up to your face, to the ceiling, anywhere but your exposed chest. Even though he's seen you naked multiple times, has had his mouth on every inch of your skin, right now he looks away like he's trying to give you privacy.

He slides the fresh shirt over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves, and the clean fabric feels like heaven against your clammy skin.

"Okay," he says again, and you realize he's talking himself through this as much as he's talking to you. "Shorts."

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your current shorts—disgusting with sweat—and pulls them down your legs. You're wearing regular cotton underwear, nothing sexy, just simple and comfortable. You catch him smiling slightly when he sees them, but it isn't smirking or lustful. It's soft. Fond, even.

"Will you put a new pair on me? Please?" Your voice comes out small, vulnerable in a way you're not used to.

Steve nods, not hesitating. "Yeah, of course."

He goes back to your dresser and you watch him as he opens the underwear drawer. You catch him looking maybe a little too long at the contents—probably at some of the nicer pairs mixed in with the everyday cotton—before he grabs a simple blue pair. Nothing sexy about it at all.

He comes back, and again his eyes flick up to your face as he carefully slides off your current pair and replaces them with the fresh ones. Then he shimmies the clean sleep shorts up your legs, his touch gentle and clinical.

When he's done, he picks up the covers that had been kicked to the end of the bed and pulls them up over you, tucking them around your shoulders.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, and there's something almost stern in his voice.

You shake your head. "I have crackers."

"Okay, yeah, no." He stands up, already moving toward the door. "Go to sleep and I'll be back."

"Steve..." You try to protest, to tell him it's okay, he doesn't have to, but a coughing fit interrupts you.

He says your name sharply, and the tone makes you fall silent. "I said I'll be back."

Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you're left staring at the ceiling wondering what just happened and why your chest feels so full it might burst. 

You wake to the sound of shuffling in your room. Your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light—it's darker now, proper night, and the only illumination comes from your desk lamp that you don't remember turning on.

Steve is back, toeing off his shoes, a plastic bag in one hand and something else in the other. He notices you stirring and comes over immediately, setting his things down on your desk.

Without a word, he sits you up slightly, propping you against the wall, and then sits on the edge of your bed facing you, feet on the ground. He pulls a Styrofoam cup from the plastic bag, removing the lid carefully. Steam rolls out, and you can smell chicken and broth and something that makes your mouth water despite your nausea.

Chicken soup.

Steve grabs a plastic spoon and dips it into the cup, bringing it up carefully. He blows on it gently to cool it, then brings it to your lips.

"Open," he says softly.

You open your mouth, and he feeds you the soup. It's warm and salty and perfect, soothing your raw throat as it goes down. He feeds you another spoonful, and another, patient and careful, making sure you're swallowing okay between bites.

You finish the soup slowly, each spoonful feeling like it's bringing you back to life, and when the cup is empty Steve pulls out different bottles from the plastic bag. One for coughing, one for sinus pressure. He reads the labels carefully, checking dosages, then measures out the right amounts and makes you take them with water.

"Steve," you whisper when you've swallowed the last pill. 

"Yeah?"

Now is your chance, Hot Shot. Now is the chance while you’re not entirely sober-minded, because if it ends badly you can blame it on being sick and delusional. Now is the time to ask him about the goddamn rule. 

"Thank you."

What a coward.

He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. "Anytime, Hot Shot."

"Steve?"

"Mhm?"

"Did you come over to have sex with me?"

Steve blushes, a soft laugh escaping him as he looks at the ground. "How'd you know?" He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, still smiling when he looks back at you.

You frown, guilt creeping in. "Sorry I ruined your plans."

You would have gone through with his plans. 

His smile softens into something more serious. "It doesn't matter what we're doing, Hot Shot. I just wanted to see you."

Your stomach flips. Those damn moths beneath your ribs flap harder, more insistent, and your chest feels like it's inflating with something too big to name.

Steve searches your eyes for a moment, and something passes between you—unspoken but heavy with meaning. Then he clears his throat, breaking the moment. "I, uh... I brought you something else."

"What?" you ask.

He licks his lips, and he almost looks sheepish. Hesitant. You watch as he reaches down to grab something from the floor, and the moment you catch the name on the spine, you beam.

"The Princess Bride? What—"

Steve shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. "Well, I don't know. You said whenever you were sick your mom used to read it to you... and I don't know. Maybe I could..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's silly."

You gather all your strength and pull him further into the bed, scooting as far as you can against the wall to make room. Steve laughs as he settles himself up against the wooden headboard, looking down at you with those hazel eyes magnified slightly by his glasses.

You look up at him through your lashes. "I don't want to get you sick."

"I'll be okay," he says, voice soft.

"Now," he clears his throat dramatically, opening the book. "The year that Buttercup was born—"

He stops and looks down at you as your head finds purchase on his chest, your arm wrapping around his middle, pulling yourself closer. You think, surely this doesn't count as cuddling. The rules are clear about no cuddling. But then again, you're not entirely sure Steve even thinks about the rules with you anymore. Once a month, Polly had said. But here you are, and that's a thought you've been actively avoiding, especially now when your defenses are down and your mind is loose with fever and medication.

You look at the words on the page instead of at him, unable to make eye contact. "Is this okay?" you ask, and your hand absently rubs circles on his stomach over his shirt, feeling the way his soft pudge moves as he breathes.

"Yeah," Steve whispers, and you can hear the smile in his voice even though you're not looking at his face.

You tuck yourself closer, your cheek pressed against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat—steady and sure. One of Steve's arms moves around you, his hand settling on your back and beginning to scratch gentle patterns there, and he continues reading.

His voice is low and soothing, and you barely make it to the first time he reads "as you wish" before your eyes shutter closed and you drift off to sleep.

That next morning you wake to sunlight and coldness.

Not the same coldness you felt with your fever—that's gone, you realize with relief—but an empty, hollow coldness. Your face is smushed into a pillow that's no longer solid, no longer warm with another person's presence. Your hand pats the empty space beside you, and you open one eye, disoriented.

You sit up slowly, looking around the room. The Princess Bride is on your nightstand, a bookmark placed about halfway through. The medicine bottles are lined up neatly on your desk. The candy bag sits unopened beside them.

Steve is gone, and a part of you wonders if you imagined him. 

You look at the clock and it's 7 a.m. There's no way you're making it to classes today—you might feel better, but you have that post-sickness hangover feeling, like your body has been through a war and needs time to recover.

You hate how disappointed you feel. How the empty bed makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with being sick.

A knock at the door makes you jump to your feet, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. Hopefully it's—

You open the door and it's Sammy.

He makes a weird scrunched-up face at the sight of you, and you remember you probably still look terrible. He's holding a paper sack, grease stains visible on the bottom.

"Hey, wanted to bring this by since you aren't feeling well."

You stare at the greasy bag in his hand, reaching for it, but he takes a step back.

"Sorry, I, uh... I can't afford to get sick." He slowly places the bag down on the ground like you're contaminated, then steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I gotta run, but I can call you later, yeah?"

You blink at him. "Yeah. Okay."

He smiles at you before walking back down the hall, and you watch him go before picking up the bag and closing the door.

You look inside, pulling out a sad-looking sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit. The smell hits you immediately—old grease and congealed cheese—and your stomach turns.

You toss it in the trash without a second thought, repulsed.

Then you climb back into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and try not to think about how Steve's side of the bed is cold.

.-.-.-.

You're over at the Pike house, tucked into the basement with Robin, Eddie, and Steve, all of you pretending to study but really just catching up. Textbooks are open but largely ignored, highlighters uncapped but unused, the pretense of academics abandoned somewhere around the second beer.

Robin is on a tangent about Nancy. Apparently, they had their first fight—a real one, not just the small disagreements that get smoothed over with apologies and soft words. Robin's voice carries that high, anxious edge it gets when she's trying to convince herself of something she doesn't quite believe.

"And this friend of hers, Barb—well, Barbara Holland, but everyone calls her Barb—she's just always around now. And I know, I know Nancy's allowed to have friends, but the way Barb looks at her..." Robin's hands gesture wildly, beer sloshing slightly in the bottle she's holding. "It's not a friend look. It's a 'I want to be more than friends' look, and Nancy doesn't even see it."

You catch the fear in Robin's eyes beneath all the words, the way her pupils contract slightly like she's imagining something that terrifies her. She's probably picturing Nancy and this Barb right now, together in Boston, maybe sitting too close while studying, maybe laughing at inside jokes Robin isn't part of.

As Robin continues—her voice picking up speed, words tumbling over each other—you see Steve. He's sitting on the floor, back against the couch, one knee pulled up with his arm draped over it. But he's not here. Not really. His eyes have that glazed, distant quality, fixed on some empty point in the middle distance, and his jaw works slowly like he's chewing on thoughts too heavy to swallow.

You've only been alone with him once since Valentine's. Wednesday night, when you'd purposefully left the library at exactly 8:15 p.m., knowing Steve would be walking back from the rec center after his volunteer shift. You'd timed it perfectly, running into him "by accident" in the parking lot, and somehow you'd ended up in his car again, the windows fogging as his hands found their way under your shirt.

Neither of you had spoken about Valentine's night. About that softness you'd built between you—his hands changing your clothes, feeding you soup, reading to you until you fell asleep on his chest. About how it had evaporated like it was only a fluke. Like maybe you were just two lonely, pathetic people with no actual relationship prospects, because the more you get to know Sammy, the less interested you become. And maybe Steve is okay with not talking about it, with pretending it never happened at all.

Robin takes a deep breath, pulling you back to the present. "So now I have no idea if she's even coming into town for Mardi Tau."

Mardi Tau. The Sig Tau fraternity's one huge party of the year. You'd gone last year—alone, leaving alone—but you remember it being bigger than Theta Ki's Halloween party, wilder, more chaotic. Purple and green and gold everywhere, beads and masks and music so loud it made your chest vibrate.

Robin sits up suddenly, swinging her legs off the couch. "You're still driving us, right, Steve?"

Steve is still looking at nothing. His eyes haven't moved, his expression hasn't changed, like he's carved from stone.

Robin nudges her foot against his head. "Steve?"

He jumps, head jerking up, brows knitting together in confusion. "Huh?"

"Mardi Tau. You're still driving us?"

Steve's jaw clenches, muscle jumping beneath skin. His eyes drop to his lap, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "I meant to tell you. I'm not going anymore."

Robin and Eddie exchange a look—sharp, meaningful, the kind of silent communication that comes from years of friendship.

"What?" Robin asks. "Why?"

Steve's eyes flicker to yours briefly—so quick you almost miss it—before he mumbles, "I made plans already."

Robin groans, throwing herself backward onto the couch with dramatic flair. "Once again, Captain Dingus is thinking with his weiner instead of—"

"Oh, fuck off, Buckley." Steve's voice cuts sharp as a blade, and he stands abruptly, the movement jerky and aggressive. "I'm not really in the mood today, okay? Maybe you'd notice if you weren't droning on and on about Nancy." His hands ball into fists at his sides, knuckles going white. "Have you thought maybe you're jealous and scared because you think Nancy is going to leave you because you can't be seen with her? Newsflash: she knows what she signed up for. So go call her and apologize and stop butting into my personal life."

Before he turns to leave, he points at Robin, and his face is cold, eyes hard as granite, mouth pressed into a thin line that makes him look older and meaner. "And stop calling my dick a weiner."

Then he storms off, footsteps heavy on the stairs, and the door at the top slams with enough force to rattle the frame.

Robin blinks at the space he left behind, mouth opening and closing without sound. Then her face crumples slightly, realization dawning. "Shit. It's February 18th, isn't it?"

Eddie nods awkwardly, not quite meeting her eyes.

"What's wrong with today?" you ask.

Robin and Eddie look at one another. Robin sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. "It's the anniversary of the accident." She pauses, running a hand through her hair. "Shit. I should go check on him before I call Nancy."

But you speak, maybe too quickly, the words tumbling out before you've thought them through. "I'll go check on him."

Robin looks at you, protest forming on her lips.

Eddie stops her, hand on her arm. "Maybe Hot Shot should be the one to check."

Robin nods slowly, and you see hurt cross her face—brief but unmistakable. And is that a hint of jealousy? That you're checking in on Robin's best friend, stepping into a role that's traditionally been hers?

Steve's door is cracked open. You look through the gap and see him lying on the floor, tossing a tennis ball up toward the ceiling and catching it, over and over. Mechanical. Mindless.

You tap on the doorframe, and he looks up. His face softens when he sees you, some of that hardness bleeding away.

"Can I come in?" you ask.

He just nods, sitting up, one arm draped over his knee. He watches you intently—even when you cross the room, even when you sink down to sit beside him on the floor. His eyes track every movement like he's memorizing it.

You don't say anything. And he doesn't make you. You appreciate that about Steve—how he doesn't try to get you to fix him, doesn't demand explanations or comfort or platitudes. He just sits there, and you sit beside him, and the silence stretches between you like something alive.

He rocks back slightly, and you can see the cracks in his demeanor—the way his shoulders curve inward like he's trying to make himself smaller, the tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide, the way his breathing isn't quite steady. He's coming apart at the seams, slowly, quietly, and you're watching it happen.

You reach out, placing your hand on his knee, giving him a slight nod. Letting him know it's okay.

Steve doesn't cry. But he lets out a shaky breath, eyes going glassy and unfocused, and then he crumples. His head falls into your lap, the weight of him sudden and warm, and you feel his whole body sag like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

After a moment, his voice comes out muffled against your thigh. "Can you tell me about your day?"

Your hand hesitates, hovering above his head, before falling into his hair, fingers brushing through the strands. They're soft, slightly product-sticky at the ends where the blonde is growing out.

So you tell him. About waking up and going on a walk—not mentioning that you'd been thinking about him more and more since Valentine's, that his face appears in your mind at the strangest times, unbidden and unwelcome. You tell him about your exam in Art Appreciation—not mentioning how afterward, you and Sammy had made out behind a bush outside the liberal arts building, his hands under your shirt while you tried to feel something, anything. You tell him about your Medieval Literature class—definitely not mentioning that you didn't take a single note because your mind still can't wrap around the "once a month" rule, can't stop turning it over and examining it from every angle. But you do tell him about a book you're reading that you're actually enjoying, because you haven't read for pleasure in a while.

Steve listens. Nods at different parts. You see him smile when you describe the ridiculous argument you overheard between two guys in the library about whether the squirrels on campus are planted to spy on kids. His eyes flutter closed when your fingers rake through his hair just right, hitting that spot at the base of his skull, and a small sound escapes him—not quite a moan, but close.

He says your name. "I feel like I'm broken."

Your hand pauses mid-stroke. "What do you mean?"

His eyes shoot open, and you feel him go rigid against your leg. His jaw clenches, muscle jumping, and then he's lifting up, pulling away from you. "Nevermind," he mumbles, not looking at you. "I'll see you later?"

You nod, something hollow opening in your chest as you stand and leave him alone.

.-.-.-.

Mardi Tau arrives on a Saturday that feels too warm for February, the air thick with the promise of spring even though winter isn't quite finished.

You, Robin, and Eddie arrive together. Robin is subdued, quieter than usual, and you know it's because even though she and Nancy made up, Nancy has too much work to do and couldn't make the trip. Robin had stared at the phone for a full five minutes after hanging up, her face doing complicated things.

Steve did not join you. When you'd picked up Eddie from the Pike house—tonight's designated driver, your car keys heavy in your pocket—Robin had mumbled to him, "Who's his lucky lady tonight?"

You'd been sitting in the driver's seat, pretending to adjust the rearview mirror, but you could still hear Eddie even though he leaned toward Robin's right side, away from you. "Katrina."

The name had landed in your stomach like a stone.

Now you're standing in the Sig Tau house, and it's absolute chaos. The best kind of chaos, the kind that makes you forget everything except the immediate moment. People are everywhere—half-dressed in purple and green and gold, strings of beads around necks and catching light, masks covering faces, the air thick with weed smoke and something stronger. It smells like beer and sweat and sugar from the king cake someone's passing around, and the music is so loud you feel it in your teeth.

You're wearing something that leaves little to the imagination—a gold crop top that shows your midriff and a short purple skirt that Robin had wolf-whistled at when you'd emerged from your room. Beads are already accumulating around your neck, thrown by people you pass, and your skin feels sticky with the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.

It's sickening in the best way. The best way to get your mind off the burning jealousy of Katrina and Steve that you have absolutely no right to feel.

It doesn't take long to find Sammy. He's near the makeshift bar, talking to some of his frat brothers, and he lights up when he sees you. He's handsome as ever in dark jeans and a green button-down, and he's handsy too—keeps you close, his arm around your waist, fingers rubbing patterns on your hip through the thin fabric.

You know for a fact that at least tonight, you're getting fucked. That's something. That's a plan.

"You look so cute," Sammy says in your ear, having to lean close to be heard over the music. His breath is warm against your neck.

But even as he says it, even as his hand slides lower on your back, something feels wrong. Off. Like you're performing a role in a play you didn't audition for.

Later, you're dancing with Robin, Eddie beside you both, the three of you moving in a loose cluster on what passes for a dance floor. You're laughing at something Robin said when you see Polly approaching, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

"Hey, y'all!" she calls out, bright and cheerful in a pink dress that somehow works with the Mardi Gras theme.

She looks at Eddie, eyes traveling up and down his body with obvious appreciation. "Edward," she says, and there's something in the way she says it—part challenge, part invitation.

"Penelope," Eddie replies, matching her tone.

"Looks like you actually made an effort tonight." She plucks at his shirt—a black button-down he's left mostly unbuttoned. 

Eddie says, grin sharp. "I'm going for 'won't get kicked out immediately.'"

"Well, you've lowered the bar enough that I'm sure you'll succeed." But she's smiling, and there's color high in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat.

"Gonna need more drinks if I'm putting up with your compliments all night, Penelope."

"Who says I'm staying near you?" But she doesn't move away.

Robin sighs, clearly tipsy, cutting through their banter. "I miss Nancy."

"I know, Robs," you say, laughing gently.

Robin gasps like she's just had the best idea in the world. "Do you think they'll let me use their phone?"

"Robin, no—"

But Robin doesn't have time to leave because a girl with blonde hair—permed within an inch of its life, the kind of perm you'd recognize anywhere—appears in front of her. The perm is so burned into your memory you could probably count the individual curls, describe their exact spiral pattern, identify them in a lineup.

The girl's mascara is running down her face in dark streaks, and she's dressed cute but not Mardi Tau cute. It's more casual—jeans and a nice top, like she got dressed for a different party entirely.

She comes straight to Robin, and Robin shakes her head immediately. "No. You know the rules, Katrina."

Your stomach drops, plummeting so fast it feels like the floor disappeared beneath you.

"But I don't know what I did wrong," Katrina sobs, voice breaking. "I—"

Robin's face turns serious, hardening into something protective and final. "I'm not talking to you about it. Especially here. Look, I'm sorry whatever happened, but he had a rough week—"

"Am I not attractive?" Katrina continues, ignoring Robin's words. "Is there something wrong with me? Did I do something—"

"Hey," you speak up, voice coming out sharper than intended. "Respect Robin's request and leave her alone."

Katrina looks at you for the first time, really looks, her tear-streaked face tilting up to scan you from top to bottom. Taking in your outfit, your face, your body. Recognition flickers in her eyes—dawning, horrible recognition.

"And who the hell are you?"

Polly steps in before you can respond. "Hey, Katrina, let's go get some air, okay?" Her hand finds Katrina's elbow, gentle but firm.

Katrina is still eyeing you, her gaze sharp now, cutting. Taking in every feature, every detail, like she's trying to memorize you for later. Then she snaps to Polly, voice tight. "Fine."

Once they leave, Robin groans, head falling back. "I'm going to kill him. Like, actually kill him." She spots someone she recognizes across the room. "I'm going to check on Nancy. See if I can borrow a phone."

You look at Eddie, and something in your chest feels tight, constricting. "I'm... I'm going to go find Sammy."

Eddie gives you a look—knowing, too knowing, his eyes seeing right through you.

You don't know why you feel guilty. What happened between Katrina and Steve? Your feet move before your brain catches up, scanning the entire room. Bodies everywhere, pressed close together, the air thick with heat and sound. Beads clatter together as people move, plastic on plastic creating a percussion under the music. Wet mouths move against each other in darkened corners, and you can hear it—the dirtiness of everyone in the room, the moans and laughs and whispered promises. Your heart pounds against your ribs, blood rushing in your ears, everything too loud and too bright and too much.

And then you see someone you weren't expecting to see the entire night.

Standing in the middle of the room, somehow separate from the chaos around him, is Steve Harrington.

His eyes are already on yours. Like he's been waiting for you to notice him. His expression is unreadable—jaw set, mouth pressed into a neutral line—but his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and they glint caramel briefly when the colored lights sweep over his face.

And on his face are his glasses.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

It's intense when he walks toward you. Slow, purposeful, his gaze never leaving yours, and the room seems to spin, tilt on its axis. Bodies part around him like water, and then he's nearly chest to chest with you, close enough that you can smell him—purely Steve, intoxicating. You didn’t have to have a lick of alcohol in you, but suddenly you were drunk on him. 

He searches your eyes, and you see it there—desperation, need, something raw and unguarded. He doesn't grab you, doesn't touch you, but he tilts his head slightly, a small motion toward the hallway.

Then he walks through the crowd, and you follow.

You follow him through sweaty bodies pressed against walls, through the hallway where the music is slightly muffled but still thunderous. Once it seems clear—as clear as it's going to get—Steve urgently grabs your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones there, and pulls you into an empty bathroom.

It looks like it hasn't been remodeled since the '70s. The tile is that sickly yellow-brown color, grout dark with age and mildew. Soap stains the sink in crusty white patches, and the mirror is spotted and cloudy.

Steve shuts the door forcefully, the slam echoing in the small space, and clicks the lock. His palms press flat against the door, back still turned to you, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. Like he's gathering courage or composure or both.

Then he finally turns.

You have no idea if he's angry. His face gives nothing away, that same unreadable expression from the party still in place. He approaches slowly, backing you up against the bathroom counter. The edge digs into your ass, cold porcelain through thin fabric.

He finally speaks, and his voice is hoarse, cracking around the edges. "Touch me."

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "Steve, I—"

"Please." He's begging now, and something in your chest cracks at the sound of it. "Please touch me." He says your name like it's the only word that matters, like everything else is just noise.

You don't hesitate. Your hands slide under his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach. You feel the muscles there contract under your touch, the scattered hair, the faint raised lines of old scars you've traced before. He whimpers—actually whimpers—at the contact, his hips pressing forward instinctively.

You feel him harden immediately, the thick length of him pressing insistent against your thigh through his jeans. The pressure sends heat flooding between your own legs, pooling low and urgent.

One of your hands grabs Steve's and guides it between your thighs, placing his palm against you through your skirt. Needing him just as badly, needing him to know it.

Steve's fingers press up immediately, finding the damp heat of you through your underwear, and the sound he makes—broken, desperate—sends electricity down your spine. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place while his fingers move, circling and pressing with the kind of precision that comes from knowing exactly what you need.

His lips are open-mouthed, panting against the apple of your cheek. Hot, wet breaths that make goosebumps erupt across your skin. Your hands rake up and down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the soft give of his stomach, the slight pudge that you've become inexplicably fond of. Your fingers hook through the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him closer, eliminating what little space existed between your bodies.

Steve picks you up—lifting you like you weigh nothing, hands under your thighs—and plants you on the counter. His hand slides up further under your skirt, fingers pushing your underwear aside, and when he touches you directly, skin on skin, you both make sounds that are barely human.

He presses two fingers inside you without preamble, curling them exactly right, and your nails bite into his back through his shirt. The stretch and fullness is perfect, overwhelming, and you pant into the space between your mouths—so close you can feel his breath mixing with yours, can taste the cigarettes he's been smooking.

You whimper his name, high and breathy and desperate, and he responds by adding another finger, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy.

Your vision whites out at the edges, pleasure building impossibly fast, and you can hear yourself making sounds you don't recognize—high whines and gasps of his name—while he works you open with single-minded focus.

And then—oh god—Steve pulls his head back slightly, looking at your face. His jaw is slack, mouth open wide, his own moans mixing with yours. His free hand grabs the back of your head, fingers tangling roughly in your hair, pulling you toward him.

His mouth crashes onto your lips.

You feel him tense immediately, fear flashing across his face as he pulls back. His hand stills between your legs. "Fuck... I'm sorry. I'm sorry—"

You stop him by hooking your finger through his chain necklace and pulling him into another kiss, grinding down on his hand that's frozen inside you.

It's desperate. Filthy. Your mouths open and hungry, tongues meeting and sliding together with none of the careful precision from before. His fingers start moving again, faster now, curling and stroking while his tongue maps your mouth like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

You've never known you needed to be kissed like this. Never knew that kissing could feel like burning from the inside out, like your skin is too tight and you might combust from the heat of it. Never knew it could be this consuming, this necessary.

Steve lets out a loud whine when you nip his bottom lip, teeth catching and tugging, and you feel him twitch and release against your leg, his hips stuttering, warmth spreading through the denim as he comes.

Your own orgasm crashes through you seconds later, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out into his mouth. Pleasure whites out your vision, makes your ears ring, leaves you gasping and shaking against him.

But you don't stop kissing.

Can't stop kissing.

Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers threading into his hair and pulling—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. His hand leaves from between your thighs, and suddenly both his arms are wrapping around you, one hand splaying wide across your lower back, the other moving up to cup the back of your head. He's holding you like you might disappear, like if he lets go you'll vanish entirely.

You clutch at him just as desperately. Your hands roam everywhere—sliding from his hair down to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid muscle underneath. Down his back, nails scratching through the cotton, making him arch into you. Back up to his neck, his jaw, fingers tracing the sharp line of it before burying themselves in his hair again.

Steve's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, kissing and sucking and biting gently as he works his way down your throat. His hands are moving too—one sliding up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your top, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

You pull his face back to yours, needing his mouth again, and he comes willingly. The kiss is messy now, all tongue and teeth and desperation. You're both still panting, breathing hard into each other's mouths, but neither of you can seem to stop long enough to actually catch your breath.

Your hands slide under his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach, and you feel his muscles contract under your touch. You rake your nails up his sides, across his ribs, feeling him shudder. His hands mirror yours, sliding under your top, fingers spreading wide across your bare back, pulling you impossibly closer until you're chest to chest, no space between you at all.

Steve's mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. His tongue slides against yours in a rhythm that makes heat pool low in your belly despite having just come. Your fingers find his belt loops again, hooking through them and pulling his hips flush against yours, feeling the wet warmth where he came in his jeans pressing against your inner thigh.

His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicts the desperate way his other hand is gripping your waist. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, and hear him make a sound—broken and wanting and almost pained.

Your hands roam to his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm, racing just as fast as yours. You trace the lines of his collarbone through his shirt, up to his shoulders, down his arms, memorizing the shape of him through touch. His hands do the same, mapping your body like he's trying to commit every curve and angle to memory.

You break apart just long enough to gasp for air, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, and then you're kissing again. Softer this time but still urgent, still desperate, like you're both trying to say something you don't have words for.

Steve's hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to change the angle, and his other hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there. Your arms wrap around his neck again, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world.

The kiss slows gradually, becoming gentle pecks, then just your lips resting against each other, then just breathing the same air. Steve takes one last moment to kiss your bottom lip—sucking it gently between his teeth, tongue soothing where they just grazed—before he pulls back.

Actually pulls back.

Steps away from you, putting space between your bodies that feels like miles.

He's swallowing hard, licking his lips, his pupils still blown wide and dark. His hair is a disaster from your hands, shirt wrinkled and askew, jeans obviously wet at the front. He looks at the ground, then back at you, and something sad and guilty crosses his face—something that makes your chest ache.

Then he opens the bathroom door and leaves, shutting it behind him with a soft click.

And you're left sitting on the grimy bathroom counter, lips swollen and tender, body still humming with aftershocks, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

.-.-.-.

Your word of the day is late.

You woke up late—alarm blaring for god knows how long before you finally registered the sound and slapped it silent. Then you were late to class, sliding into your seat five minutes after the professor started lecturing, earning a pointed look that made your cheeks burn. And now you're late to lunch with Robin, who's already sitting at your usual table with her food half-eaten when you finally collapse into the chair across from her.

"Jesus," Robin says, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "You look rough today."

You do feel rough. There's a queasy turning in your stomach that won't settle, a tight knot that's been there since you woke up. "Thanks," you mutter, pushing your tray around without actually looking at the food.

"I didn't mean—" Robin softens, leaning forward. "Are you okay? You seem really stressed."

Stress. That's probably it. Midterms are this week, and you've barely studied, too distracted by—

By the fact that you haven't seen Steve in over a week. Not since Mardi Tau. Not since the bathroom, since his mouth on yours, since he left you sitting on that grimy counter alone.

Robin's birthday is coming up in two weekends. A camping trip. All of you together in close quarters with nowhere to hide. You wonder what the fuck you're supposed to do about that.

Sammy has noticed too—how stressed you've been. The last few times you tried to fool around, you couldn't get in the mood, your body refusing to cooperate, mind too scattered and anxious. You'd seen the irritation flash across his face, the way his jaw tightened. Last Thursday he'd told you after class that he couldn't do lunch like usual, tone clipped, and you'd known it was because of you.

"I'm fine," you lie to Robin. "Just tired."

"Well, you need to eat something." Robin gestures at your untouched tray.

You look down at the sandwich, the chips, the apple, and your stomach lurches. The smell of the cafeteria food—grease and salt and something vaguely meat-adjacent—makes bile rise in your throat.

"Actually," Robin says, watching your face go pale. "Maybe you should go back to the dorm and take a nap. You look like you might throw up."

"Yeah." You stand abruptly, leaving the tray. "Yeah, okay."

The walk back to your dorm passes in a blur. You climb the stairs mechanically, unlock the door, step inside the empty room. You peel off your shoes, kick them toward the closet. Your backpack gets thrown to the side, landing with a thud against Robin's bed frame.

And then you glance at the calendar hanging above your desk.

February 29th.

Leap day.

The date stares back at you, innocuous and terrible, and your brain makes a connection it should have made days ago.

You're late.

Not to class. Not to lunch.

Late.

Your hands scramble for your birth control pills, fingers clumsy as you pop open the compact. You count backward, checking dates, cross-referencing with the calendar, brows furrowing deeper with each passing second.

No. You haven't missed a single day. You take them religiously, same time every morning, 8 a.m. on the dot.

You were supposed to start last week.

Shit.

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking shit.

Your first instinct isn't to cry. That surprises you—you'd think panic would bring tears, but your eyes stay dry, your breathing stays steady even as your heart rate kicks into overdrive.

Your first instinct isn't even to find Robin, to confess this growing terror to your best friend who would know what to do, who would hold your hand and help you figure it out.

Oh god, no. You can't tell Robin.

Your first instinct is to put your shoes back on and walk to the Pike house.

The front steps creak under your feet. You don't knock politely, don't wait to be invited in. You just walk through the door like you belong there, like your world isn't tilting sideways.

The brothers in the common room aren't surprised to see you. A few of them are sprawled on the couches, watching TV, and one—you think his name is Marcus—lifts a hand in greeting. "Hey, Hot Shot!"

"Where's Steve?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

Buck, stuffing his face with what looks like a massive sandwich, barely glances up. "Upstairs in his room."

"Thanks."

You take the stairs two at a time, your pulse thundering in your ears. The second floor hallway stretches before you, and Steve's door is at the end, slightly ajar.

You don't hesitate. You push it open.

Steve is at his desk, hunched over paperwork, pen tapping against the wood surface. "Theo, I told you there's nothing I can do about your penalty charge—" He doesn't turn, assuming you're someone else.

"Steve." Your voice comes out softer than you want it to, barely above a whisper.

He snaps around, eyes going wide. He stands quickly—too quickly, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall—and his hands flutter uncertainly before crossing over his chest in a defensive posture. "Hey." He says your name like a question. "What are you doing here?"

You close the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the sudden silence. "I, um... can we talk?"

Steve swallows hard, his throat working visibly, like he's been bracing for this conversation since Mardi Tau. "Yeah. Do you want to sit?"

You shake your head. Your hands are trembling, fingers curling into fists to try to stop it. "No, I—"

"Hey." His voice softens immediately when he notices the shaking. He takes a step closer, arms uncrossing, hands reaching out before he seems to think better of it. "What's wrong?"

You look away, unable to meet his eyes. The words stick in your throat, sharp and jagged. "I'm... I'm late."

Steve looks at you blankly. "To, like... what?"

"Steve." You force yourself to look at him, and you know he can see everything written on your face—the fear, the panic, the desperate need for him to understand without you having to say it.

His mouth forms an "oh," the sound coming out small and shocked. His eyes drop to your stomach, then snap back to your face. "Are you—" He doesn't finish the question.

"I don't know." The words tumble out in a rush. "Fuck. I don't know. The second I realized it, I came straight here. We've been careful. We've used protection every time. Oh god, I don't know what to do."

"Yeah, we've been careful." He stresses the word we've, emphasis heavy and pointed.

You shoot a glare at him, anger flaring hot through the fear. "Are you trying to presume something?"

"I mean, you are sleeping with someone else." He shrugs, but the motion is stiff, defensive.

"Okay? And I used protection with him too."

"Okay, but why did you come here?" He bites the words out, and there's something raw underneath them, something that sounds like hurt.

You stare at him, and something inside you cracks. Your breath comes out shaky, and your lip starts to quiver despite your best efforts to hold it together. "Because, Steve. I'm scared and I need a friend." Tears glisten in your eyes, blurring your vision. "I'm so scared." Your voice breaks on the repetition.

Suddenly you're engulfed in warmth. Steve's arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, his chin tucking perfectly on top of your head. He's rubbing your back in long, soothing strokes, one hand coming up to pet your hair. "Okay, hey, it's okay. I'm here." His nose presses into your crown, and you feel the soft press of his lips against your hair—brief, tender, achingly gentle. "I'm here," he says your name like a promise.

Steve returns forty-five minutes later with a plastic bag that crinkles loudly as he enters his room. You've been sitting on his bed, staring at the wall, mind blank with static.

He dumps the contents of the bag onto his comforter, and you just stare.

Pregnancy tests. At least ten of them, maybe more. Every brand, every type—digital, classic pink lines, ones that spell out the words, ones with multiple tests per box. The boy has gotten every single option available at the drugstore.

He stands there with his hands on his hips, smiling awkwardly, looking almost proud of his thoroughness.

You grab three boxes and head for the bathroom.

When you emerge, Steve is hovering right outside the door, tapping his foot anxiously, biting the skin around his thumbnail so hard you can see red marks.

"Will you wait with me?" you ask.

So you sit on his bedroom floor. You'd felt too disgusted waiting in the bathroom, the walls too close, the smell of his soap and shampoo making your stomach turn. Out here feels slightly better, even if the tests are lined up on the carpet in front of you like tiny judges waiting to deliver a verdict.

Time moves like molasses. Steve sits shoulder to shoulder with you, both your heads leaned back against the wall, and you can feel him looking at you. Again. And again.

By the fourth look, you can't take it anymore. "Can you stop?"

Steve snaps his gaze forward, body going rigid. "Sorry."

You grab his wrist—needing something to hold onto, something solid—and you feel the muscles in his forearm tense immediately under your touch. You look at his watch face. "How the hell has it only been a minute?"

Steve chuckles, the sound low and nervous, and you feel some of the tension bleed out of his arm when you drop it.

You look up at him, eyes locking, and the moment stretches between you. His face is so close, close enough that you can see the darker ring around his irises, the faint freckles scattered across his nose, the worry carved into the lines around his mouth.

"Do you know what you'll do?" Steve asks finally, voice barely above a whisper. "You know? If you are?"

You tuck your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins. The question hangs heavy between you, and you answer honestly because lying seems impossible right now. "No. I don't know." You pause, the next words sticking. "I mean... I have no clue whose it would even be."

Steve's eyes drop to his lap. His hands start fidgeting, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans, and there's something about his expression—the way his mouth turns down at the corners, the way his eyebrows draw together—that looks devastatingly sad.

"Would that influence your decision?" he asks, still not looking at you.

You open your mouth to answer, but Steve's watch beeps. Three sharp tones that shatter the moment.

He turns it off with quick fingers, and you both look at the pile of tests on the floor.

"Moment of truth," you whisper.

You reach for the first test. Flip it over.

Negative.

The second.

Negative.

The third, fourth, fifth. All negative. Every single one showing that blessed single line, that absence of possibility.

Relief floods through you so powerfully that you actually sag against the wall, all the tension draining from your muscles at once. You can breathe again. The knot in your stomach loosens, unraveling thread by thread.

But alongside the relief comes something else. Something complicated.

You look up at Steve, who's staring at his hands, fingers still fidgeting with that thread. You trace his features with your eyes—the slope of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, those downturned eyes that make him look perpetually sad even when he's smiling. And unbidden, unwanted, your mind conjures an image: a small human with Steve Harrington's nose. With those same eyes, that same hair that never quite cooperates.

A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it.

Then guilt crashes in.

You're imagining what your baby with Steve would look like, when that's something he explicitly doesn't want. When he's made it clear—marriage isn't for him, kids aren't for him, his whole life is planned around Robin and Nancy and maintaining the careful fiction they've built.

And you realize with startling clarity that you haven't thought once about what a baby with Sammy would look like. Not once.

God, you're so young. Of course you don't want an accidental pregnancy. But if you did—if this had gone differently—would it be all that bad if it belonged to Steve?

Probably. It would ruin his life. And Robin's. And Nancy's. Everything they've been building for one another would collapse. And it's absolute clarity now, understanding why Steve hasn't spoken to you since the kiss.

Because he's loyal.

And you're not going to make him choose.

"Well," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "You're off the hook."

Steve's face does something complicated—hurt flashing across his features before surprise takes over. He doesn't answer. His jaw ticks, muscle jumping. "Do you want me to drive you back?" he asks, still not looking at you.

"No," you say. "I'll be okay."

He nods once, sharp and final.

Then he's staring at you again, and you notice his breathing pick up, chest rising and falling faster. "Hey, uh... listen. About what happened—"

You straighten, raising your brows. "Yeah?"

He swallows hard, those downturned eyes lifting to meet yours, hazel catching the afternoon light filtering through his window. His mouth lifts into something attempting nonchalance. "Don't worry, it won't count or anything. You didn't break the rules since I'm the one who initiated it. We can forget it, yeah?"

Your lips roll inward, pressing together to keep words from spilling out. You search his face, hoping—desperately hoping—he'll say nevermind. That he'll look at your lips and kiss you again, that he'll tell you he doesn't want to forget it, that it meant something.

But he doesn't.

"Okay," you say.

You stand, legs unsteady, and start collecting the boxes and tests, shoving them into the plastic bag. You're already planning to toss them in the dumpster behind your dorm. Maybe set the whole thing on fire for good measure.

You don't want to forget about it. You have no idea why.

You get down the stairs, plastic bag crinkling in your hand, and you're halfway across the common room when you stop.

No.

Absolutely not.

You're not playing this game anymore. You're going to march back up there and ask him why he keeps breaking his own rules for you. Why once a month doesn't apply. Why he kissed you. Why he's acting like it didn't matter when you both know it did.

You run back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His door is still cracked open from when you left.

You're going to push it open. You're going to demand answers.

But then you hear it.

A thump.

You peek through the crack and see Steve standing in the middle of his room, head tilted back against the wall. He thumps it again, harder, the sound dull and painful.

"Fucking idiot," he mutters, hand dragging through his hair, pulling at the strands. "So stupid."

You step back from the door, swallowing hard around the lump forming in your throat. 

When you get back to your dorm, Robin is there. She's sitting cross-legged at her desk, pencil tapping an anxious rhythm against her notebook, and she looks up when the door opens.

"Hey!" Her face breaks into a big smile. "You feel better? You weren't here when I got back earlier."

You give her a weak smile, hoping it reaches your eyes, knowing it probably doesn't. "Yeah. Just needed a nap. I think I’m stressed."

"Good." Robin turns back to her work, oblivious. "Because we have so much to plan for this camping trip. I'm thinking we can—"

You let her voice wash over you as you sink onto your bed, and try not to think about Steve.

Try not to think about what he might be regretting.

You wake up with your period that next morning.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: mhmhmhm... grinding... teasing... steve is handsy... yeah they in tha club!!!! steve is such a playboy and he doesnt care!!! words:6.6k summary:When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n:yeah.... maybe not my best chapter but alas!!! someone requested steve to teach reader pool... so yeah masterlist

chapter 5

Nancy ends up extending her stay until Monday.

It happens easily, almost casually, like a decision made in the space between one laugh and the next. But when Robin packs an overnight bag and Nancy follows her out the door with that soft, private smile, the kind that looks like it belongs to a secret you’re not meant to overhear, you understand immediately that this isn’t just about logistics. They leave together buoyant, fingers brushing, voices light with the promise of time uninterrupted.

Robin tells you they just need a few days. Time to talk. Time to breathe. Time to figure out where everything goes from here.

You don’t see either of them again for the rest of the weekend.

And strangely, that’s okay.

Because your own thoughts are still tangled around the pier, looping back on themselves no matter how hard you try to move forward. The memory plays, the quiet lap of the lake against the wood, the warmth of Steve’s thigh against yours, the way you’d finally stopped resisting something you’d been pretending not to feel. You’d been bold, braver than you usually allow yourself to be, and he’d been the one to stop it.

And it wasn’t even a cruel type of rejection. 

You don’t know what to do with that.

You don’t know if you should be embarrassed or angry, if you should feel foolish for believing the way he looked at you meant something more than habit or charm or a lifetime of knowing how to make people feel seen. You don’t know whether his flirtation had ever been real at all, or if it had simply been another mask. 

You wonder, briefly, if it would be weird to ask Robin what his deal actually is.

You never do.

Because when she finally comes back to the dorm, she looks different in a way that makes questions feel intrusive. She’s glowing. She’s soft around the edges, eyes bright, mouth red and slightly swollen like she’s been smiling too much or kissing too often. She moves through the room with the weightlessness of someone who has finally said the thing she’s been holding in her chest for years and lived through it.

Whatever happened in that hotel room, it was raw honesty. And it was joyful.

You don’t want to be the one to interrupt that with your confusion.

Especially not when she tells you, almost apologetically, almost sheepishly, that she and Steve are still going to pretend to date. For appearances. The arrangement remains intact.

And mercifully, Steve himself becomes easy to avoid.

He’s swallowed by schoolwork, by the upcoming fraternity elections, by the looming pressure of break. His name drifts through your life secondhand, like weather you hear about but never experience directly. You don’t see him, and you’re grateful for the space even as something restless curls beneath your ribs whenever you think about him too long.

It isn’t until Wednesday at lunch that Robin finally sits you down and tells you everything.

Like someone emptying a long-held truth onto the table and trusting it won’t be knocked over.

She tells you about growing up under her father’s shadow, about learning early how to measure herself, how to soften, how to be careful. She tells you how exhausting it was to always be watched, always be representative of something bigger than herself. She tells you how high school felt like a performance she never auditioned for but was expected to ace anyway.

She tells you about the ice cream shop at the mall.

About how she met Steve during his gap year, when he was rougher around the edges, louder, crueler, still wearing the armor of the boy he’d been in high school. She tells you she didn’t like him at first. That most people didn’t. That he’d been a bully, careless with other people’s feelings, convinced the world owed him something.

And then she tells you how he changed ever so slowly and unexpectedly. Or maybe, he was done pretending to care what others thought.

How dating Nancy cracked something open in him. How losing her forced him to look at himself in ways he hadn’t before. She mentions an accident, something frightening, something formative, but doesn’t say more, only that after it, he wasn’t the same. That he softened. That he learned fear. That he learned how quickly things can burn.

She then tells you about the fire at the mall.

About how he didn’t hesitate. About how he ran back in when others froze. About how he pulled her and others to safety without thinking of himself at all. How afterward, when the adrenaline faded, something between them settled into place. Trust, maybe, or understanding. A sense of being seen by someone who knew your worst and chose you anyway.

He’d had a crush on her once, she admits.

And when she told him the truth, that she liked girls, he hadn’t recoiled or laughed or made it weird. The first thing he’d said was that she could do better than the girl she had a crush on from school, some girl she had band with. And he had smiled, and ruffled her hair, and they were now stuck as best friends. 

The fake dating had started almost as a joke. A drunken decision born from rumors and convenience and fear. She needed protection from scrutiny. He needed structure when everything else in his life felt unmoored. Pretending became easier than explaining.

So they kept pretending.

Through graduation. Through summer. All the way into college.

He followed her not because of romance, but because she was his safe person. And somewhere along the way, she met Nancy again, not as Steve’s girlfriend, not as his ex, but as herself. And they discovered they spoke the same quiet language. That they noticed the same things. That longing sometimes waits patiently for years before asking to be acknowledged.

Nancy had told her how she felt before they all left for school.

Robin hadn’t been ready then.

But now—

Now she is.

And as you listen, everything begins to settle in place. The jealousy that never quite made sense. The tenderness between Steve and Robin that never felt romantic but always felt deep. The way he protected her. The way she trusted him.

You realize none of it was a lie.It was just a different kind of truth.

You nod slowly as you chew your sandwich, staring at the table like it might suddenly provide answers. The café hums quietly around you, cups clinking, someone laughing too loud in the corner, but it all feels far away.

“Wow,” you say finally, swallowing. “Okay. Yeah… that’s—yeah.”

Robin groans and drops her face into her hands, elbows sliding forward. “I know. I know. That was… a lot. I’m really sorry it took me so long to tell you.” Her voice comes muffled through her palms. “I swear I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I just—God, I’m bad at this stuff.”

You reach across the table and tug gently at her wrist until she peeks at you. You smile, soft and sincere, and take her hand.

“Robin, it’s okay,” you say. “I get it now. That’s what matters.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks, slumping back in her chair until she’s nearly horizontal. “Thank God.” Then she puffs out her cheeks dramatically. “I’m genuinely terrible at keeping secrets. It’s a miracle I’ve made it this far.”

You snort. “Which is wild, considering your entire life is apparently one big covert operation.”

“Hey. Don’t mock the system.” She glances back at you, eyes bright, restless, more animated than you’ve ever seen her. This version of Robin isn’t careful. She isn’t monitoring her volume or choosing her words. She looks unassembled and real.

“Which brings me to the second reason I asked you to lunch.”

You raise a brow. “Oh, I didn’t realize this was some kind of business meeting. I thought this was just us being… best friends.”

Her mouth drops open into a grin. “We’re best friends?”

“Well,” you shrug, “after you just told me your deepest, life-altering secret, I think that qualifies.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Okay, okay… yeah.” Then she straightens a little, clears her throat like she’s about to deliver bad news. “Well. As your best friend… and also Steve’s…”

You narrow your eyes.

“…I’m here to tell you he wants to bone you.”

Your entire body reboots.

You blink once. Twice. Slowly set your sandwich back onto the wax paper like your hands have forgotten their purpose. You glance around the café, empty booths, one barista wiping the counter, just to make sure this conversation is, in fact, happening in public.

“Uh,” you manage. “What?”

Robin sighs like she’d rather be doing literally anything else, then clasps her hands together and leans in. “Okay. Business hat on.”

“Oh my God.”

“Steve and I have an arrangement,” she says briskly. “He can still… do stuff with girls. But I have to approve them first.”

You stare at her.

“I know it’s weird,” she rushes. “But it’s precautionary. Like… making sure no one spills the beans or goes nuclear. So it’s a limited list.”

She pauses, then adds dryly, “He’s been begging for you for like months now. It’s actually kind of pathetic.”

Heat floods your cheeks instantly, impossible to stop. You bite back a smile and fail.

“He has?”

Robin either doesn’t notice or chooses not to. “Unfortunately, yes. But I kept saying no—not because of you,” she adds quickly, pointing her fork at you, “but because I know how he is. I don’t want you getting hurt if you catch feelings.”

Your stomach dips.

“He’s got rules,” she goes on. “He calls it his ‘don’t kiss and tell playbook,’ which makes me want to shove him into traffic. The idea is that it keeps things casual so no one falls for him—he’s a presumptuous douche, frankly—but it’s worked so far. Second a girl breaks a rule—” she makes a clicking noise and jerks her thumb over her shoulder, “—donezo. Also, I screen out potential stalkers. I’m very thorough.”

A memory surface uninvited— the bonfire. The cigarette smoke. His voice… stern and restrained from the want you thought he held for you.

You hesitate, then ask quietly, “Is one of the rules… not hooking up in public?”

Robin’s brows twitch upward. “Uh. Yeah. Why?”

You drop your face into your hands with a groan. “Oh my God.”

She waits.

You lift your head, mortified. “I totally made a move on him at the bonfire. Like… very much made a move. And he shut it down.”

Robin winces sympathetically. “Oh. Yeah. Big no-no for him.” She pauses, then adds, “Also I hadn’t given the green light yet.”

You groan again.

“Like I said before, he’s loyal,” she hums. Then she grimaces. “Which contradicts what I’m about to say, I’m okay with it. Just know he’s still… you know. Steve.”

Your brows crease, taking one last bite of your sandwich, maybe because it's something to tell yourself you’re not hallucinating. 

“But,” she says quickly, lifting a finger, “what’s important is you do have my blessing now. Full clearance. Go forth. Be freaks.”

You blink. “That was fast.”

She shrugs. “I trust you. Plus, I’ve already told you the disclaimers.” She tilts her head. “He will sleep with other people. And if he breaks your heart, I will not be your emotional support shoulder to cry on. I warn everyone. Steve Harrington does not do relationships.”

You swallow. “Noted.”

A beat passes.

Then Robin brightens suddenly. “Ooo, hey, they have cheesecake here.”

You blink. “What?”

“Cheesecake,” she repeats. “With strawberries. Want me to grab you a piece?”

You laugh weakly. “No, thank you.”

She squints at you. “Are you gonna do it?”

“Do what?”

“Say yes and hook up with Steve.”

Your chest tightens. Your brain short-circuits. So instead of answering, you gesture vaguely at the dessert case.

“…Actually,” you say, “cheesecake does sound really good.”

Because right now, stuffing your face with sugar feels infinitely easier than deciding whether you’re brave, or reckless, enough to become another line item in Steve Harrington’s rulebook.

.-.-.-.

Friday settles in with that strange, restless energy. The trees along the quad are mostly bare now, their branches clattering in the wind like loose bones, and everywhere you go there’s the faint sense of people already leaving, already elsewhere.

Robin is vibrating with excitement about Boston. She’s barely trying to hide it, humming while she packs, folding and refolding the same sweaters like she might miss something if she doesn’t touch them enough. Even though it’s a family trip, she still gets to hang out with Nancy one of the days. 

She keeps mentioning her in passing—oh, Nancy loves this place, Nancy said the weather might actually be decent—as if saying her name out loud makes the trip more real. You smile when she does, genuinely happy for her, even as something hollow settles low in your ribs. 

You, on the other hand, are already bracing yourself for the quiet stretch of Thanksgiving weekend. Staying on campus wasn’t really a choice so much as the path of least resistance. Your parents are somewhere warm and blue, sending postcards from a cruise ship and a singular care package filled with food to last you until the end times. A notecard that says, we’re so proud of you. 

They’d even reminded you, sweetly and  unnecessarily, that there was plenty of food in the freezer if you wanted to come home. You picture your childhood kitchen, your queen-sized bed, the way the house always creaks differently at night. But being lonely there wouldn’t feel any better than being lonely here. At least here you could bury yourself in your final project, pretend productivity was companionship.

You’re halfway through highlighting a textbook when the door flies open.

Robin bursts in like a firework, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a grin so wide it almost hurts to look at.

“Get dressed,” she announces, already shrugging off her coat. “We’re going into the city.”

You blink. “It’s… Robin, it’s late.”

“I know!” she says, practically bouncing. “Steve won the election. We’re going to celebrate.”

Your stomach flips instantly, traitorous and sharp.

Steve.

The name alone is enough to pull you back to the pier, the creak of wood under your feet, the smell of smoke and lake water, the way he’d looked at you before he’d walked away. And now there’s the added complication, the knowledge you didn’t have then, sitting heavy in your chest. That he wants you. Or wanted you. Or something close enough to blur the edges.

You haven’t really seen him since. Not properly. Not in a way that required eye contact or conversation. And the idea of doing that now, out in the city, at night, celebrating him, makes your pulse skitter.

Robin is still talking, rifling through her dresser. “I’ve never gone with you at night before, which feels like a crime, honestly. We’ll take the bus, it’s, what, thirty minutes?.”

You watch her, this unguarded, giddy version of her, and you don’t have the heart to say no. Not when she’s glowing like this. Not when she’s about to leave for Boston and you’re already counting the days until the room feels too quiet without her.

“Come on,” she says, finally turning back to you, eyes sparkling. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

You swallow, already feeling the night ahead stretching out in front of you.

“Okay,” you say, even as your stomach tightens again. “Let me get ready.”

You get ready faster than you mean to. Your favorite pair of jeans, the ones that make you feel sexy. A low-cut black top, your jacket pulled on at the last second. Your makeup comes out nicer than usual, careful without trying too hard, and your hair falls just right, flattering your face.

Robin lets out a long whistle from behind you.

 “Trying to impress someone in particular?” she asks, wiggling her brows.

“Shut up,” you say quickly, turning away to hide the heat blooming in your cheeks.

Robin only laughs. “Don’t worry. We’re meeting them there.”

“I wasn’t worried,” you reply, a little too fast.

She gives you a knowing look that says she doesn’t believe you for a second.

It’s around nine when you reach the club. The city hums around you, streetlights reflecting off damp pavement, bass thumping faintly through brick walls. Steve and Eddie are already outside. Steve leans against the building, cigarette glowing between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the cold air. The second he spots Robin, he rolls his eyes.

“Took you guys long enough.”

Robin steps into him without hesitation, kissing his cheek and tucking herself under his arm for warmth. Eddie frowns dramatically.

“No kiss for me? I’m the one who got you the fakes.”

Robin narrows her eyes at him, still tucked against Steve’s side. You barely register whatever she mutters back, because Steve’s gaze lifts, and it lands on you.

He doesn’t bother hiding it. His eyes travel openly, slowly, from your face down your body. He takes another drag from his cigarette before turning his head away, careful not to blow smoke in Robin’s direction, jaw tight like he’s annoyed at himself for looking at all.

You loop your arm through Eddie’s before you can overthink it, leaning in to plant an exaggerated, wet kiss on his cheek. Your lipstick leaves a bright print behind. Eddie grins, tugging you closer.

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he says. “You sure know how to make a guy blush.”

Steve scowls as he crushes his cigarette beneath his shoe.

“Are we going inside or what?” he mutters.

Everyone nods, and Steve leads the way, flashing the bouncer an easy smile that gets the four of you waved in without question.

Inside, the club is dark and alive. It’s neon lights strobing across sweaty skin, bass vibrating through the floor and straight into your chest. The air smells like alcohol, perfume, and something electric. Bodies press close, laughter and shouting swallowed by the music.

Robin turns back to yell over the noise, her arm still looped through Steve’s. “They usually don’t let college kids in here! But Steve’s dad knows the owner!”

You nod, barely listening. Your attention lingers instead on the back of Steve’s head, then drifts lower, the way his jacket hugs his shoulders, the way his jeans sit just right on his hips, how his ass moves with every strut. He finds an empty booth against the wall, the table sticky from whoever sat there before.

“You two stay here,” he says, already turning away. “We’ll get the drinks.”

Neither you nor Robin argue.

When Steve and Eddie return, glasses clink together amid uneven cheers. Robin scoots closer to Steve, resting her head on his shoulder as she lifts her glass.

“To Mr. President Harrington of Pi Kappa Alpha!”

Steve ducks his head, smiling shyly despite himself, nudging her before clinking his shot glass with everyone else. The celebration is loud and messy and warm.

After about half an hour, everyone’s buzzed. You and Robin lean into each other, heads pressed together, laughter loose and unguarded. Eventually, you both slide out of the booth, dragging Eddie up with you despite his protests. He sways to his own rhythm, hair bouncing wildly.

Steve stays behind, arms stretched along the back of the booth, legs wide.

“No,” he says. “Who’s gonna keep our spot from getting taken?”

You tilt your head at him, playful. “Oh, come on, Mr. President. Don’t you want to celebrate?”

You bat your lashes, bite your lip just slightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Robin and Eddie exchanging knowing glances.

Steve looks up through his lashes, chin tucked into his chest. He sucks in his teeth, thinking.

“Maybe later,” he says.

Later comes when you and Robin are dancing together, bodies moving easily, Eddie a few feet away doing his own thing. Colored lights flash across your skin, heat building, sweat clinging. And then, a hand closes around your waist.

You nearly jump until a low voice brushes the shell of your ear.

“It’s just me.”

Steve’s voice is husky, close. Embarrassingly, your body melts into him instantly. Robin is still in front of you, hands resting on your shoulders, completely unaware. Behind you, Steve’s hands slide over your stomach, his thumb grazing beneath the hem of your shirt. Your jackets sit abandoned back at the booth, a quiet signal that the space is claimed.

He steps closer, chest pressing into your back, his cheek finding your own. You feel the scrape of faint stubble against your skin, and the tension spikes, sharp and breathless, settling deep in your chest where you don’t want to name it at all. You then feel his knee slot between your thighs, the swell of your ass rubbing friction as you sway your hips. 

The lights strobe over Robin’s grin, over your arms lifted above your head, over the sweat beginning to slick your skin.

Steve’s hand moves under your shirt completely, the touch is feather-light but deliberate, like he’s testing how much you’ll let him take. You close your eyes. The lights disappear. The crowd fades. The club becomes nothing but sound and heat and the solid press of him behind you. Closer and closer, his fingers find the edge of your bra.

Every nerve feels tuned too tight, humming.

At some point, you don’t even notice when, Robin’s hands fall away.

You keep dancing.

You don’t realize you’re alone with him until your body tilts back further, seeking. Until your hand reaches behind you, fingers curling instinctively into his hair. Your nails scrape softly at his scalp, and he exhales, a sound punched from his chest, barely audible, but you feel it against your neck.

His hands tighten, just for a second.

Then—

A soft press of lips against your shoulder.

Barely there.

Then another, slower this time, lingering enough to make your breath stutter. Your skin prickles where his mouth leaves you, warmth blooming outward, spreading.

And then—

He’s gone.

The loss of him is sudden and disorienting. Cool air replaces his heat. You open your eyes, blinking, still moving to the music as if your body hasn’t caught up yet. You turn, searching, and find Robin again, laughing, pulling you back into the rhythm.

But your gaze drifts.

Across the club.

You spot Steve at the bar first, then moving back toward the booth. He sits alone, shoulders slouched slightly, one arm resting along the backrest as he lifts his drink. He tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling like he’s trying to get his breathing under control.

You lean close to Robin’s ear.

“Are you two not worried someone will see you guys?”

She laughs, shaking her head, hair brushing your cheek. “Why do you think we came here? It’s like the one place of solitude. No one knows us.”

Your eyes slide back to Steve.

Robin follows your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves across her face. She nudges you lightly with her shoulder, then tilts her head toward him.

“Go.”

You don’t argue. You don’t even hesitate.

You slip away from the dance floor, weaving through bodies, your pulse loud in your ears. When you reach the booth, you slow, suddenly aware of yourself again, of the way your skin still tingles where he touched you.

Steve looks up immediately. His expression is unreadable, something shuttered behind his eyes as he lifts his drink and takes another swallow.

You slide in beside him anyway, close enough that your thighs brush.

“Hi,” you say.

The corner of his mouth tugs upward, slow and crooked. He turns toward you just slightly.

“Hi.”

Your gaze drops, his eyes, his lips, back to his eyes again. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for his drink and take a slow sip.

“Cherry vodka sour?” you guess.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

A drop of liquid escapes the corner of your mouth. Steve notices instantly. His thumb lifts, brushing it away,  but instead of wiping it on his jeans, he brings his thumb to his mouth.

Sucks it off.

Your stomach flips violently.

He leans closer, voice low, private. “Wanna play pool?”

He nods his head toward the dark corner of the club, where a single table sits. It’s secluded, half-hidden, waiting.

The pool table is tucked into the darkest corner of the club, half-shadowed beneath a single hanging lamp that casts the felt in a muted green glow. The music still pounds through the walls, bass vibrating beneath your shoes, but back here it feels distant, dulled,  like the world has narrowed to this small space between you and him. The air smells faintly of beer and smoke and old wood, and suddenly you’re acutely aware of your own body again, the way your pulse hums beneath your skin.

You hadn’t felt shy all night, not while dancing, not while drinking,  but now it hits you all at once as Steve places the pool cue in your hands. The wood is smooth and worn from years of use, nicked and dulled at the edges, and your fingers curl around it uncertainly.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing. “Is this a bad time to admit I don’t actually know how to play pool?”

Steve looks up at you, and his face immediately softens into something bright and amused. His smile comes easy, genuine, tugging at the corner of his mouth in a way that makes your stomach tilt.

He lets out a small laugh. “You’re kidding.”

When you shake your head, his grin only widens. “It’s fine. I can teach you.”

He moves with casual confidence, collecting the balls and rolling them into the triangular rack. You watch the way his hands work, sure and practiced, like muscle memory guiding him more than thought. He sets the cue ball down with a soft clack, then bends over the table, lining himself up. The cue slides easily between his fingers, his shoulders shifting as he angles his shot.

Then crack.

The cue ball collides with the others, sending them scattering across the felt in every direction, the sound sharp and clean. None of them fall into a pocket.

Steve straightens, resting his hands on the cue, and glances back at you with a crooked smirk. “Alright. Your turn.”

You step closer, your breath catching when he moves with you, close enough that you feel him before he touches you.

He props his cue against the wall and positions himself behind you, his presence warm and solid at your back.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “We’re aiming for that one. See? The solid.”

His hand settles at your shoulder, guiding gently, and then slides down your back. “Lean in.”

You do, the movement slow, careful, and his mouth is suddenly right by your ear. A shiver runs through you before you can stop it.

His hands work patiently, adjusting your grip, nudging your elbow inward, guiding your other hand flat against the baize. His chest brushes your shoulder as he leans with you, his cheek nearly touching yours.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “You’re just stabilizing it. Don’t overthink.”

You nod, trying to focus, trying to listen, but then his thumb grazes beneath the hem of your shirt, barely there, just enough to send heat blooming across your stomach. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He isn’t looking at you.

His gaze is locked on the cue ball, jaw tight with concentration, like he’s pretending this is just a game, and somehow that makes it worse.

You steady yourself, inhale, and strike.

The cue ball rolls true, colliding with the solid and sending it spinning neatly into the pocket.

Steve breaks into a grin. “See? Told you.”

His hand squeezes your hip, quick and instinctive, and then lingers just a second longer than it should before he seems to realize it. You move together around the table for the next shot, and he falls back into place behind you, guiding you again, close enough that the thought creeps in uninvited: is this what he’s like with everything?

You swallow and decide not to think about it.

“So,” you say softly, “Robin told me something kind of strange.”

“Hm?” he hums, nudging your elbow. “Angle’s a little off.”

You take the shot.

It barely misses.

You straighten, and his hand slips away slowly, reluctantly, leaving behind the echo of warmth. He retrieves his own cue and leans over the table, lining himself up again. You watch him, the way his brows knit, the way his tongue presses briefly against his lip when he concentrates.

“…She said you want to fuck me.”

The words leave you before you can second-guess them.

Steve doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t even pause.

He takes the shot cleanly, pockets two stripes, and only then looks up at you.

“Did she, huh?”

You nod. “Her exact phrasing was ‘bone,’ actually.”

He snorts softly, shaking his head. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

He circles the table, lining up again. “She’s not wrong.”

Something tight coils low in your stomach.

You smile despite yourself.

He misses the next shot and exhales a quiet laugh through his nose before stepping back behind you once more, heat blooming instantly at your back.

“She also said you’ve got rules,” you add. “That’s why you brushed me off at the bonfire.”

His jaw ticks.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

His hands settle lower on your hips this time, firmer, anchoring you. Then his fingers move and presses into your side, just beneath your ribs, and the gasp it pulls from you feels involuntary.

“Trust me,” he murmurs. “I wanted to do nothing but pin you against that tree and make you forget about that meathead from Alpha Tau.”

Your breath stutters.

“But I don’t break my own rules,” he continues. “Not even when it’s tempting.”

His grip tightens slightly. His knee find its way between your legs again, like on the dance floor, and he pushes himself only briefly into your ass, and this time your body reacts, pushing back to feel the pressure of his denim on yours. . 

“Not even when you look like this.”

His lips brush the skin of your shoulder again, lingering, slow.

“And not even when I can’t get you out of my head.”

A beat passes, heavy, charged.

“Now,” he says quietly, positioning himself so there’s some distance. “Hit the ball.”

You do, hands trembling just enough to notice.

The solid drops cleanly into the pocket, and then the cue ball follows, knocking softly into the corner.

Scratch.

Steve exhales a soft laugh. “Guess that makes it my turn.”

He straightens, eyes lingering on you in a way that makes your pulse trip.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him through your lashes, the pulse in your throat still racing from the way he’d kissed your neck only moments ago. The club noise feels distant again, muffled behind the low hum of anticipation curling between you.

“So,” you say lightly, though your voice gives you away, “you gonna go over the terms?”

Steve doesn’t lean in right away.

Instead, he braces himself against his pool cue, one hand gripping the worn wood while the other drifts to his mouth, scratching his chin. He bites down on his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, his gaze dragging over you like he’s memorizing the sight, the way your top dips just enough when you breathe, the way your jeans hug your hips, the faint sheen of sweat at your collarbone from dancing. 

He looks devastating like this. His sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins faintly raised beneath tan skin, curls falling loose around his forehead, collar shrugged open revealing the dark coarse hair painted on his chest.

Then, as if pulling himself back under control, he straightens and lines up his next shot.

“Number one,” he says casually, striking the cue ball. “Robin has to approve.”

The ball drops cleanly into the pocket.

He moves fluidly to the other side of the table, shoulders rolling as he lines himself up again.

“Number two,” he continues, eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to the felt, “no kissing on the mouth.”

You still completely.

You watch him sink another ball like he hasn’t just said something absurd.

“No kissing?” you ask, incredulous.

Inside, your thoughts betray you immediately, because all you can think about, traitorously, vividly, is his mouth. The way it curves when he smirks. The way it had hovered near your skin earlier.

Steve shrugs, unfazed. “Kissing leads to feelings. Not that I don’t want to,” he adds quickly, almost begrudgingly. “I do. But it makes things complicated.”

His next shot misses.

And suddenly he’s behind you again, close enough that your breath catches before you can stop it. His fingers reach up, brushing your hair aside, baring the sensitive skin of your neck to the cool air, and then to him.

“Besides,” he murmurs, mouth hovering there, “doesn’t mean I can’t do this.”

His lips press warm and unhurried to the junction of your neck and shoulder.

You inhale sharply.

Your knees threaten to soften.

He doesn’t linger long, just enough to remind you he could, before guiding you forward again, his hands settling at your hips, grounding and deliberate.

“Bet if you angle it right,” he says quietly, all calm instruction again, “you can make both of those in.”

He points. Then shifts you slightly, adjusting your stance with careful pressure. “Here.”

His touch is precise but intimate, fingers curving at your waist as he moves you exactly where he wants you.

“Third rule,” he adds, voice low near your ear. “Which you already know, I don’t fool around in public spaces. Especially when I’m with Robin.”

You nod, even as something twists in your chest, because now you understand this place is different. Hidden. Anonymous. An exception carved out in shadow.

And unhelpfully, you wonder if he’s ever stood here like this with someone else. If he’s ever made this exception before.

Your hand trembles slightly as you line up the shot.

The cue ball rolls, and just like he said, both balls sink.

You laugh softly, surprised, exhilarated.

He grins. “See?”

You move together again around the table, bodies orbiting closer with each step.

“Fourth,” Steve continues, voice steady, “no staying over. And no cuddling.”

He shifts your shoulder minutely. “That leads to falling asleep.”

Your lips twitch.

“And I don’t hook up with the same girl more than once a week.”

He tilts your chin subtly toward another ball. “Try that one.”

You hit it.

It drops.

When you straighten, you lean back against the edge of the table instead of stepping away, facing him now. Your eyes roam over him openly, the confidence in his stance, the way he’s built rules like armor around himself.

You think distantly: he’s thought of everything.

“Fifth rule,” he says, meeting your gaze, “no pillow talk. You don’t have to bolt right after, but I’m not talking about feelings.”

You tilt your head. “Who hurt you, Harrington?”

Instead of bristling, he smiles— small, crooked, almost fond.

Then he spins you gently back toward the table, hands familiar now at your hips.

“Sixth,” he says, positioning you again. “Either of us can end it whenever we want. No drama. No hard feelings.”

His tone shifts just slightly, more serious.

“I can end it if rules get broken. Or if I get bored.”

He pauses.

“Which brings me to seven.”

He leans in close, voice dropping.

“If a girl catches feelings. She ends it immediately. No pretending. And don’t try to hide it.”

He taps your temple lightly.

“I can always tell.”

You scoff, turning to face him again. “And what if you catch feelings?”

For a moment, the air changes.

Steve’s smile turns slow. Careful. His eyes darken just a touch, holding yours longer than before.

“Trust me,” he says quietly. “I won’t.”

You nod once, then glance back at the table, the corner of your mouth lifting.

“I think,” you say lightly, “I want to try it on my own.”

His brows lift. He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, crossing his arms as he watches.

“Be my guest.”

You lean forward deliberately, too deliberately, bending just a little more than necessary, your jeans tightening as you shift, ass wriggling. You feel his gaze instantly, heavy and unapologetic, following the curve of you.

You don’t look back.

You line up the shot.

One ball drops.

Then another.

Then another.

By the time you sink the eight ball, the table is silent except for the soft clack echoing through the corner.

You straighten slowly.

Steve stares at the felt. Then at you. Then back at the table.

His eyes narrow.

“You hustled me.”

You bat your lashes, feigning innocence. “Or maybe,” you say sweetly, “you’re just a really good teacher.”

Eventually, the little pocket of darkness around the pool table fills again with sound and movement. Laughter cuts through the low thrum of music first, bright, and then Robin and Eddie appear like they’ve burst free from the rest of the club, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, bodies loose with drink and celebration. Robin’s arm is slung around Eddie’s shoulders, her steps uneven but joyful, like gravity has stopped being something she respects tonight.

She squints at the two of you, then grins wide, pointing dramatically.

“Are you two done with your foreplay?” she shouts over the music. “I need to get back to campus early day tomorrow.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck instantly, pulse jumping as if the word alone has weight. Steve straightens beside you, rolling his shoulders back like he’s pulling himself together again, like whatever bubble you’d been in has just popped.

“Then why did you even come out?” he asks flatly, already reaching for his jacket as Eddie hands it over, along with yours.

Steve hands you your jacket, fingers brushing, and his fingertips are burned into your waist already. You can feel the warmth between your legs again. God, Robin was right. This was all foreplay. 

Eddie’s grin is lazy and knowing, the kind that suggests he’s seen more than he’s letting on.

Robin grabs Steve’s arm, still smiling like she hasn’t noticed the shift at all. “To celebrate with you, dingus,” she says easily. “And because of the free alcohol.” She winks at Eddie. 

She hiccups suddenly, then turns to you, eyes bright. “Ready, babe?” Before you can answer, she swivels back to Steve. “You two coming with us?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away.

His attention drifts, not subtly, back to you. His throat works as he swallows, the corner of his mouth tugging upward like he’s fighting something he shouldn’t be smiling about.

“Nah,” he says finally. “Think me and Eddie are gonna play a few rounds.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” Then she points a finger at Eddie. “Make sure Mr. President doesn’t forget he’s taking me to the bus station tomorrow.”

Eddie snaps a dramatic salute. “Yes, Madam President.”

Robin laughs, bright and careless, and tugs you with her, linking her arm through yours and already pulling you away from the table. Your body moves on instinct, following her toward the exit, toward the cooler night air waiting outside.

But you can’t help it.

You look back.

Steve is still standing there, jacket slung over one shoulder, hands at his sides, eyes fixed on you like the rest of the room has blurred into nothing. The strobe lights catch him in flashes, jaw tense, expression unreadable, gaze unwavering, and for just a second, it feels like you’re the only thing tethering him to the moment.

Your stomach flips hard.

Because you don’t know when it’s going to happen.

You don’t know how.

But you know, with unsettling, electric certainty, that at some point, somehow, you’re going to let Steve Harrington completely fuck you stupid.

[jjscrybaby]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ conspiring

steve harrington masterlist

5 times the party think you and steve are together + 1 time they’re right

warnings: set from the end of season 2 to before season 3, not exactly canon compliant cause i just realised that dustin goes away to camp when steve starts working at scoops ahoy but oh well! jealous!steve, jealous!reader, overall just fluff and they’re both idiots :)

word count: 3.6k

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dustin

“So, how was it?” You asked, looking back at where the young curly haired boy sits in the backseat of Steve’s car. The two of you had picked him up together, dropped him off at the snowball, and now you were back to give him a ride home.

“It was okay,” Dustin shrugged.

“Get any dances?” Steve questioned, looking at him through the rearview mirror.

Dustin nodded his head. “At first, no, but after Nancy danced with me suddenly loads of other girls wanted to as well. Some of them even complimented my hair!”

“Of course they did, you look just like me,” Steve joked.

You laughed, shaking your head fondly at him. “You want to grab a milkshake before we drop you home?”

“Seriously?” Steve huffed. He’d already told you he had a craving for a vanilla milkshake, and the plan was to go there after you’d dropped his new sidekick home.

“Yes, seriously. He’s just had his first school dance! It’s important that we celebrate,” you bickered.

“Unless you don’t want me interrupting your date,” Dustin muttered sassily. Both of you glared at him and he just snickered, watching as Steve drove past his house towards the 24 hour diner.

He’d noticed over the last month how close the two of you had grown. 9 times out of 10 you’d be sitting in the passenger seat when Steve pulled up to give him a ride somewhere, he was certain you were wearing Steve’s sweatshirt right now and he’s noticed the lovesick look Steve gets every time you laugh at one of his unfunny jokes. He’s just waiting for the two of you to admit it; whether that’s to him or to yourselves.

Steve parked up outside and let Dustin out, waiting patiently for you to join them before making any move towards the diner. Your hair was damp, freshly washed, it hadn’t been like that earlier when you and Steve had dropped him off at the dance. You’d also changed into sweats. Dustin was getting more suspicious by the minute.

“You want chocolate?” Steve asked him as you all slid into a booth, Steve choosing to sit beside you.

“Yeah,” Dustin nodded. “And pancakes.”

“It’s night time,” Steve responded. “Pancakes are for breakfast.”

“Just get the boy some pancakes,” you laughed, looking at him. He jokingly gave you a side eye.

“Fine, one chocolate, one vanilla, one strawberry and pancakes. Coming right up.” Steve slid out the booth and moved over to the counter to order. Dustin just raised an eyebrow; maybe it could be friendly to remember your order, maybe you’d already mentioned it, but this wasn’t the first time he’d been out to eat with you guys and Steve just automatically knew what you wanted.

After ordering, Steve came back and sat next to you. The two of you talked to Dustin about the dance, he informed you of Max and Lucas’ kiss and Steve had to give you five dollars since he didn’t think they’d have the guts. You were all halfway through your milkshakes — and Dustin had already eaten all his pancakes — when you made a move that had Dustin’s jaw dropping.

You reached over casually and pushed some of Steve’s hair from his forehead, he didn’t even flinch. There had been one time that Dustin tried to touch Steve’s hair and he learnt his lesson almost immediately by the way his hand had been slapped.

“No one touches my hair!” Steve had exclaimed, staring at Dustin like he’d just burnt him.

You and Steve both looked up, finding Dustin staring at you in shock. “What’s wrong? Brain freeze?” You asked.

“I told you to slow down,” Steve lectured.

“You— she just touched your hair!” Dustin exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the table. The few other people in the diner looked your way.

“Jesus, inside voices,” Steve hissed. “So what? Why are you so shocked by that?”

“You don’t let people touch your hair!” Dustin explained, a little calmer this time.

“No, I don’t let kids with sticky hands touch my hair,” Steve corrected. “She keeps herself clean.”

“I don’t have sticky hands,” Dustin bickered. You giggled, trying to hide it as you took another sip of your milkshake. “That’s not fair. You’re playing favouritism.”

“Why do you want to touch his hair so badly?” You teased.

“I don’t!” Dustin argued. “It’s just the principle.”

“If you want to touch his hair just touch it,” you carried on joking.

“Absolutely not,” Steve interrupted.

“See!”

When Dustin was home and in bed he was still thinking of the fact Steve had let you touch his hair; his prized possession. He knew there was something else going on, he was just waiting for you guys to confess.

El

Hopper didn’t like leaving El home alone. Even though you all now knew about her, and soon she’d be able to go out alone without the fear of the government working out who she is… he still doesn’t like it. He has to work, and in the day he’s not as bothered, but tonight he was working late and Joyce was doing the same so she wasn’t an option.

The second he called you you were already saying yes. You adored El, you had no problem hanging out with her. The only issue was a certain Steve Harrington who didn’t like the idea of you driving home late at night; which led to him joining you in your babysitting duties.

“You’ve seriously never had spaghetti bolognaise? Seriously?” Steve was in shock when El had told the two of you that she hadn’t yet tried Steve’s favourite food.

“No,” she shrugged, looking at him like he was crazy for caring so much.

“He’s a bit of a food fanatic,” you explained.

“A… what?”

“He loves food.”

“I do love food, and you are also going to love food once you’ve tasted this!” Steve exclaimed. He’d bought all the ingredients with him, luckily since Hopper didn’t have much other than microwave meals in the cabin. And eggos, of course.

You managed to have five minutes peace before Steve was forcing you up to help him. He was only making you stir the sauce, but you still complained.

“You’re the chef here, Harrington. I’m enjoying the movie,” you bickered, standing in the tiny kitchen.

“Do you want a nice meal or not?” He retaliated. “I don’t have the time to do everything myself. And I want El to like it.”

A fond smile played on your lips, he may like to pretend he doesn’t care about these kids but it’s obvious to you that he very clearly does. Just the fact he cares about her enjoying dinner says enough.

“Okay, I’ll stir the sauce,” you replied. “But, if it doesn’t taste as good as it usually does then that’s no one’s problem but your own.”

A couple minutes later he came up behind you, hand resting on your waist as he looked down at the sauce. You didn’t think anything of it… El on the other hand, was watching you two with narrowed eyes.

Dustin had said something about you two the last time she saw him, everyone had told him he was crazy but now she was starting to get it. With all the time she’d spent in the cabin she’d watched a lot of movies, and there was a big difference between people that were friends and people that were more.

Steve had been looking at you the way that they do in the movies all night long, it’s the same way she’s noticed Hopper looks at Joyce; she brought it up once and he turned as red as a tomato and sent her to her room. You looked at him in the exact same way, cheeks flushing every time you caught him staring.

She wasn’t as upfront as Dustin, she didn’t say anything about it; at least not until you were sitting beside her bed helping her do some reading before she went to sleep.

“Is Steve your boyfriend?” She asked, interrupting the line you were halfway through.

You stared at her like a deer caught in headlights. “What?”

“You guys act like a couple,” she shrugged. “You even wiped spaghetti from his face.”

“That’s because he eats like a child,” you laughed, cheeks not as red as Hopper’s had gotten but still a little pink. “No, he’s not my boyfriend. We’re just… friends.”

“Dustin said he’s your boyfriend.”

“Dustin needs his head checked.”

It was later that night when she crept out of her room to get some water that she found the two of you curled up on the couch, fast asleep with your head on his shoulder. She just smiled to herself; she'd let the two of you work it out for yourselves.

Will

Once upon a time Steve wasn’t sure there would be anyone at his graduation. Maybe his parents, although probably not, at one point he assumed Nancy would be there but once they broke up he changed his mind on that. He’d told you one night that he was embarrassed that no one would be there, you told him he was ridiculous if he thought you wouldn’t be there.

Turns out, it wasn’t just you. He noticed you instantly in the stands, you and a gaggle of children. He was beaming the entire ceremony, his cheeks flushed when he heard you all cheering after his name was called. He’d never felt so happy.

Will was standing to your left, he was still a little weird with crowds but he’d wanted to come to show support for Steve. And all of his friends were gonna be there. You seemed even more scared of losing him than he was of getting lost; that calmed him down plenty. You were in the middle of lecturing Lucas and Mike over swearing when someone tapped your shoulder. Will’s eyes followed every movement, no one else seemed to even notice the interruption as the others all went back to bickering.

“Blake, hi,” you greeted. The boy, whoever he was, grinned at you as he pulled you in for a hug.

“What’re you doing here?” He, Blake, questioned. “With… a load of kids.”

“Oh, uh, we’re here for Steve. We babysit them.” It was an easier explanation than ‘we fought monsters together and now have a trauma bond’.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Harrington. My brother played basketball with him,” Blake said.

“Yeah.” You awkwardly smiled at him, unsure what to say.

“It’s been awhile since we hung out, maybe we could—” the words died on the tip of his tongue as Steve finally appeared, arm wrapping around your waist. Will had been so tuned in on the conversation that he hadn’t even noticed Steve coming over.

“You didn’t mention you’d be bringing all of our children.” It was obviously a joke, it made you laugh. Will’s eyebrows furrowed; there was a tone in Steve’s voice. Like he was trying to hint at something to this stranger who had stepped far too close to you.

“Harrington, congrats on graduating,” Blake said, nodding awkwardly at him.

“Thanks,” he muttered, hardly giving him a second look. He turned back to you. “You want to get out of here? Take the dipshits out for food or something?”

“You don’t want to stay for a bit?” You asked softly.

“Absolutely not,” he snorted, arm staying put around your waist as he started to gather up all the teens.

Will stayed watching, you didn’t even notice as Blake walked away but Steve certainly did. His eyes watched him leave, and Will watched Steve. If jealousy was a disease Steve Harrington would’ve just dropped dead.

Max

Max likes the mall a lot. When she first moved to Hawkins, the only place she thought was cool enough to hang out in was the arcade. But now, there was a whole building full of different things to do. It helped that one of her ‘babysitters’ had a job at an ice cream shop and couldn’t help himself but to give it to her for free.

Today, her and Lucas were supposed to be going together but he’d ended up stuck babysitting Erica for a while so she decided to wait for him in Scoops Ahoy. She noticed you almost instantly, which was weird. You were usually here, hanging around Steve, but you would either be sat on the wrong side of the counter next to him or in the back during his breaks. Today, you were sat at a table stirring your icecream around with your spoon.

“Hey,” Max greeted, sitting down beside you. She hadn’t failed to notice the glum look on your face.

“Hi,” you replied. “No Lucas?”

“He’s running late. Thought I’d get some free icecream. Why are you sat on your own?” She asked, getting straight to the point.

You shrugged, eyes flickering over to the counter that Steve stood behind. But he wasn’t alone. His new coworker, Robin, was next to him and they were laughing together. “Have you met Robin?”

“Yeah,” Max replied slowly.

“She’s in my grade at school, but we’ve never really talked.” Max was a little confused why you were going on about Robin, but she let you continue. “Steve keeps talking about her.”

“Saying what?” She was starting to catch on now. Your skin was turning green with envy.

“I don’t know, random things,” you muttered. “They seem to have gotten closer over the last week or so. I was hanging with El on Monday so I couldn’t come here, then suddenly on Tuesday they’re the best of friends.” Max liked that you said hanging with rather than babysitting when you talked about them. Like you really were their friend.

“And you’re mad about that?” Max questioned.

“What? No! I’m not… I’m not mad. Just confused,” you argued. “It’s stupid, never mind.”

You were jealous as hell. Max couldn’t help but smirk. El had told her about you and Steve being cuddled up on the couch, all of the kids were pretty much conspiring for you to just get together already. This was something new for her to share with them, although she wasn’t sure if she would. You seemed actually upset and that wasn’t what she wanted.

“I’m gonna get some icecream,” she announced, standing up and pretty much storming over to the counter.

“You’re running my pockets dry,” Steve stated, turning his body to face her rather than Robin. Max’s eyes narrowed at him. “What?”

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered. “Strawberry. Sprinkles.”

“Why am I an idiot?” Steve exclaimed as Robin started laughing beside him.

“Your girlfriend is sad.”

For the first time ever, Steve didn’t correct the use of girlfriend. He instantly looked over at you, concerned. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“So you admit she’s your girlfriend?” Robin chimed in, grinning. Max looked at her in surprise. She was ready to hate the girl for coming in between the two of you, but it looked like she was in the same boat as the rest of them.

Waiting for the two of you to man up and confess.

“No! Stay out of this.” He turned back to Max. “Why is she upset? Did I put the wrong sauce on her icecream?”

“No, asshole. She’s sat all alone!” Max argued.

“I’ve already begged her to sit with me,” Steve grumbled, before walking around the counter and over to you. Max watched as he sat beside you, and within hardly a minute you were giggling.

She looked back to Robin. “Strawberry, please.”

“Anything for someone who’s also trying to get the two of them together,” Robin grinned, starting to make Max’s icecream.

“So, you’re not trying it on with Steve?” Max asked cautiously.

Robin physically grimaced. “No! Definitely not. He’s… not my type. And besides, look at them. They’re head over heels in love.” Max followed her eye line. Steve was now looking at you with the puppy dog eyes and you fed him a spoonful of your treat.

“Yeah, they are.”

Lucas

It felt like Lucas was losing his mind. Him and Max had broken up four times now, and usually she’d forgive him the next day but this time she just wouldn’t budge. He’d shown up at her house, with no flowers because he didn’t bring enough money to the store but he had chocolate! She threw it at him and slammed the door. He needed reinforcements, and his friends weren’t the right people for that.

“Sinclair,” Steve greeted, opening the front door. “What’s up?”

“I need your help,” Lucas admitted. Him and Steve weren’t that close. He thought Steve was awesome, and they got along, but they’d never hung out alone unless you count him being the last one to get dropped off home.

“Please tell me you haven’t trapped a demogorgon in your bunker. I can’t do that again,” Steve sighed.

Lucas laughed. “I’m not Dustin.”

“In that case, come on in.”

The younger boy sat down on the couch as Steve grabbed them some sodas and chips; he seemed to have the fridge fully stocked at all times now just in case. “Thanks,” Lucas murmured.

“No problem. So, what’s up?” Steve asked, sitting down beside him.

“Max and me broke up. Again. But this time she won’t get back together with me,” Lucas pouted. Steve stifled a laugh. The two of them were young, but it was clear they really liked each other. Sometimes they were just a bit dramatic.

“What was it this time?” Steve questioned.

Lucas explained to him that they’d had a fight because he’d forgotten they had plans and instead hung out with Mike, Max had called him an asshat and refused to talk to him since. “I just need some advice… I guess. On how to make up after a fight.”

“Well, I actually did something similar with Y/N a few weeks ago,” Steve admitted, catching Lucas’ attention. He thought maybe Steve would talk about Nancy, or one of his other failed relationships. Not you. “I was meant to pick her up from work but Dustin had gone into a frenzy about god knows what and I got distracted and forgot.”

“Was she mad?” Lucas asked.

“She doesn’t really get mad, but she was upset. So, to make it up to her, I showed up when I wasn’t supposed to pick her up to make up for that part. Then, I took her to the movies and paid for the popcorn and when I was driving her home I apologised. A genuine apology can go a long way, Sinclair,” Steve explained.

“What did you say?” Lucas didn’t necessarily need help with that part, he really liked Max, he could come up with his own apology. He was just curious.

“Told her I’m an ass but I love her and she’s important to me and it won’t happen again,” Steve shrugged.

“Love?” Lucas exclaimed.

“Not like that!” Steve argued, cheeks turning pink. “Platonically, Sinclair. I love her platonically.”

“Sure, Steve.”

When he and Max made up he was sure to tell her that Steve loved you.

+1 the party

“Dude, this feels wrong,” Mike said from beside Dustin, who was in the middle of searching under rocks for the spare key to Steve’s house.

“It’s not! He told me I can use it, I just have to find it. He gets all freaked and moves it around every week,” Dustin grumbled.

“I’m pretty sure that was in case of emergencies, not because he wasn’t answering the phone and we wanted to use his pool,” Will mumbled.

“Shut up, Byers. I want to swim,” Max bickered.

Dustin grinned, standing up with something shiny in his hand. He unlocked the door and the gaggle of children went wandering into his house. One by one they stopped, because Dustin had frozen in place in the entryway to the living room.

“Oh my God!” He screeched. In front of him, was you and Steve making out on his couch. He was laying over you, your leg thrown around his waist. He slowly pulled back and the two of you stared at the kids.

“How did you get into my house?” Steve asked with a sigh. You guys didn’t seem embarrassed, more so annoyed that they’d interrupted.

“The key! Why are you guys kissing?” Dustin cried out. He’d been waiting a long time for you guys to get together, they all had, but now he’d really seen it he felt a bit nauseous.

Steve sat up fully, rubbing the back of his neck as the two of you looked from each other to them. “Well… we’re kinda dating.”

“You are?” Max gasped, grinning.

“Yes, we are. And you guys weren’t supposed to find out yet,” you pouted.

“Why not? We’ve been your biggest advocates!” Dustin bickered.

“It’s… new. Not something we wanted you all to know,” Steve grumbled. “What’re you doing here, anyways?”

“Going swimming,” El answered.

“We called,” Lucas added.

“Yeah. I ignored your calls,” Steve sighed. “Fine. Go swimming."

“Uh… we don’t want to do that anymore. We want answers to how you finally got together,” Max argued, sitting herself down on the other couch as everyone else followed.

“Seriously?” Steve deadpanned.

“Yes,” they all responded.

You shared a look with your boyfriend, a tiny smile playing on your lips. You hadn’t wanted them to know yet, but the fact they seemed so ecstatic that the two of you were dating was pretty sweet.

“Fine,” Steve mumbled, after seeing the smile on your face.

You leant back and let him do the talking, grinning at the wide, focused eyes on the children.