I understand that fans are worried about the hate that he receive. At the same time prioritizing his feelings over mina's death is very insensitive because why is your first thought about a man, not the victim? Im not saying that because he's 20 that he should be subject to the hate. No not at all, but have a respect for the girl and defend him where its needed. Honestly, people need to get arrested, find those accounts, file lawsuits or cases because this is crazy and rip to mina
I don't think it's "prioritizing" him? People SHOULDN'T look past what happened to Mina and what those bullys did to her. Idk if her family are gonna take legal actions or not, but if they don't, we can't force them. Just let them grieve in peace. What we can do tho is hold people accountable for the way they act/the comments they make to others. And specially abt this, when a lot of people are just using her name to justify being hateful in general.
It's not "thinking abt him first" I already made a post abt it the thing is what much more do you want me to do abt it? There's no fix to what this people did to her. The only thing left to do is make sure it never happens again. But instead, people are just redirecting the hate towards someone else (whether it's towards NI-KI or other fans), repeating the cycle.
How is it disrespectful to not want the same thing happening again but to someone else? Disrespectful is the people using this as excuse to do the same they did to her. The people who just speak abt it to get engagement or drag others.
No one is saying we should avoid the topic. Because it's something so serious, people shouldn't forget it. You can do two things at the same time, speak abt how this people should be held accountable AND make sure nothing similar happens again to anyone.
This applies to a certain kind of people, you KNOW who you are:
“I wanna fuck [fictional character]!” “Just one night with [fictional character(s)]!” “My girl doesn’t [insert sexual activity] that’s why I cheat!” “It’s too small.” “It’s not pink.” “[Fictional character] is sooo fuckable.” “She doesn’t know how to do it right.” “He’s too small to feel good, I should break up with him.” “[Fictional character] is so boring but I’d still smash.” “She’s boring, I need two at once.” “My man doesn’t [insert sexual activity] should I break up with him?”
“LATINA FETISH, ASIAN FETISH, BLACK FETISH, he’s too chopped, she’s too chopped, BLAH BLAH BLAH!”
I dont understand why human beings are so, so, so, soooo SOOOOOOO FUCKING obsessed with sex. Hypersexual as fuck. It’s literally everywhere. It’s all you talk about. It’s fucking annoying. We get it, sex is fun, smut is fun too, moderation, people. WHY is sex/sexual content always being shoved up our ass ANY CHANCE ANYONE GETS?!! Is it all you people think about?!!?? So many of this world’s problems would be fixed if humans weren’t so hyperfixated on SEX? (You know who you are)
Why does no one ever say “I wanna cuddle with him.” “I love her personality, she makes me feel so special.” “He’s so sweet.” “I wanna buy her a cute dress.” “I’ll always love him and him only.”
I don’t need a sex obsession to be in a relationship. I don’t need sex to be happy. Neither should you.
TLDR: I think sexualizing characters/people IS COMPLETELY OKAY, but I’ve seen sooooo many people who make it their entire fucking personality and all they can think about 24/7 is dick or pussy AND ITS FUCKING ANNOYING.
Edit: To those pussies sending me anonymous inbox messages, I D O N' T G I V E A F U C K :)
there’s a difference between saying enhypen isn’t enhypen without heeseung because they are 7 members who are ALL integral to the group vs saying enhypen isn’t enhypen without him because the other members aren’t (as) important. i feel like this is common sense. words/phrasing can have different and/or multiple meanings depending on the context.
hey so i will take this time to say a little something— please stop with your "heeseung probably did something bad/illegal" bullshit theories!
while you are absolutely true under the "we never know" theorem, our lives basically do follow the schrodingers smiley theory, anything and everything can be true but it also can be fake. i think we have enough examples to know how hybe is as a company, its filled with fraudulents and literal criminals who would go as far with their artists to cover their own messes up. so to kick out a member out of their most promising boy group without a concrete reason pours all suspicion onto the company itself.
at this point, i think we should show our support to heeseung and enhypen rather than blaming them for any of it. sure, the reasons are very obscure and there are lots of confusion behind it, so much so that you begin suspecting heeseung himself— but then again if you look at the awful of the company, i think its better to change your mind for a few more days before everything is clear.
belift if you not either saying he’s back or announcing a solo debut date i don’t want to hear shit from you fr.. now they’re saying enhypen schedule is too busy for him to do both… who set that fucking system up? if you idk stop the 6000 fancalls with the same 5 people , the 6 part tours to the same 5 places and putting their comebacks right on top of each other than maybe they’d have time to pursue a solo debut or something they want to do. you have all the power to change that why are you acting like enhypen sets their schedules themselves … too busy but yet you let them do all that despite the members constantly look tired and worn down … they pissing me off the way sm does …
please do not scroll, this is a very important message that ALL ENGENES must do if we want heeseung back.
as most of you might know, heeseung has "decided" to leave the group to focus on his solo career. BUT, this is not true.
heeseung DID NOT decide to leave the group, he was forced to. he was apparently seen crying and "crashing out" in a hybe hallway which CLEARLY shows it was not his decision. to add on, just a few days ago he was speaking about the world tour coming up, and participating in activities and events LIKE NORMAL. it was be so weird just for him to leave like that.
ENGENE, we are a team. we can bring heeseung back. for example, MARK FROM NCT. he left the group exactly like this but came back due to the FANS PROTESTS. WE CAN DO THIS FOR HEESEUNG ASWELL! PLEASE DO THIS SO OUR HEE CAN COME BACK.
THIS IS NOT FAIR! OTHER ARTISTS LIKE: YEJI FROM ITZY, TWICE MEMBERS, TXT MEMBERS, BTS MEMBERS AND MANY MORE ARTISTS ARE ALLOWED TO PURSUE THEIR SOLO CAREER WHILE BEING IN A GROUP. BUT NOT HEESEUNG??
we all call for heeseung's return while ALLOWING HIM THE FREEDOM TO PURSUE HIS SOLO CAREER.
cause saying that the same guy that sacrificed his practice time in iland to help the others practice, that pushed for the dark blood album and even stepped up to help with recordings and everything regarding it, that the same guy that wrote highway 1009 and was excited for the european tour and was just talking about it barely two days ago would SUDDENLY drop everything and pursue a soloist career DEFINITELY adds up yeah right
Tracking your husband down was no simple task but reuniting with him and joining him on his mission made it all the better. They just didn’t expect you to be like him…just with enhanced abilities.
Had this fun little idea I just needed to share. Could be a stand alone or in the same universe as Heart Bound 18+. Sorry not not sorry for the bad jokes. Kind of crack and badass energy reader vibes who struggles to take things seriously except when it comes to her husband lol. So angsty and fluffy, gore, fighting, violence and mentions of near death and spoilers. Sorry for any missed mistakes, enjoy!
“You Grace Ashcroft?”
No one would ever believe Leon had such a badass wife. Not that everyone knew you two were even married, since it was more of a need-to-know basis. So when you tirelessly drove for hours to make sure your husband was okay, you weren’t quite sure what to expect. But you were more than prepared.
You needed the practice anyway.
“Y-yes.” The young lady stuttered, shaking beside you. She seemed hesitant even to approach you, but honestly, could you blame her?
With a soft grin, and blood drenching nearly your entire body, she was so conflicted. “Wonderful!” You beamed, hoisting her up, leaving her in awe of your strength. “Heard you needed help, thought I should drop in.”
She nodded, shakily holding a gun you immediately recognized. “I-I do. I got k-kidnapped by this man, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to get out of here and-” She swallowed thickly, looking around to see if there were any infected around. “I’m…I’m really scared.”
Wiping away the blood the best you could, you offered her a gentle smile. This poor girl was so scared she didn’t even ask who you were or how you knew her name. “No worries, I got you. By the way, have you seen a man? Tall silver fox. A little broody in nature…but once you get to know him-“
"W-what?”
“Ah nothing!” You cleared your throat, reloading your ammo with a sharp turn down the dark hallway. “Come with me-”
“Wait, the guy part of the DSO? Y-y know Leon?”
Flashing her a grin over your shoulder, you couldn’t help yourself. “Oh yeah, we go way back.”
To be fair, Grace didn’t need to know you were looking for your husband. You don’t want to give anyone any leverage in this already zombie-infested place. Both of you preferred it that way to keep each other safe. However, you weren’t supposed to be there, and you definitely didn’t use your old credentials from the DSO system, which forgot to deactivate your account, to further look into the details in Leon’s case.
He had been gone a couple of weeks for his mission, but after you lost contact with him, you were already on your way. Paranoia was never really in your vocabulary when it came to Leon. You respected the time he needed out in the field, but this time it was different.
Something was off, and you’d be damned if you let your husband deal with it on his own.
Pondering further on the thought, you had no idea why Leon would even think for a moment you wouldn’t track him down, especially when he and Sherry had been experiencing symptoms of infection that had been affecting survivors of Raccoon City but not you.
The mere idea haunted you enough.
So you made your way to his last location only to find a massacre. “Well, shit.”
And after hours and hours of probing Sherry on her private phone-poor girl, she finally gave in and filled you in on more details. Victor Gideon, the man behind the chaos, was a name you hadn’t heard in years. Although your Uncle was one of the leading researchers at Umbrella back then, you do recall he spoke about Victor and the oddity that was him.
But that was years ago, and if this guy was causing strife for your husband, you were going to help put him down.
“So, are you DSO-watch out!” Grace shouted just in time for the sounds of glass breaking and snarls of the infected echoing down the hall.
With a quick step, you avoided any unnecessary injuries, lodging your combat knife through the skull of an infected as you pulled Grace out of the way to stab another. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from you, mentally screaming at the chaos and keeping close to your side for safety.
It’s been a couple of years since you did anything this vigorous, and this place was sure as hell keeping you on your toes, but not as much as your little one.
“Hey, you know that nice big shiny gun you got there?” You politely asked Grace, going back to back with her, to deal with another wave of infected surrounding you.
“Y-yeah.”
You gave her a box of ammo. “Use it.”
Shot after shot, you easily took them down on your end, and though Grace was holding her own, she was struggling. You quickly assisted her, telling her to take a deep breath and calm her nerves.
“Look, you’re doing really well so far. They can’t get any less…dead than they already are.”
You could tell your words didn’t quite register, as you could see her looking off into the distance with a vague expression and a slight shake in her shoulders. “I think it’s incredible for someone who got kidnapped and hasn’t had much time out on the field, you’re doing a hell of a good job-“
The guttural groans of another infected reanimating back to life reached your ears as it grabbed Grace. With a scream, she struggled to reequip her gun. You could hear it apologizing to her and begging her to help, but sadly, there was nothing to be done. Though it hurt more than anything, you quickly grabbed the back of its head to avoid it biting either of you, slamming it into the wall before shooting it in the back of the skull.
“Quite rude.” You hummed, wiping the blood off your hands on the wall. “Ugh, the sad part is that they don’t stay dead, but back to you, Grace. You’re doing a great job. Keep your chin up and your aim straight as best as you can, and you’ll make it out of here, I promise. You need to live, and if you could save a life while you’re at it and cover your rear, do it. We were all scared once until we had someone we needed to protect.”
Though she was still shaken up, she gave you a small nod. And guiding her through the center, you can tell her confidence grew more and more, but when you came across Emily, you knew this was going to be a little difficult in this already fucked up place. So after you told Grace to stay with her, you searched the center, looking for anything of value to help get them out of there.
“Sorry guys, I’m taken.” You mused to yourself, taking down more infected as you went. You looked to your side but forgot your husband wasn’t there. “Right, bummer.” Leon wouldn’t been so proud of that joke.
Continuing, whoever designed this hellhole had you searching high and low, but there was no trace of him. So after you found the last quartz baffled by the mere idea if everyone had to do the same thing every day, you rejoined the girls.
“Jeez, the things I had to do just to get this tiny thing. You guys okay?” You asked, leading them carefully back to the main entrance. Grace answered for both of them, carrying Emily. She was a sweet, blind girl, but you could sense something inside of her was wrong. She was infected as well.
Chalk it up to the experiments that were forced on you or the non-consensual ‘vaccine’ your Uncle administered to you when you were younger, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist in this place to figure it out.
Though unsure of what exactly was wrong, it made you think back to your family. The one you couldn’t save. The friends you couldn’t save. There was no reason for Emily to be here. In fact, that sentiment carried over for Grace, the infected here, you, and Leon. “You guys get as far as possible. Straight down the road, it’s a good walk but close enough-here’s my car keys. If it’s compromised, you find the best next way to get out of here.”
“Wait-wait. You…you sound like you’re leaving us?“
Reloading your gun, you offered her a soft smile. “Unfortunately, I have my own mission here, but take care of each other, okay?“
“We will. H-how are you getting out?”
“Don’t worry about me, I have a ride!” Just have to go find him first. “And Emily, make sure Grace doesn’t get herself in more trouble.”
She gave you the tiniest of smiles, hanging onto Grace just a little tighter which warmed your heart. “Okay!”
With another nod, Grace’s way, you let them both go.
It didn’t take extremely long to find Leon, but it annoyed you nonetheless. That’s until you got crazy idea.
A stupid crazy idea.
You decided to scale the outside of the center, looking for any clues and hoping to get a view of any rooms you didn’t have access to. “Don’t look down. Don’t look down.”
You had nearly given up on your mountain climbing escapade when you finally saw him. However, your bright smile dropped when you saw Leon tied to a chair. This would’ve been enticing in other circumstances, but watching your husband have a tarp set up behind him and enduring harassment by that man, if he could even be called that, angered you to no end.
He was no doubt going to kill him.
“Oh hell no.” Although this was one of the most stupid things you’ve done…that Leon had to personally witness, you had no choice. Thankfully, Leon always had a plan as stoic and sarcastic as he was, you just needed to buy him some time.
So when you saw the man steadily approaching him with a scalpel, you shot through the glass, the bullet hitting him dead on through his hand and taking off some fingers. Though you wanted a head shot, the strange contraption on his head was most likely not going to kill him, regardless of whether you tried, but you were glad it gave Leon enough time to cut through the rope and get the jump on Victor.
One thing he hadn’t expected to see some woman covered in blood charging through the window like a maniac. “Am I late to the party?” Aiming at Victor, you took you side by Leon seeing him hold back a very evident sigh.
“Right on time.” He quipped beside you with a hint of irritation in his voice. Of course, the one person he treasured beyond all else was here.
Victor observed you with blood dripping down his hand as he held fingers with the other. He was more mutilated and infected up close than you could’ve imagined.
“I see.” He hummed, creepily tilting his head to observe you. Leon protectively stood in front of you as you slowly reached for your spare gun to give him. “Quite the fascinating specimen. The wife, I’m assuming?”
Now that…had your blood running cold. How the hell would he know that? Or was he trying to gauge a reaction out of you?
With a grin, you peeked your head out from behind Leon. “And you’re the asshole who doesn’t brush his teeth, I’m assuming?”
You missed the subtle smirk from Leon as Victor pointed at you-or tried, threatening to approach.
“Another step, I’ll take two more fingers off those grubby hands of yours.” You warned, raising your gun once more, making Leon follow in suit.
“Such a shame. Another ignorant fool, but I know you. I recognize that soft face of yours.” Unconsciously, your brow twitched at the sound of his voice. You couldn’t help it when it came to creeps like him. “Your Uncle worked at Umbrella, didn’t he?”
For a moment, it was as if your breath had been snatched right out of you. Memories of the past hitting you like a freight train with no regards of your being. "Ah, he did." Victor smiled, “That’s where I know you from. It’s been years my friend. I’m surprised his research worked. And still you look…untouched.”
What in the fuck?
“I’d love for us to have a conversation-“
Another shot rang through the air right in Victor’s shoulder. “No thanks.” Leon intervened, causing Victor to snarl at him and throw a whole tray of surgical tools right at both of you. Without a second thought, Leon grabbed you, shielding you out of the way as one of tool snagged him right in his arm.
“Perhaps, another time.” Victor smiled, making a run for it.
Pulling out your gun, you unintentionally pushed past Leon to chase Victor, emptying your clip just to have him be undeterred and escape. “Shit!” Childishly stomping your foot, you sheepishly turned back to see Leon not too far away, holding his arm. “Uh…he got away.”
Leon just stared at you. He obviously couldn’t see Victor anymore, so your unneeded confirmation didn’t need a reply. You pursed your lip, rocking back on your feet to think of something to tell your husband. “Well…on the bright side, we kind of know why he’s after Grace, right?” You hummed with a pep in your step, returning to the room. “By the way, I helped get her out-“
Quickly, you were pressed against the wall, Leon trapping you with one arm and his hips. The heat that crawled up your skin was enough to comprehend that he was not happy you were there. “Jeez Leon, I know you missed me but now’s not the time.”
The innocent smiles of yours softened his heart just a bit as you spoke into your earpiece, trying to save yourself from his wrath. “Hey, Sher. I found our man of the hour.”
“Amazing, let me patch through to him right now!”
Leon spoke to Sherry through his ear piece, pulling away just a moment before accusingly pointing at you and quietly mouthing, ‘I’ll deal with you later.’
Feigning a gasp, you whispered back. “You did not just use your dad tone on me!”
He ignored your comment as you crossed your arms, drawing your attention to the laptop that was left out. It’s been a little while since you were out on the field with Leon, even if he wasn’t happy it felt like old times where you would fuss over each other and have each other’s back all the same.
“Talk to you soon.”
With that Leon looking over the computer one last time as you sat on the table beside him carelessly swinging your legs. “I can’t help but hate it’s always something tied to Umbrella.” You pointed out.
“Me too.”
Then Leon calmly diverted his attention to you, eyes furrowing in disappointed but you beat him to it. “I told you not to have me come save your ass!”
“What?”
“You heard me Mr. Kennedy and look-“ You pulled him closer to you seeing the wounds at the side of his neck and arm. “You’re injured and I bet you lost that brand new fancy coat I bought you so don’t even deny it!” Pulling out some herbs and a health kit, you quickly made something to stop the bleeding and possibly ease the pain. “That son of bitch is going to pay for touching you.”
“That right?”
“Mhm.” You were so deep in thought that you hadn’t realized Leon boxed you in, placing his arms on either side of you until he was inches away from you. “I can’t see your neck….if you’re so…” Trailing off, those blue eyes of his pierced yours. No matter how much desire you held for each other, you guys were never going to put each other in a position where you’re both blind sided.
“I didn’t want you here,” Leon whispered as you attempted to tend to his wound. “You, better than anyone else know it’s dangerous.”
“As if we hadn’t faced worse things out there.”
“That’s not the point. Why’d you come here?”
Grinding your teeth, you couldn’t meet his eyes before your hands fell into your lap. “With everything going on with you, Sherry, and the other survivors, and the fact I couldn’t get a hold of you-by the way, would it kill you to answer your phone?” Leon didn’t say anything in response to that, so you puffed out your bottom lip before confessing. “Something felt off. I just got in my head, and I needed to make sure you were okay.“
“So you put yourself in danger? Now you’re on their radar. The exact opposite of what I need right now.”
“I understand Leon-truly. But did you forget I’m more than capable of taking care of myself?” You kept your gaze calm yet fierce gesturing to your body. “You know the skills I possess and the ability to-“
“Baby, that’s not an excuse.”
“I’m not trying to. I needed to be here with you.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“Yes Leon I did. I’m not going to let you die out there or suffer alone, not if I could help it.” Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, and a burning sensation returned with a vengeance. You needed to take a breather and regulate your heart rate.
Leon immediately sensed it, dragging a chair to sit in front of you, his hand resting on your thigh to help calm your nerves. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Ugh, don’t do that. I’m all gross and covered in blood-"
“Be quiet.” Pulling you in by your waist, he rested his head into your lap, closing his eyes.
You could see the fatigue on his face, the infection reemerging to take hold of him. Both of you knew why you hadn’t been affected in the slightest. You had some sort of advantage where you weren’t susceptible to infection like the average person. Even if your Uncle did inject you with a "vaccine 'with the hopes of making you 'immune' without knowing the full ramifications, your blood seamlessly mutated with whatever virus he concocted in the lab.
You were the perfect subject.
A weapon.
The ability to harbor a potentially deadly virus capable of wiping out humanity, all while keeping your livelihood, consciousness, and sanity, was something to behold. You never used that to your advantage unless you had no other choice. Especially with him. You couldn’t reel it back in. The emotional conundrum and overwhelming desire to eviscerate anyone in your path when it took hold disturbed you. And the repercussions were swift and relentless if you weren’t careful.
Leon remembered when he first saw it, dealing with the Iluminados years ago. Something took over you, making you bleed from your eyes, nose, and mouth to defend him against an enemy. He thought it was the Los Plagas at first, but then you were violently shaking, and then you tore through everything half-conscious. Fear filled his mind. Not because of how your blood-soaked eyes assessed every threat, but he thought you were going to die, and he thought he had to be the one to put you down. But with one look at him, those blue eyes of his brought you back after you saved his and Ashley’s lives.
Now he knew why the government was keeping you on a short leash, but that was no excuse. They had no right to treat you the way they did when you never harmed a civilian or deviated from the mission.
Once he saw that soft smile of yours break through that monstrous identity you tried to conceal and had been fighting for years, he knew you were still there, despite how disgusted you were with yourself.
Never again would he allow them to hurt you. He would rather have death take him than let you go through something that horrific especially when the government got a hold of you after the Racoon City incident.
Leon wasn’t able to verbalize how he thought he didn’t deserve you but he remembered how well that conversation ended last time. But the more he thought on it, he did deserve this. He did deserve your love. He did deserve to want to have some sort of self preservation without the guilt of not helping everyone he could.
He pushed the thought away of failing you, and possibly…losing you.
“I missed you too Leon.” Gently brushing his soft hair out of his face, you let him enjoy this simple moment of peace. But not without teasing. “You better not be falling asleep now mister, we still have more ground to cover.”
“Five more minutes.”
“One.”
“Five.”
Warmth flooded your chest. “Fine, I’ll sit right here until you’re ready. It’s been a long day.”
When he finally pulled away with his legs spread and his hands resting on his knees, he filled you in all the details you may have missed as you guys made your way through the center.
“I gave Grace my keys to get out of here. I just hope they didn’t run into any trouble.”
Leon paused, slowly turning to face you. “Keys? For the brand new car I just bought you?”
Oh shit.
You pursed your lips again, scratching the back of your head. “Uhhh...I couldn’t exactly uber to you.”
“So you gave away your keys for your brand new car?”
With a sigh, you kicked your leg up. “I needed a new one anyways-“
“You didn’t. How were you going to get out of here if you needed to escape?”
“Uh carpool with you?”
“What if I wasn’t here?”
You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing your head into his chest. “Shush.”
“You can’t just shush me and pretend we aren’t having this conversation.”
“Shush.”
“Hey-” Placing your finger over his lips, you shushed him once more but all he did was continue walking.
“I would’ve figured it out. Don’t I always?” You called after him.
“You do. Sometimes.”
Somewhat offended you looked at him, trying to match his walking pace. Curse those strong long legs of his. “What do you mean sometimes?!”
“You make questionable decisions.”
“Wonder where I learned that one from!” You retorted.
“Thats debatable.”
“No that’s the truth, and nothing but the truth.” You hummed, walking in front of him.
Smack.
“Ah!” Swirling around, Leon pretended he didn’t just smack you right on your ass. “That was super unprofessional!”
“Ah so this is professional now?” He smirked, trying to get under your skin. You obviously had no jurisdiction to even be here.
“Okay-okay you’re still upset.” You stopped in front of him. “Even though we just had a heart to heart that I wasn’t going to leave you here alone.”
“That’s before I realized how deeply you screwed yourself over. I don’t want to have to worry about you while…” He squeezed his hand, the infection ever present plaguing his mind.
“Stop fussing over me Leon. We need to worry about Grace and about you...”
“That’s rich coming from you. I can’t if you’re here and-“
Wrapping your arm around his neck, you pulled him into a soft kiss. What was it about you that made him continuously gravitate towards your warmth?
Maybe he just needed you to ease his worries and ground him. Something to let him know you were still by his side even if this place could be the death of him. He wanted to resist. He had a mission to get back to. But when your hands trailed down across his skin, one on his cheek and the other on his chest right over his heart, he couldn’t deny you.
He pulled you in by your waist deepening the kiss, and dipping you back for just a moment. It brought so many memories that kept him going.
“I’m not upset you’re here.” He gave you a solemn expression pressing his forehead against yours. “Just don’t want you to end up hurt or something worse just trying to protect me. Promise me, you’ll watch your back if I can’t do it for you. And prioritize yourself first if anything happens to me. Don’t be a hero.”
Normally you took promises very seriously, solidifying it with a pinky hold. You even wanted to poke fun of the idea of how you’ll have your fingers cross or even whisper “no promises”. But he needed reassurance even if you couldn’t fully give it.
Pressing a thumb under his chin, you pecked his lips one last time. “Relax babe, you know I got your back. Through better or for worse, remember?”
“Always.”
For a moment, you stayed there in each others arms, now you were be able to continue the- “So….are you guys okay now? I don’t need my parents to be fighting the rest of the mission now.” Sherry mused.
“Oh god-“ Of course Leon forgot to mute his earpiece. “C’mon let’s just go.”
.
.
.
Now the journey to help Grace was not easy. Emily was injured, Grace was taken by some unknown man and everything was still trying to kill you. Not to mentioned your new car was unfortunately destroyed in the aftermath in which you got an earful for that.
However the further you guys went, it made it seem like Leon was trying to take the both of you out.
You repeatedly telling Leon ‘be careful’, ‘don’t do that’ or ‘watch out’ seemed to fall on deaf ears as you were making your way through the city you once knew being chased down by a huge random spider and mutated dogs. The day couldn’t get any better and when Leon decided to ride a motorcycle, oh goodness.
“Hang tight.”
You never saw the way he was smirking at himself when you were clinging onto him for dear life screaming, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Over and over again when he decided to use a collapsed building as momentum to catch up with Victor in a high speed chase. If the fall didn’t kill you, you sure knew your heart would.
“That wasn’t that bad.”
“Not that bad?” With a wobbly step, you knees nearly buckled from the sheer force of adrenaline flooding your system. However, Leon was quick to grab your waist pulling you to his side.
“See? You’re fine.” Before you could chastise him, he kissed the side of your head. “Let’s keep going, no turning back now.”
Ugh, he’s so lucky.
Nodding in agreement, you guys visited the Police Station, the emotional pain that came back had you feeling like you were that young girl whose parents didn’t want her again.
“Think I should try one of the sodas?” Your voice cracked in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Or do you think I’ll mutate into something weird and funky?”
“Definitely something weird.” He whispered behind you.
You both knew that day was one of the worse days of your entire lives. Leon stood there from time to time, zoning out and looking through old memories and trinkets of the past. You came across your old desk, the pain becoming too much as tears brimmed your eyes. Your Aunt’s office not too far, as your fingers brushed over her name. Days like this you remembered you never got to say goodbye nor did you find her body but an old burnt picture of you, her, your cousin and Uncle sat there.
Leon watched you from afar. He wished he got to know you before all this devastation. Wishing to live a life free of death with you was one of his biggest dreams. You changed so much from back then. You were scared for your life, thinking you were going to die but damn did you push through and fight for the both of them.
Now you were a smart ass like him.
“You know? I’d imagine coming in one day to see you sitting at your desk, typing away whatever tasked they assigned you.” Throwing Leon a glossy eyed gaze, you rolled your eyes before Leon pulled you into a hug, needing your warmth.
YOU CANT SAVE ANYONE
The words of the people he lost were screaming and digging its way into his mind, the dizzying guilt becoming too much.
You can’t save Grace.
You can’t save Emily.
You can’t save Sherry.
You can’t save your wife.
And you can’t save yourself.
“Oh really?” You rested your hand over his heart. It was beating so hard to stay alive.
“Yeah. Came up with all sorts of scenarios how I was going to run into you at the station.”
“Give me your best one Rookie.”
Then there he was giving you all sorts of scenarios. “Maybe accidentally bumping into you, dropping all your documents on the floor so I’d have no choice but to help you pick it all up.”
“Such a classic!” You laughed, feeling the heat crawling up your neck. “Why would you want to do that?”
He shrugged, “Just wanted to be near you. Then I thought about accidentally spilling coffee on your brand new blouse or something along those lines.”
You deadpanned, “Leon-what the hell? That would’ve burned me!”
“Yeah…didn’t think that one through. Wasn’t one of my proudest thoughts.”
With another playful eyeroll you tossed his way, your journey had to continue. But when you faced the man who took Grace you were gobsmacked.
Was that…Wesker? You weren’t exactly close to Wesker back then but you knew how his traitorous behavior helped destroyed STARS. Even praising you that you could be one of the special members along side Jill and Chris if you worked hard enough. What a load of shit. And then when the man brought back the tyrant, memories for you and Leon came rushing back.
“Ugh, what in the high school reunion bullshit is this?” You groaned out, seeing that man Wesker look a like disappeared with Grace.
“No idea, but I’m sick of this shit. Ready?”
“Yes sir!”
.
.
.
After dealing with the tyrant, and making your way deeper into the ruins of the city you once held dear you both traversed the new facility known as ARK.
“You think they’ll ever learn?” Your question went unanswered as you cleaned your combat knife, exhaustion evident from your sluggish movement. “Babe?” Turning behind you, you saw Leon staggering behind you and his knees crumbling from underneath him. In an instant, you ran by his side, your heart violently hammering in your chest as you steadied him.
“W-we have to keep going.”
“No, we can stop for a moment!”
“We’re so close.”
With a little force, you pushed Leon into the wall, guiding him in a resting position. “You need a breather. I can feel…I can feel the infection moving around inside you, don’t ask me how. I don’t know how to describe it but I could see it spreading all over. So if you need a moment, we’re going to take it. I’m right here, okay?”
Hugging his head to your chest, you could feel him convulsing within your arms. You don’t know how long they would last or how frequent they would become but you’d stay by his side as long as possible.
“Okay….okay I’m fine.”
“Easy officer!” You stopped him from moving, “I’ll be the judge of that and uncross your arms-don’t give me that look.”
Leon smiled down at you despite everything. He may not make it, he kept thinking to himself but he was going to keep trying. He needed to do it for you. To save who he could and go back home.
“You’ll be fine, now let’s go big boy. We see what that-totally not Wesker clone- named Zeno has some enhanced abilities. If things go bad, leave him to me-“
“No.”
“No?”
“That’s not up for discussion.”
Squeezing the bridge of your nose, you looked at Leon. “Leon you are not physically capable.”
“And you are?”
“Well-“ You scratched your head. “I haven’t been out in the field for a while but I didn’t forget how to fight. If he’s anything remotely similar to me I can handle it. You get Grace out of there while I give him something to play with-“ You paused, tilting your head in disgust. “Sorry-sorry that came out worse than I intended but my point still stands.”
“No, I told you to prioritize yourself. Promise me you will. I’m not gonna watch you kill yourself. You’ll stand down.”
“Leon neither am I. I can do this-“
“Only thing you’ll be doing is standing down or I’ll make you turn back and wait at some rendezvous point.”
Although you were angry it couldn’t reach the surface. This was coming from a place of fear. Both of you were scared of losing each other. But you needed to be strong for the both of them given his condition.
You were going to try and that wasn’t up for debate.
Leon observed your deflated mannerisms, “Just promise me okay?”
Swallowing, you couldn’t say the words. “I…promise…” The dishonesty was nearly palpable. Leon nodded your way entering where Zeno and Grace were and Zeno was no doubt lecturing Grace about the importance of utter nonsense.
And when he addressed Leon then you, it stirred up something within Leon he hadn’t felt in years.
“Victor was right. I do know your face.”
You glared at him. “Apparently everyone knows me.”
“Your Uncle was a researcher wasn’t he?”
“Nothing new.” You spat in a matter of fact tone, keeping your eyes on Grace and Leon.
Taking another puff of his cigarette, he quickly snuffed it out behind his shoe. “You were nothing back then. I could almost remember how easy it was to snap your neck.”
Blinking back in surprise, you were a little taken back by his admission. What the fuck was wrong with all of these people? Never mind that. “Dude…I was just an intern.”
“Now look at you.” He proudly announced. “Perhaps, they should’ve listened to your Uncle.”
Though you didn’t want to hear anymore of the nonsense he was spewing, you couldn’t help the curiosity that plagued your mind. What did your Uncle hope to gain? “Your Uncle was working with The Connections. Believed his life’s work for creating antivirals was overshadowed by Umbrella’s other pressing projects-“
Letting out a yawn, you interrupted his history lesson. “I’m getting real sleepy.”
Zeno smirked, looking over your figure. “I bet you can’t even fathom you’re a weapon. All that work perfectly preserved in one host. Once Grace helps us uncover Elpis, you will be the next step.”
“Not on my watch.” Leon stepped forward, aiming his gun with you right by his side.
“Don’t embarrass yourself Mr. Kennedy.”
Shot after shot he fired in Zeno’s direction who moved faster than your eyes could keep up. Shit. You needed to focus if you were going to take him down. Drifting your eyes to Grace then back to Leon, you needed to intervene especially when Zeno was just a bit faster than your dear husband and his rapid regeneration was a critical issue.
Before you know it he put Leon in a chokehold after elbowing him right in his throat making you spring into action. Jumping on Zeno’s back, you wrapped one arm around his neck while the other had your gun to his temple.
“Don’t make me fuck up your perfect posture.” You growled, giving Leon the opportunity to take another shot, but Zeno was unfortunately quicker.
“Ah I nearly forgot about you-“ He kicked Leon square in his chest, causing him to go flying.
“Leon!”
Before you could pull the trigger, Zeno reached for your arm, flipping you over his shoulder and slamming your back straight into the ground, knocking the wind right out of you. Iron flooded your mouth, as it felt you were choking on your blood feeling some sort of paralysis setting in. Leon called your name, pain evident in his eyes but when he tried to get up, blood spewed out of his mouth.
I promise to protect you Leon.
“How touching.” Using his shoe, Zeno tore your gaze away from Leon directing the attention back on him. “I have to say I’m disappointed. This is bigger than the both of you-“
Lodging your combat knife right in his knee, you could feel your body slowly healing. He staggered back, but was quick to grab you by the top of your head, bringing you to eye level. Wonderful. You kicked the knife further into his knee cap making him drop you as you kicked his legs from underneath him.
“Do you guys ever shut up? Or was that something that was genetically copied from the real Wesker?”
Oops.
It wasn’t the first time your mouth got you in trouble. Unfortunately that was never going to change and you kept underestimating his speed. Zeno back handed you, slamming your face straight into the metal railing, breaking your nose in the process and busting open your top lip. He ignored Leon’s and Grace’s pleas to leave you alone as Leon cursed under his breath missing another shot.
Wiping the blood from your nose, you shakily turned back to Zeno with a grin. “I bet Wesker hit harder.” His hand was wrapped your throat as he pressed you against the railing that was bending rather quickly under the pressure.
“I do wonder how long it’ll take to undercover the mysteries in you.” Tightening his grip around your neck, the lack of oxygen had your lungs and body screaming for air. “How many times do you think I’ll have to cut you open and sow you back together until I get answers?” Dragging his fingers over your stomach intimating that of a surgical tool, he stopped right below your breasts. Your vision darkened, as your body began working overtime to keep you alive, getting ready to defend itself. You needed to control it. Needed to tame it. You couldn’t let it go too far. Digging his hips into you to ground you against the railing, he pushed you further back to get a better look at you-how embarrassing.
“Maybe you are the next step of human evolution. Perhaps, after I killed him.” He gestured to Leon. “I’ll get you to that next step-“
A bullet went straight through Zeno’s head, giving you time to grab the axe Leon threw your way and embed it deep into Zeno’s neck. You wasted no time to using all your strength into head butting him, cracking his nose in the process and breaking his shades that carelessly fell to the ground.
“Hard pass creep.” Rolling you neck, you steadied yourself, the shaking in your bones becoming harder to pacify. Breathe. Just breathe. You need control it, you told yourself, for Leon, for Grace, for the ones counting on you.
Adrenaline flooded your veins, your eyes burning so badly they bled, turning a omnious blackish red color replacing your normal soft ones. You didn’t want to get to this stage but your body had a mind of its own, and acted on instinct when threatened close to death.
“Quite fascinating.” Zeno swung the axe back at you but you side stepped him, grabbing it from him and embedding it on the other side of his neck.
Your heart was accelerating at an unprecedented rate, and the only thing you tried to hold onto was Leon and your little one at home. You had to go back. You had to do something. But the way your mind seriously fought against you, brainwashing you into killing was something you had not experienced in years. Blinded by rage, you had forgotten where you were and who you were. Everything became blurred and your only objectives was to kill the one that was causing you harm.
“Still disappointing with all your strength. All that power. You can’t see the gift given to you.” An immense pain stabbed through your lower abdomen. “All that wasted potential.” It plunged deeper inside of you, forcing your legs to falter. Unable to even produce a scream, your humanity was slipping forcing you to remain silent. “It’s okay, I can tell you haven’t been subjected to training in your superior form.”
With your mind going, you could still hear him speaking and your body struggled to heal any wounds or possible broken bones or fractures. Zeno gently released until you collapsed on your knees, petting you as he left you there. “Now you stay here, I’ll be back for you later.”
Gritting your teeth, you heard muffled sounds. Why did everything feel so muted? And strange? Muffled sounds of talking. Muffled sounds of gun fire. Nothing was making sense. You were aware something sharp was lodged deep inside of you, as blood poured from your mouth. Maybe your body understood that you needed to remove the foreign object to proper heal but the pain was unbearable.
Forcing yourself to look around, you saw others, and one familiar face stared right at you. The only thing connecting in your mind was home.
“Get up.”
“You need to get up.”
“Please.”
Eventually you blinked at the command, unsure how to follow but you forced yourself to stand. And when you heard your name. A flood of memories pushed through forcing you to remember your purpose, your goal, your family, your husband-
Shit.
Ripping the knife from your gut, you threw it right at the back of Zeno’s head. “Guaranteed to give you headache asshole.” You joked, finally able to break through the mind fog. Though it was a fight hanging onto your consciousness you took a deep breath. “Such a shame, guess you’ll always be second best Zeno.”
You grinned, picking up your gun you dropped. “Don’t worry though, I’ll get you set up with a nice therapist-if you survive.”
Cocking your gun, you emptied your clip into his back but when he pulled his gun on Leon you forced yourself to stop.
“You okay?” Leon warily questioned you, ignoring the barrel to his head. Despite how terrifying you must’ve of looked, and your heart on the verge of imploding, you nodded.
“Don’t worry.”
It wasn’t until Grace threatened to shoot herself did he yield, giving Leon the chance to cause a diversion and escape in the most dangerous way only he could of.
And while you guys regrouped, you were having difficulty reeling yourself back in. Leaning on a wall, giving yourself some space, you were taking jagged breaths as your body was forcing itself to heal your deepest wound.
“A-are you okay?” Grace asked trying to approach you, but Leon stopped her and gently grabbed your shoulder instead. You pulled away but he didn’t let go, forcing you to look at him with your eyes twitchy about.
“Come back to me.”
Those simple words struck something inside of you, as you looked into his deep blue eyes and leveled your breathing. Your eyes returned to their normal hue, and you could finally feel yourself coming down from that terrible place.
“I’m here-” Forcing a smile, you winced struggling to take another deep breath. “In pain but you know that goes.”
Leon stared at you, fatigue crawling up his bones as his were nearly blood shot. “You promised-“
“I promised myself to save you Leon.” Grabbing his chin, you brought him closer. “I think I made out just fine.”
“Barely.”
“That’s not fair to me.” You giggled. Then the realization dawned on you when you remembered Grace was watching the both of you. Her eyes flickered back and forth between you and Leon, seeming to connect the dots. If she did she didn’t say anything.
“I-I didn’t know you were like him.” She pointed out, looking up to the ceiling gesturing to Zeno.
Shaking your head, you couldn’t help but smile. “Can’t be, I’m not a wanna be clone.” You shrugged, pushing yourself off the wall to wrap your arm around Leon to help him walk. “Now come on, we have to figure out the rest of this mess.” Leading the way through the underground debris of miscellaneous things, Leon was getting weaker. So when you had to send Grace on her to get help you guys get back up, you told her you were proud of her as you let Leon take a breather.
And when you and your husband were finally alone again, you expected him to chastise you. “You can yell at me if you want?”
“What good would that do babe?”
“I don’t know, you’re quiet. Say something smart.”
He looked over at you, blind dripping from his mouth as another coughing fit started. “That I should trust you more to fight by my side.”
“Ohhh not that smart now.” You dapped the blood away with a napkin, allowing him to lean on you for support.
“Smart ass.”
“Hey, you’re the expert. I’m just the humble student.”
“Humble? Is that what they’re callin’ it nowadays.”
Resting your head on chest, you hand reach to feel his heart beat. “When we get back up there-“
“Leon, I’ll do whatever to make sure you’re alive so don’t turn me away. We’ve gone too far at this point.”
Tilting your chin to look up at him, he smirked. “I was going to say, if you’re going to use those abilities of yours, give me a heads up so we can kick his ass together. Can’t let him get away with touching you.”
Ah he was perfect.
“Yes sir!”
Though your pain was still there since you were rarely ever forced to use your abilities to that extend, you looked and felt much better than Leon was. You sat by him through the convulsions, coughing fits and his pain though he never voiced them out loud.
You weren’t sure what you were going to face with Elpis or what was going to happen when you got back up there but when Grace helped you guys find a new path and eventually reunited with her, you knew it was time. It wasn’t going to be easy but you trusted Grace enough to make the right decision.
And returning to Zeno to see his smug expression, pissed you off but this time you were more in control. Level headed. And you needed to be if you guys were to get out of here. Holding Leon, you watched Grace get to work with the password, giving her a nod of reassurance.
Thankfully she was successful, and when it opened up to reveal some sort of viral component Zeno didn’t hesitate to take it and use it on himself. And the funniest part of it, it healed him, reversing the virus and essentially purging him of his abilities.
“That is so funny.” You hummed out in amusement watching how he panicked upon finding out his powers were neutralized. Zeno was in disbelief unsure how to handle the truth of it all. “Such a shame all that intelligence went into being evil.”
Injecting Leon with the antiviral, you could see how your husband was quick on his feet and moving faster than he had in ages. You grinned, feeling pride swell inside of you as you joined his side and when you guys had to face Victor-again you both were finally able to destroy the last loose end of Umbrella.
However, when Chris’s team finally decided to show up, you gave them a piece of your mind. “I reached out to Chris days ago, what took you guys so long?” You questioned as they sheepishly apologized to you. You knew it wasn’t their fault since Chris had a phenomenal streak of arriving late to everything but having them rescue you guys made you feel delighted.
And after you checked in with Grace who was in high spirits, you began walking around to stretch your tired legs. It was far from over specially if your Uncle was working with the Connections and his work was practically still flowing through your veins. The antiviral may not work for you but you were glad you could close this chapter of your life and move forward.
“Mrs. Kennedy, got a minute?”
With a smirk , you crossed your arms, barely turning your back to that husky voice . “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Just some guy trying to buy you a drink.”
Turning back to your dear husband, you couldn’t help but play a long. “Unfortunately, I’m married.”
A hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close into him. “And he left you here all by yourself?”
You couldn’t help but let out a sigh of content, placing your hand on his biceps to feel the rigid muscles you couldn’t wait to explore more of later.
“Nope, he’ll be here any second and he’s going to kick your ass.”
“That so?” He leaned in closer to you, pushing you against a wall, far from any eyes. “Guess I have to show him who’s boss.”
“Oh no, you have no idea who you’re up against.” You giggled, feeling his warm bruised lips against your own, trailing down to your neck. “Stop, someone’s going to see Leon.”
“Now you’re worried about that?”
Throwing your arms around his neck, you playfully hit his firm chest. “Can’t believe it’s officially over with Raccoon City at least. Didn’t think we’d ever come back here.”
“Me too.” He sighed, looking over the city before diverting his attention back to you. “We’ll get to the bottom of it and eventually cure you, you know?”
“And if we don’t?”
“Guess we’re gonna have to continue figuring it out as we go, won’t we? I’m not going anywhere and-” Leon pulled you in once more allowing a small gasp to leave your lips and a sly smirk to spread across his face. You could tell he was up to no good. “Neither are you.” Leaving one more kiss that left you weak in the knees, he grabbed your hand. “Now let’s go home, I have too much pent up energy that I need to release.”
“Ugh, you ruined the moment you perv…I do too.”
.
.
.
.
Finally getting home was one of the best feelings ever. Your little one was in bed and you were unpacking anything and everything you had on you from the trip. However, a little green herb caught your eye and curiosity started getting the better of you.
Grabbing the herb you extensively observed it between your fingers, leaning on Leon’s bare back in the process. Working your way closer to him you carelessly wrapped your arms around his side, showing him the plant.
The both of you had been using these on missions for years and never once questioned its healing properties. You didn’t even know how it happened to be in the most convenient places or where they even originated from. “Are we ever going to question why we use these or….”
Leon looked over the herb with tired eyes. “Hm, better we don’t.”
“Gotcha.” A moment of silence passed. “But you’re not even a little curious?”
“Nope.”
“Fine fine, I’ll let you sleep.” Another moment passed, as you gently placed it on the night stand. Maybe you were blinking too hard in the dark but Leon turned to you wrapping you in his arms.
“Go on, ask your question.”
“I didn’t have a question!” You mumbled under your breath.
“Liar,” he mumbled, already on the cusp of dozing off again. “I’m listening.”
Cuddling more into his side, you smiled. “Should I plant a bunch of these in the garden? Since you’re already accident prone?”
Leon lightly chuckled, sleep already claiming him again. “Yes babe. Plant whatever…you’ll make it beautiful. You only create beautiful things.”
That’s all you needed to hear before lightly kissing his forehead, allowing sleep to take hold of you too.
summary: at what point does the line between duty and forbidden attachment blur?
pairing: older!leon x rookie!reader
a/n: leon looks so good in requiem... what better way to celebrate his scrumptious appearance than with a fic about him? (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ (apologies for any grammar/spelling errors i'm definitely not writing this at 3am)
The office is colder than you had expected.
It's your first week at DSO headquarters, and the humming fluorescent lights were already giving you a headache. You can feel the eyes on you from the other staff members, quietly whispering among themselves about the "new recruit". You were prepared for the stares and the names, so it didn't really phase you. After all, you hadn't clawed up your way though intense training and exams for nothing.
The door to the interview room opens and you're invited in by a woman in a grey suit, instructed to sit and wait. She leaves promptly, and not even five minutes later the door opens again.
Leon S. Kennedy. You had heard the name many times from your superiors, learning from his example, watching him in training footage, hearing about his missions. He isn't anything how you expected him to be.
He isn't the polished, stoic hero you had seen in the footage. Nor is he the handsome, charismatic mystery man that people gushed about. He looked... tired.
And not just "lack of sleep" tired, but the tired that settles into your bones. His hair is a bit shorter now, and you can't help but notice the hint of silver that catches under the office light. The lines near his eyes deepen when he gives the room a once-over, not out of judgement, but recognition. Like he's seen too many faces here before.
When he speaks, his voice is calm and controlled, almost cold. "Congratulations, rookie. You've made it further than most. Let's see if you can make it further still." He puts your file down on the table, stamping it with a red "approved."
And just like that, you're assigned to him.
~
Your first mission feels like more of a test of endurance rather than a learning experience. You're heading to an isolated facility somewhere in the outskirts of Romania. There have been reports of bioweapon activity and possible survivors.
You're seated in the briefing room with Leon, sifting through files and data. You watch him as he looks through the briefing, fingers brushing over a digital map as he traces a route for the two of you through the abandoned villages. You catch the faint scent of coffee and gunpowder when he leans in beside you.
"Remember what you were taught. Keep your weapon low until you know what's out there, but never let your guard down."
You nod, heart pounding harder than you want it to. The nerves start to set in, and you swallow, throat suddenly dry. You knew that what you were going to see when you were on the field isn't normal. Quite the opposite actually. But you still couldn't wrap your head around the fact that such monsters might exist.
You're sure Leon notices your nerves. But if he does, he doesn't comment on it, rising from his seat next to you and patting your shoulder. "You'll be fine, rookie. Just breathe through the nerves. Everyone gets over it eventually."
That night, you're seated in the transport plane, staring out the small window into the dark night. Of course, it was thundering and pouring rain, droplets pattering against the glass. Your gaze drifts when you hear Leon softly humming to himself, polishing his sidearm in the dim light.
He must feel your gaze on him, because he looks up, a brow raised slightly.
"Something on your mind, rookie?"
You freeze, averting your gaze. "No, sir. Just... trying to stay focused."
"Good. Focus will keep you alive." He clips back, signaling the end of the conversation. You don't let your gaze wander again in fear of being spotted, so you shut your eyes, the sound of the heavy rain and the hum of the engines lulling you into a light sleep.
~
The mission goes wrong the moment you hit the ground.
The facility is in worse shape than the reports had explained. The doors are rusted shut, shattered glass in the halls, and the heavy smell of decay clings to the air, making it feel suffocating.
You move in formation behind Leon, every one of your senses straining. Your grip on your pistol is making your knuckles go white, every nerve on edge, and the fact that your flashlight barely illuminated the dark hallway didn't help either. The silence is heavy, too heavy, only being broken by distant drips of what you hope is water and the soft scraping of your boots.
Then comes a sound, a wet drag of something alive.
Leon signals you to hold, and your heart nearly stops. You watch him lower into a crouch and you mirror his position, scanning the corridor ahead. When the creature appears, a twisted, pale, grotesque fusion of flesh and metal? You nearly forget how to breathe.
It doesn't seem to see you, thankfully, but you remain still, praying it doesn't hear anything or turn down the hallway you're both crouched in.
"On the left." Leon orders quietly, eyes remaining fixed on the creature.
You obey before thinking, raising your gun. The first burst of gunfire from Leon's pistol shatters the quiet, your pulse skyrocketing with it. The creature lets out an animalistic roar, and you can't help but flinch. You've never heard something so unnatural in your life.
You take aim and shoot, hitting the creatures side, your shaking hands causing your aim to be off. Leon fires again, finishing off the creature with a few shots to its head. He moves with precision, every shot deliberate and controlled, unlike your nervous spray.
When he confirms the creature is dead, still and unmoving as it lays on the ground, he turns to you. His voice is steady, but there's a flicker in his eyes. Relief? Concern? You can't tell.
"You okay?"
You nod, though your hands tremble around your gun.
"Good." He says, lowering his weapon. "You did well. Remember what I taught you. Don't let adrenaline make decisions for you."
"Okay. I'll remember." You whisper, mentally storing that note away for later. When you catch his gaze to continue moving, you see something else there. Something softer.
But it's gone before you get a good look.
~
Weeks passed, missions blurred together, and before you knew it, you and Leon were going on almost every mission together. The DSO knew that if they wanted a job done, you two were the best pick.
Of course, Leon never got any easier to read. He was patient when it mattered and distant when it didn't. He kept every single wall up around you, as if any sign of vulnerability would compromise every mission.
You kept quiet about it, watching and learning more and more after every mission. You learned quickly how to move silently, how to anticipate threats, and how to keep fear from making you freeze. Leon didn't praise you often, but when he did you knew that you were doing well.
Once, during a debrief, you caught him glancing your way while you spoke. Not critically, but almost thoughtfully. When you finished, he simply said "good work", but it left an unmistakable warmth blooming in your chest.
You kept telling yourself it was just respect. Professional acknowledgement, nothing more. But there were some moments, very rarely, when the air shifted around you.
Like when he corrected your grip on a rifle, his hand steadying yours for just a second longer than necessary. Or when he brushed past you in a narrow hallway, his voice low as he told you to stay close.
He never crossed a line, and deep down you knew he wouldn't. But still, you couldn't help but wonder if he felt it too — the quiet tug between the both of you, a tension that neither of you wanted to acknowledge.
The turning point came during a mission in Berlin.
You'd been separated after an explosion tore through the lower levels of an underground lab. Your radio had been damaged, cutting you off from HQ as well as Leon. You stumble through flickering corridors, vision swimming with debris dust.
When a shadow appears beside you, you raise your weapon on instinct, letting out a spray of gunfire. Luckily, none of your shots hit, and a hand catches your shoulder through the dust.
"Easy. It's me." Leon's calm voice cuts through the haze, easing your racing heart, and your shoulders sag with relief. He's breathing hard, face smeared with dust, but his grip on your shoulder is firm. "You're okay. You did good."
You try to answer, but nothing comes out but a cough after inhaling so much dust. He guides you down to a safer hallway, letting you compose yourself while he checks you for injuries. His touch is hesitant, almost like he's scared of what he might find.
"You're bleeding." He points out, spotting the gash on your temple.
"It's nothing." You answer quickly, clearing your throat. Leon laughs at your comment, shaking his head.
"Hey, that's my line."
When you look up, his eyes meet yours. His gaze is tired, yes, but warmer than you had ever seen it. And for just a heartbeat, the walls between you seem to almost fade. The sound of the distant fire, the stench of smoke and burning machinery, it all fell away.
"Leon..." You start, but he blinks, whatever passing between you vanishing as quickly as it came. He clears his throat, taking a step back.
"Let's move. We're not safe here." He says and you nod, following his lead, but the tension between you is thick with everything left unsaid.
~
Things changed after Berlin.
You never brought it up again, but you definitely noticed Leon's slight change when he was around you. He became quieter during missions, but more watchful. You caught him double checking your angles, making sure nothing could touch you, always scanning for any injuries once you were on the transport flight back to HQ.
You also noticed him lingering near you during debriefings, or standing just close enough to make sure his presence was known, but not enough to make anyone look twice.
Once, after a night of cleanup, you caught him outside the safehouse, leaning against the railing and staring at nothing. You contemplated even going out to talk, but your feet pulled you over before you could tell yourself to stop.
"You're out late. Shouldn't you be sleeping by now, old man?" You tease, trying to keep the mood light but internally cringing at yourself.
He gives a small laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging into a half smirk. "I'm not that old. Just wanted to get some fresh air. It helps quiet the mind."
You pause, still leaning against the doorway. "Quiet the mind?" You repeat, not quite understanding. "Like what, some sort of meditation?" You joke, but there's no real bite behind your words.
He doesn't answer really, just laughs a bit before falling silent. You don't push further, staying standing and following his gaze out over the small town you were staying in.
After a moment, he finally speaks, his voice quiet. "You've come a long way, rookie."
You shake your head, laughing softly. "You can drop the 'rookie' now. I've been in the field for long enough."
He glances at you, his lips tugging into a half smirk. "Not sure I can. It kinds of suits you."
You roll your eyes, but the sound of his quiet chuckle makes your heart clench, and you mentally curse at yourself. But he continues, his voice a touch softer.
"You remind me of who I used to be."
You pause, watching him closely as his gaze shifts away from you, and you catch a faint glimpse of regret in his eyes. "... Before what?"
"Before Raccoon City. Before everything changed."
He didn't say more, silence falling over the two of you again. The wind carried the faint scent of rain, and you pull your jacket tighter around you, taking once last glance at Leon before heading inside.
You had wanted to ask what he meant, but his expression said he wasn't ready. So you didn't.
~
The final mission came without warning.
An emergency call, a late night briefing, and deployment within the hour. Of course it was Eastern Europe again; you joked to yourself that you should start a sticker book for every European city you go to.
The mission wasn't anything complex, just a suspected resurgence of BOW trafficking. You had been through much worse, stuff straight from nightmares, but something about the way Leon looked that night unsettled you. He seemed distant, more distant than usual, and surprisingly withdrawn. His words were all protocol, but his eyes lingered on you more than once, as if he was memorizing details.
When you landed, the mission fell apart faster than expected. The intel you had received was wrong and the ambush came hard and fast, nearly separating you and Leon in a storm of bullets and roars.
You follow Leon through the ruins of an old church, boots ponding against the loose concrete, heart pounding in your ears.
"Go left!" He shouts, covering your flank. You turn - too slow. A creature resembling what used to be a human lunges at you, claws digging into your flesh. Pain flashes up your arm, causing you to see stars, and making you stumble. Before you could react, Leon was there, dragging you back, his weapon roaring until the thing fell.
"Dammit, you okay?"
You nod through the pain, your hands trembling as blood soaked through your shirt, dripping from your fingers and staining the stone crimson. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." You say through gritted teeth.
Leon grips your shoulders, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Don't say that. You're not fine." For the first time, his voice cracked. Not with anger - with fear. You had never seen him look like this ever, not towards anyone.
"Leon-" You begin, but he shakes his head, already fishing out a wad of bandage from one of his pouches, tying it around your arm to stop the bleeding.
"Stop. Don't talk to me with that voice." He bites out, his hands moving fast. "Don't let me watch another rookie - another partner go down."
You freeze at his words. This isn't just about you. It was about the ghosts of his past, ones that still haunted him.
"I'm not going anywhere." You say quietly, though your head spins and sweat beads on your forehead as your body fights to stay conscious. Leon shoves some pills in your hand for you to take to ease the pain, and he lets out a slow breath, hands dropping to his sides.
"Stay here. I'll be back."
You nod, slumping against a fallen wall of concrete, waiting and listening as Leon finished combing through the rest of the village, eliminating the remaining threats.
When he returns, the village is silent except for the faint fires crackling in the distance, or the sound of crows coming to pick at the remains of the infected villagers. Your injury throbs in time with your pulse - the pills Leon had given you had helped you remain conscious and stop the bleeding for now, but you still winced in pain with every breath, your arm hanging limply at your side.
Leon is kneeling in front of you, changing out your soaked bandage with another one he found while rummaging through the abandoned houses. His movements are quick and controlled, but you can still see the slight shake of his hands.
"Hold still." He says, voice tight.
"I am holding still." You quip back, managing a faint smile. "You're the one shaking."
He shoots you a look, the kind that usually meant 'not now', but this time there's no sharpness behind it, only fear.
"This shouldn't have happened," he mutters, "You were behind me, I should've-"
You cut him off. "It wasn't your fault."
"Doesn't matter." He presses harder on the wound, and you hiss in pain. His jaw clenches, and he curses under his breath. "You're losing too much blood."
You can tell he's in survival mode, running on pure instinct. The quiet, deadly focus that comes with years of seeing too many people go down. But under it, you could almost see something else, something raw and unguarded behind the walls he puts up.
"Leon..."
He doesn't say anything, tearing off another piece of bandage and wrapping it around your arm, just for it to soak through almost instantly. You reach for his wrist, catching it and making him freeze.
"Hey, look at me."
He pauses for a second, almost as if he's debating whether to listen, before looking up at you. You see it instantly, the way his mask had slipped, even just a little. You saw everything he didn't say - the exhaustion, the guilt, the fear of losing one more person he'd sworn to protect.
"I'm not dying here." You say, your voice steady despite the searing pain in your arm. "You taught me better than that."
Something flickered in his expression, a mix of disbelief at your words and hope. He huffs out a quiet breath that could have been a laugh, or maybe just the sound of him slightly relaxing for the first time in hours.
"I should've stayed closer to you." He says, quieter now. "It could've been worse, you could have-"
"Died?" You finish, smiling faintly. "You'd miss me."
He lets out a breath that sounds like a curse. "Don't joke about that."
You tilt your head, studying him. The furrow of his brow, the streak of dirt along his cheek, the exhaustion set into his features like it had always been there, though you knew there was once a time where he was a bright rookie, just like you. You wanted to tell him that he could relax, that he didn't always have to carry the world on his shoulders.
Instead, your voice is quiet when you speak.
"I'm not joking."
The silence that follows is almost unbearable. The wind shifts, carrying the faint scent of gunpowder and rain. You can hear the distant whir of an approaching helicopter - extraction, maybe. But neither of you move.
He should’ve gotten up. Called it in. Kept things professional.
He didn’t.
Instead, Leon stays kneeling there, his hand still pressing against your arm, his other resting on the dirt beside you. His eyes search yours like he's trying to find an answer he doesn't want to admit he needs.
You feel it before it happens - the pull. That fragile, impossible tension that had been building since the day you went on your first mission together. You knew he felt it too by the way his breath catches and the way his shoulders tense like he's fighting something.
"Leon…"
"Don't," he says softly. "You don't - you don't know what you're asking."
"I'm not asking for anything."
He lets out a shaky breath. "You're twenty years old, kid. I'm-"
"Fifty-one." You say, almost teasing, though your voice trembles. "I can do math."
That almost makes him smile. Almost.
Then his hand lifts, slow and uncertain, brushing the dirt-streaked hair from your face. His fingers linger against your cheek, rough and warm, and you find yourself leaning into the touch before you can stop yourself.
He shouldn't. You know that. He knows that. But the look in his eyes says that logic doesn't matter anymore.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. "You scare the hell out of me, you know that?"
You blink through the haze of pain. "Because I got hurt?"
He shakes his head, jaw tight. "Because I care."
The words hang there between you, fragile as glass. You don't move, and neither does he, as if the slightest disruption could break the moment.
And then - slowly, like gravity itself had made the choice - he leans in.
The kiss is hesitant, broken at the edges. His lips brush yours like a question he's afraid to ask, like he wants to stop but can't bring himself to pull away. You can taste the salt of sweat, the faint metallic tang of blood, and the quiet ache of everything that had gone unsaid.
When he pulls back, he doesn't move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven.
"This shouldn’t have happened," he whispers. “"You’re my trainee. My responsibility."
You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your ears. "Then why did you do it?"
He closes his eyes. "Because I can’t lose you."
Your heart twists from pain, from fear, and from something dangerously close to hope.
"You won't."
He pulls back just enough to look at you again. Whatever walls he had left were gone now, stripped bare by exhaustion and something deeper. His eyes search yours, gaze desperate and longing.
Then the radio crackles, interrupting the moment and bringing you both back to reality.
"Chopper inbound," a voice reports. "Two minutes to evac."
Leon's gaze doesn't waver, but you see the shift, the moment the soldier in him reassembles the pieces. He exhales slowly, stepping back just enough to break contact.
"Save your strength," he says, voice dangerously soft. "We’re getting you home."
You want to say something, anything, but your body is too tired, your vision too blurry from all the blood loss. The only thing you can hold onto is the ghost of his lips against yours and the promise in his voice. As he lifts you carefully into his arms, your head rests against his shoulder, and you can feel his racing heart under you.
The helicopter’s blades begin to roar overhead, wind whipping through the air and scattering ash and smoke around you. You feel his grip tighten, protective and desperate as he carries you towards the chopper.
In that fleeting moment, as he loads you into the back, watching as the medic on standby tends to your wound, you couldn’t help wondering which would break first: his duty… or his heart.
Synopsis: Rural Spain was the last place you expected to see Leon Kennedy. He isn’t the rookie you left in Raccoon City, he’s colder, sharper, and harder to walk away from a second time.
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Mission-Driven Angst
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery
Words: 12k
The corn stalks whip at your arms and face, their sharp edges leaving stinging trails across your skin. Every breath burns, the damp air heavy with the stench of earth and rot. Spain has been unkind since the moment your boots touched its soil. The villages are hollowed-out shells, the people nothing more than puppets for something far darker.
You press forward anyway. Orders are orders: infiltrate, gather intel, eliminate Ramon Salazar if the opportunity presents itself. Simple words on paper, but the reality is blood, paranoia, and the gnawing weight of isolation.
The cornfield feels endless, each rustle too loud, every shifting shadow a threat waiting to pounce. When you finally break free, it’s almost worse, an open stretch of dirt path leading to ancient stone buildings, their walls cracked and leaning like tired old bones. The silence here is suffocating, pressing against your ears until even your own heartbeat sounds like a beacon.
You sink low, pressing yourself against the jagged stone. The air is thicker here, heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood, though you can’t tell if it’s yours or someone else’s.
Movement.
Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.
Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.
You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.
For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.
You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.
You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.
And then you hear it.
Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.
The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Your breath lodges in your throat.
You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.
The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.
You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.
You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.
Then they’re on you.
The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.
You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.
They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.
Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.
Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.
Stalemate.
You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.
Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.
Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.
And then you see them.
Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.
It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.
The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.
Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:
“…Leon?”
For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.
Leon.
It’s him, but not.
Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.
The man in front of you now is nothing like that.
His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.
But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.
They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.
There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.
And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.
For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.
Then it’s gone.
Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.
His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real, or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.
“...You shouldn’t be here.”
The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.
“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.
You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.
The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.
His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:
“Tell me. Now.”
But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”
His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.
“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”
For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.
“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”
The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.
Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.
But his shoulders don’t relax.
They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.
He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.
The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.
Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:
“You don’t belong in this place.”
Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.
Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.
“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.
You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.
“The castle.”
For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.
“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”
The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.
You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”
Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.
But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.
And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.
The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.
You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.
The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.
Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.
The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.
There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.
You look away, heart hammering.
“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.
You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.
The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.
And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.
The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.
Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.
It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.
The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.
A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.
Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.
“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.
“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.
You trust it.
They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.
Back to back, you spin as one.
He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.
Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.
For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.
But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.
The night quiets.
You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.
Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.
As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.
But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.
And you hate how much you miss it.
Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.
“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.
Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.
“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”
He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.
“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.
The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.
The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.
You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.
“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”
You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”
That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.
“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”
His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.
“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”
You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”
His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”
“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”
The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.
Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.
You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.
“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.
You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.
“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”
Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.
“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”
His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.
But not fast enough.
His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.
“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”
The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.
The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.
Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.
While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.
It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.
When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.
No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.
He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.
The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.
You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:
“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”
The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.
Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.
You don’t answer him. Not with words.
Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.
You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.
“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”
His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.
He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.
But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.
“Thanks.”
The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.
You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.
Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.
At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.
But it doesn’t last.
A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.
Your eyes snap open.
The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.
And that’s when you see it.
His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.
You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.
His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.
You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.
“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.
The words light a fire in your chest.
“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.
But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.
Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.
“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.
Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.
The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.
You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”
“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”
“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”
For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.
“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”
You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”
“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”
The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.
You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.
Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.
“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.
When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.
You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”
Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”
You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”
His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.
For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.
And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.
You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.
Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.
He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.
Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:
“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”
Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.
The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.
“No. I don’t.”
You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.
Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.
Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.
Then nothing.
You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.
You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.
Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.
And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.
You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.
The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.
Leon is already awake. Of course he is.
He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.
You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.
You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.
When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.
“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”
You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.
Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.
For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.
The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.
When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.
“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”
Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”
“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”
“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”
The words sting more than they should. Trust me.
You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”
It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.
For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.
Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”
Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:
“Some things never change.”
You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”
Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”
You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”
That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.
“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”
The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”
Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.
“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”
The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.
You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”
His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”
That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.
“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”
Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”
Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.
Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.
The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.
Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.
Silence swallows what’s left.
You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.
The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.
You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.
It feels like a line carved through more than stone.
“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.
Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”
The words cut sharper than any goodbye.
You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.
He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.
The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.
You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.
He swallows them down.
“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.
Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.
“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.
The words hang there, heavy, final.
You nod once. Nothing more.
Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.
Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.
The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.
But he forces them down.
When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.
The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.
And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.
The castle doors groan open behind you as you stagger out into the courtyard, the night air crashing over your skin like ice water.
You brace yourself against the stone archway for a moment, catching your breath. Every inhale rattles, your ribs tight, your chest burning from smoke and exertion. Your leg throbs with every step, not broken, but twisted, strained in the fight. The dull ache sharpens when you shift your weight, forcing you into a limp.
Salazar is dead.
The thought should feel like victory. It doesn’t.
The battle replays in shards behind your eyes, the grotesque contortion of his body, the way the parasite twisted him until he was nothing human anymore, the screaming collapse of the chamber as your last shot found its mark. You’d expected triumph. All you feel is the sour tang of bile in your throat and the echo of his shriek still rattling your bones.
The night air doesn’t wash the blood away. It clings, sticky on your arms, caked along your thigh where the wound had split open. Your pack is lighter now, herbs and ammo spent, the map little more than tattered scraps.
You drag yourself down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. The grass here crunches brittle underfoot, the earth dead long before your fight ended it.
The silence is unbearable.
You lean against a crumbling pillar, pressing a trembling hand against your thigh where the pain stings sharpest. Each pulse is a reminder that you made it out, barely. The kind of survival that doesn’t feel like winning.
The cold seeps into your bones as you stare back at the looming silhouette of the castle. Its towers rise jagged into the night, black against the stars, its windows burning faint with torchlight.
You tell yourself it’s over. Mission complete. Orders fulfilled.
But the words feel empty.
Because all you can think of is the other path, the one that led east, where Leon disappeared into the dark.
You don’t know if he’s alive. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.
The ache in your leg is sharp, but the ache in your chest is worse.
The island path is narrow, carved from stone and dirt, the sea clawing at the cliffs far below. Every step sends a dull ache shooting up your leg, each movement heavier than the last. The taste of smoke still lingers at the back of your throat, and every bruise across your ribs throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat.
You keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The promise of extraction, of leaving this cursed land behind, dangles just far enough ahead to keep you moving.
Until it hits you.
The memory.
You’re both bruised and bloodied, bodies aching from hours of running and fighting, lungs burning from smoke that thickens the air. Behind you, the city groans with death, fires chewing through buildings, smoke rising in black, suffocating plumes that blot out the stars. Sirens wail somewhere distant, half-swallowed by the roar of collapse.
You stumble against a wall, sucking in a ragged breath, and he’s there, Leon, younger, rawer, his uniform torn and stained but still somehow clinging to the crisp edges of what it once was. His face is smeared with soot and blood, a fresh cut along his cheekbone, but his eyes…
God, his eyes are still alive. Bright. Unshaken.
Despite everything, he looks at you with a steadiness that anchors you to the ground. A rookie, barely trained, standing in hell with you, and somehow still carrying hope.
He closes the distance, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly before pressing gently against your side where blood has seeped through your shirt. His touch is clumsy but careful, his brows knit tight with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough from smoke but threaded with so much concern it nearly undoes you.
You huff a laugh, sharp and brittle, because the truth is obvious, neither of you is okay. “No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m falling apart.”
For a second he just stares, startled, then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth despite the ash and blood caked there. The expression looks absurd in this place, this nightmare, but it’s real.
“Well,” he says, breathless, trying to match your tone, “guess we’re in the same boat then.”
You bark out another laugh, short and pained, leaning heavier into the wall. “Some first day on the job, huh?”
Leon lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, running a bloody hand through hair that keeps falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.” His smile falters, then steadies again as his gaze locks with yours. “But… at least I didn’t end up facing it alone.”
And there it is. The steadiness in him, raw and foolish and unbroken, a warmth that cuts through the smoke and flames more than the fire ever could.
But then his expression shifts. The grin fades, the boyish spark in his eyes hardening into something sharper, almost frantic. His voice cuts in, rough with blunt desperation:
“Come with me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, confusion breaking through the exhaustion. “What?”
He leans closer, smoke curling between you, his hand still braced against the wall near your shoulder. There’s no hesitation now, no careful rookie second-guessing himself. His voice drops, urgent, insistent.
“Come with me — join the government.” His words tumble out fast, like if he doesn’t say them now he never will. “We can work together, you and me. We could actually do something. Put an end to this before it happens again.”
The desperation in him is naked, almost jarring, but it’s real. He believes it. His jaw is set, his blue eyes blazing in a way that pins you in place, that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a plea.
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he pushes, breath ragged, chest heaving with smoke and exhaustion. “We survived this together.
You swallow hard, throat tight, staring into his desperate, pleading eyes. Every fiber in you aches to say yes, the words press against your teeth, raw and almost painful in how badly they want to break free.
But you know you can’t.
“Leon…” your voice cracks, barely audible over the roar of fire behind you. You force the words out anyway, each one cutting like glass. “I can’t.”
His face falters, just a flicker, but enough to gut you. The firelight licks across his features, carving the sharp planes of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the tremor in his mouth as if he’s biting down on all the things he wants to say.
“Why not?” His voice comes rough, breaking with frustration, with the rawness of someone too young to understand that sometimes survival isn’t enough to bind two people forever. “We could do this. Together. Don’t you see that?”
You shake your head, harder this time, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open.
“You’d become sick of me,” you whisper, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Day after day, mission after mission. You’d start to see all the cracks, all the things that don’t fit. And one day, you’d—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Leon cuts in, firm, desperate, the words tripping out like a promise he doesn’t know how to stop making. His blue eyes blaze against the firelight, unwavering.
“You’d grow to hate me,” you push, voice shaking, trying to drive the knife in deep enough that he’ll finally let go.
“No.” His reply is sharp, immediate, the rookie’s stubbornness sharpened into something like defiance. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the smoke curls between you both. “I could never hate you.”
The way he says it almost undoes you. Not as a reassurance, not even as an argument, but as a truth, carved raw out of his chest, stripped of every layer of hesitation.
You bite down hard, teeth clenching, because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself want it, you’ll never be able to walk away.
The realization settles into his face all at once, dimming that stubborn fire in his eyes. His lips part, trembling faintly, before he forces the words out, quiet, uneven, like he already knows the answer.
“I’m never going to see you again… am I?”
The plea in his voice cuts deeper than any blade, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. Your throat locks, burning with everything you want to say but can’t. Because you know the truth — and so does he.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes. You can’t say I’m sorry.
So you say nothing.
The silence is worse than any refusal.
His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking away, blinking against the smoke curling through the street. His hand lifts, just for a second, like he might reach for you, but it falls before it closes the distance.
“I thought…” His voice cracks, just once, before he steadies it. “…I thought maybe after everything, you’d—” He swallows hard, snapping the words off like he’s biting through glass. “Doesn’t matter.”
You want to tell him it does. That it always will. But you can’t.
So you just stand there, frozen, the roar of fire closing in around you while the one person who’s ever truly seen you stares at you like you’ve already become a ghost.
He looks back at you one last time. Blue eyes, raw and burning, searching for something he’ll never hear from you. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiffening, and the mask begins to fall, the first bricks of the wall that, years later, will become unbreakable.
When he finally turns away, it feels like the city itself collapses in his wake.
The memory collapses in on itself, flames and smoke giving way to the crash of waves against jagged rock. You stumble mid-step, boots skidding on the narrow path, your hand shooting out to catch the rough stone wall before you fall.
Your chest heaves. The night air bites sharp, but it does nothing to steady you.
You didn’t even notice the tear until it slid down your cheek, warm against the cold wind. You swipe it away with the back of your hand, quick, angry, like denying it will make it vanish, but the ache it leaves behind is worse than the sting in your leg.
It hits you all at once, the memory you’ve buried for years, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when you walked away. It slams into you like a truck, merciless, unstoppable, dragging up everything you’ve tried to forget.
You squeeze your eyes shut, breath ragged. You survived the castle. You killed Salazar. You’re walking off this cursed island alive.
And yet, somehow, this feels like the moment that breaks you.
Your hand shakes as you dig into your pack, fingers closing around the cracked satellite phone. The screen flickers weakly to life, the signal barely cutting through the static. You bring it to your ear, voice rough as you force out the words for pickup coordinates.
But before you can finish, another voice slices through the silence.
“Going so soon?”
You freeze.
The phone nearly slips from your grip as you whip around, heart slamming into your ribs.
He’s there.
Leon. Standing a few paces back on the jagged stone path, framed by the pale wash of moonlight. His tactical gear is torn, streaked with blood and dirt, but he’s upright. Alive. The steel blue eyes you’ve seen in nightmares and memories fix on you now, steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face.
For a heartbeat, you can’t move. The sight of him feels impossible, surreal, like conjuring a ghost.
“Leon…” The name breaks out of you on a breath, cracked and fragile, like saying it will make him vanish.
But he doesn’t vanish. He’s real. Solid. Safe.
Your throat tightens as the phone slips lower in your hand, forgotten. Every ache, every bruise, every buried memory crashes down on you all at once.
You’d convinced yourself you’d never see him again. That the last thing you’d carry was that look in his eyes as you walked away in Raccoon City.
The wind off the sea cuts cold against your skin, but you barely feel it. The only thing you register is the weight of his stare, unwavering, pulling you apart piece by piece.
Then his eyes shift lower to the tear you hadn’t even realized was still clinging to your cheek.
For an instant, neither of you moves. The silence between you is taut, as fragile as glass.
His shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. The rigid soldier’s frame, always squared, always braced for impact, eases as though someone has stolen the fight from him. It’s not relief, not exactly. It’s something deeper. Something heavier.
It’s the look of a man who’s been carrying armor so long that the sight of your tears cracks it without warning.
Your chest tightens. You want to speak, to force words through the knot in your throat, but nothing comes. Your voice has abandoned you.
Leon swallows hard, his jaw clenching once before he exhales. That breath carries years of silence, years of ghosts, years of everything he never said. His hand twitches at his side, not quite reaching for you, not quite steady, like he’s fighting himself even now.
For the first time since you saw him in Spain, his eyes don’t look like steel. They look human. Haunted.
The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, pressing against your ribs like a vice. The crash of waves below becomes the only sound, relentless, echoing the pounding of your heartbeat.
Then, finally, Leon speaks.
“I told myself…” His voice is low, gravel-scraped, almost unrecognizable. He stares past you for half a second, like pulling the words out costs him more than any wound. Then his gaze locks back onto yours, sharp and unwavering. “If I ever saw you again…” His throat works, the next words rasping out like a confession torn from his chest. “…I wouldn’t let you go.”
Your breath hitches. The words hit too deep, sinking past every wall you’ve tried to keep standing. Your chest aches, a sharp, hollow ache, like his vow has cracked something you didn’t realize was still breakable.
Leon doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on you, not the cold steel you saw in Spain, not the soldier’s mask he’s worn for years, but something stripped bare. Human. Raw.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he continues, voice rough, heavy with something he’s held back for too long, “carrying that thought? Through every mission, every night that doesn’t end? Thinking I’d already lost you, and knowing it was my fault for letting you walk away?”
The words tumble out, sharper now, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them now, he never will.
Your throat burns, but you can’t answer. You can’t even breathe.
He draws in a ragged breath, shoulders heaving. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles blanching, nails biting into skin like it’s the only way to ground himself.
“I tried to bury it,” he admits, voice breaking for just a second. “Tried to be what they needed me to be the soldier, the weapon, the man who could shut it all out. But it never worked.” His eyes flicker, haunted. “Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered. Raccoon City. The fire. The blood. And you.”
Your heart stutters. His voice is low but relentless, every word a blade carving you open.
“I remembered the way you looked at me when the city was burning. The way you walked away when I asked you to stay.” He swallows, hard, jaw clenched as though the memory still tastes like ash in his mouth. “I carried that with me, every damn day. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I saw you leaving. And it cut deeper than any bullet ever could.”
You shake your head faintly, desperate to stop him, desperate to keep yourself from breaking under the weight of what he’s saying. “Leon…”
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
“I wouldn’t let it happen again.” His voice sharpens, intensity cutting through exhaustion, a vow forced out through clenched teeth. “Not this time. If I saw you again, I wouldn’t—” His breath catches, chest heaving, as though the words themselves wound him. “I couldn’t let you slip away.”
The air between you feels electric, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything lost and clawing to the surface. His eyes burn into yours, unflinching, stripped of every layer of discipline and armor. What’s left is raw need, a vow made in the ashes of Raccoon City, carried like shrapnel in his chest for years.
And standing in the moonlight, you realize he isn’t just speaking about now. He’s confessing the promise that’s haunted him since the night you left him behind.
A vow he never stopped keeping, even when you weren’t there to hear it.
The vow hangs there between you, jagged and heavy, too sharp to ignore. The waves crash against the cliffs below, the spray rising in bursts of white mist, but you barely hear it. All you can hear is his voice, the rawness of it, the way the words cut open the silence like they’d been clawing at his throat for years.
Your lips part, but nothing comes at first. The knot in your chest tightens until it’s almost unbearable, your breath catching like you’ve been struck.
“Leon…” His name slips out again, this time softer, breaking at the edges. You shake your head, eyes burning. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s the truth.”
You bite down hard, trembling, fighting the war in your chest. “And what do you want me to do with that truth? Pretend the years didn’t happen? Pretend we didn’t—” Your voice falters, catches, then steadies with a shaky breath. “You don’t understand what it did to me. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
His eyes flicker, widening just slightly, like your words gut him more than any bullet. But still, he holds.
“I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you,” you force out, words spilling now, sharp and aching. “That one day you’d see every crack in me and realize I was never enough. That you’d hate me for it. That’s why I left.”
For a moment, the only sound is the wind tearing at the cliffs, whipping your hair into your face.
Leon shakes his head slowly, blue eyes burning. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now — I could never hate you.” His voice drops, rough with something that feels close to breaking. “I don’t care how many cracks there are. I don’t care how much hell we’ve seen. You were the only thing that ever felt real in all of this.”
The words tear through every wall you’ve tried to hold, every excuse, every fear. Your breath stumbles out of you in a sound you don’t recognize, half a sob, half a laugh. It feels fragile, jagged, like you’re breaking apart and being stitched together in the same moment.
“Leon…” You press a trembling hand over your mouth for a second before letting it fall, the words slipping free in a rush you can’t hold back. “You always say things like this… things that make it impossible for me not to fall in love with you. Over and over again.”
The confession leaves you trembling, but lighter too, like it was tearing itself out whether you wanted it to or not. Your chest aches with it, the truth burning as it hangs between you, raw and unguarded.
For a heartbeat, Leon just stares, every line of his face tight with shock, with the weight of what you’ve just given him. Then his shoulders sag, his lips parting in a breath that sounds almost broken, as though he’s been waiting years to hear it and never thought he would.
For a heartbeat, Leon doesn’t move. He just stares at you, blue eyes wide and unguarded, your confession echoing in the space between you like it’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
Then something in him breaks.
He steps forward, boots crunching against the gravel, closing the space in two sharp strides. His hand comes up first, tentative, almost trembling, before it settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing away the tear track on your cheek. The warmth of his touch is enough to undo you all over again.
“God…” he breathes, voice rough, low, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”
You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Because in the next breath, he leans in, closing the final inches.
The kiss is not soft, it’s desperate, aching, years of ghosts and silence finally giving way. His lips crash against yours with a force that speaks of everything he’s swallowed down, every vow unspoken, every moment of regret. You grip at his vest with shaking hands, dragging him closer, afraid that if you let go even for a second he’ll disappear back into smoke and memory.
He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and blood and the sea air, but beneath it all is something achingly familiar. Something you thought you’d lost in the fire of Raccoon City.
Leon groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, one hand sliding back into your hair while the other anchors hard against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.
When you finally break for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you panting, trembling. His eyes search yours in the pale moonlight, still haunted, still scarred, but softer now, cracked open.
“You’re not walking away this time,” he whispers, the words a vow pressed against your lips.
And for the first time in years, you don’t want to.
✦ Summary — You’re the life of every party, the center of every group, and the girl everyone notices— but one day your best friend bets you can’t make the school’s resident nerd fall for you. Only problem? He’s brilliant, socially awkward, and completely oblivious… which works perfectly when you ask him to tutor you. What starts as a harmless bet turns into something neither of you saw coming. Could the fake love be real all this time?
✦ Genre — strangers to lovers (kind of), slow burn, university AU, romance, angst with happy ending, smut
✦ Word count — 29.6k
✦ Warnings — explicit sexual content (MDNI), penetrative sex, oral (male & female receiving), semi-public sex, multiple encounters, strong language, alcohol & smoking, party culture, emotional manipulation (bet trope), betrayal & trust issues, crying/emotional distress, brief social media harassment mention, heavy angst
✦ Now playing — Electric Love by BØRNS
✦ Authors note — Okay so this fic has been living in my head rent free for way too long and i finally sat down and wrote it. This got away from me (nearly 30k, oops) but i hope every word is worth it. Reader is intentionally flawed because the messiness is the point. Listen to the assigned song for this while you read, especially the middle parts, you’ll understand. As always comments, likes and reblogs mean the world. Enjoy the angst, you’re welcome in advance.💞
My masterlist
The bass thrums through your body like a second heartbeat, vibration crawling up from the soles of your heels and settling somewhere in your chest. You’re three drinks in—something sweet and deceptively strong that Mina mixed in the kitchen—and the party is exactly where you like it: chaotic, loud, and utterly yours.
You stand near the center of the living room, red solo cup dangling from your fingers, wearing a black crop top that barely qualifies as a shirt and a skirt short enough that you’d tugged it down twice on the walk over. Not that you care. You know you look good. The stares confirm it, the way eyes track you when you move through a room, the way conversations pause just slightly when you laugh.
“Babe!” Mina’s voice cuts through the music, and you turn to see her shoving her way through a cluster of drunk business majors, her own outfit just as devastating as yours—a tight red dress that clings in all the right places. She’s holding two fresh drinks, wearing that wild grin that always means trouble.
You take the cup she offers, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that look for?”
“I’m bored,” she announces, taking a long sip. “This party’s gotten stale. Everyone here is so predictable.”
You glance around. She’s not wrong. Same people, same drama, same bullshit. Heeseung is doing keg stands in the corner while Jake hypes him up, Jay is flirting with some girl from your Econ lecture, and everyone else is just going through the motions of a typical Friday night.
“So what do you wanna do?” you ask, leaning against the wall. “Leave?”
“No.” Mina’s eyes glitter with mischief. “I want to make a bet.”
You laugh, already intrigued. Mina’s bets are legendary—last semester she’d dared you to steal a traffic cone from campus security, and you’d done it just to see the look on her face. “I’m listening.”
She leans in close, her breath smelling like vodka and cherry chapstick. “See that guy over there?”
You follow her gaze across the room. At first, you don’t see who she’s talking about—there’s too many people packed into the space—but then the crowd shifts, and you spot him.
Park Sunghoon.
He’s standing near the bookshelf, looking deeply uncomfortable in a neat button-up shirt and glasses, holding what appears to be a bottle of water. His posture is stiff, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands, and he’s nodding along to something Heeseung is saying with this polite, awkward smile.
You know who he is, obviously. Everyone does, but for different reasons than they know you. Where you’re known for the parties, the chaos, the way you light up every room you enter, Sunghoon is known for being the biggest nerd on campus. Statistics and Data Science major, perfect GPA, the guy everyone goes to when they’re desperate for tutoring. You’ve seen him around—usually in the library, hunched over a laptop, or walking to class with his nose in a textbook.
“The nerd?” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “What about him?”
“I bet you can’t make him fall for you.”
You almost choke on your drink. “What?”
Mina’s grin widens. “Come on. Look at him. He’s like… a different species. You really think someone like him would ever go for someone like you?”
There’s no malice in her words—this is just how you two operate, all teasing and challenge—but something about it pricks at your pride. “Someone like me?”
“You know what I mean. Party girl. Confident. Hot as fuck. He probably faints if a girl even looks at him.” She gestures toward Sunghoon, who is now adjusting his glasses and looking around like he’s searching for an escape route. “I don’t think he’s ever even been to a party before tonight. Heeseung probably dragged him here.”
You study Sunghoon more carefully. He’s taller than you expected, with sharp features that might actually be attractive if he didn’t look so perpetually nervous. His hair is neat, parted carefully, and his clothes scream “I iron my shirts on Sunday nights.”
“That’s the bet?” you ask, turning back to Mina. “Make him fall for me?”
“Yep. And I’m talking actual feelings. Not just him stuttering around you—I want him gone for you. Pining. Obsessed.”
You laugh, loud enough that a few people glance over. “That’s almost too easy.”
“Then you won’t mind putting money on it.” Mina pulls out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. “Two hundred dollars says you can’t do it.”
Two hundred dollars. That’s not nothing—that’s a weekend trip, or a new pair of boots you’ve been eyeing, or enough drinks to not worry about your bank account for a month.
But more than that, it’s the principle. The idea that Mina thinks you can’t do something, that Park Sunghoon is somehow immune to you, needles at something deep and petty in your chest.
“You’re on,” you say, shaking her hand. “Two hundred dollars. And bragging rights.”
“Bragging rights,” Mina agrees, her grin turning wicked. “This is going to be so fun to watch.”
You drain the rest of your drink, feeling the alcohol warm and loose in your veins, and set the empty cup on the nearest surface. “How long do I have?”
“End of the semester,” Mina says. “That’s what, fourteen weeks? Should be plenty of time. If you’re as good as you think you are.”
“Please.” You flip your hair over your shoulder, already feeling the familiar thrill of a challenge. “I’ll have him obsessed with me by midterms.”
Mina cackles, pulling you into a quick hug. “God, I love you. Okay. Go work your magic.”
You glance back toward Sunghoon. He’s still standing with Heeseung and Jake now, looking like he’s barely contributing to the conversation. Jay has joined them too, and the contrast is almost funny—three effortlessly cool guys and one awkward nerd who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
The smart play would be to approach him tonight, start planting the seeds. But you’re tipsy and the party is loud, and you know first impressions matter. You need to do this right.
“Not tonight,” you say, turning back to Mina. “I need a strategy.”
“Ooh, strategic. I like it.”
“Monday,” you decide. “I’ll figure out his schedule, and I’ll make my move.”
Mina raises her fresh drink in a toast. “To the downfall of Park Sunghoon’s GPA and emotional stability.”
You clink your cup against hers, grinning. “He won’t know what hit him.”
Monday morning comes with a hangover you shake off in the shower and a determination that feels almost dangerous.
You dress carefully—a tight cropped sweater that shows a sliver of skin above your low-rise jeans, paired with heels that make your legs look longer. Your makeup is flawless, lips glossy, and you know you look good because your roommate actually stops mid-bite of her cereal to stare.
“Where are you going looking like that?” she asks.
“Library,” you say, grabbing your bag.
“The library?”
You just smile and head out.
You’d done your research last night, scrolling through social media and asking around until you had a decent sense of Sunghoon’s schedule. Turns out, he’s a creature of habit—every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he’s in the library from 9 AM to noon, tutoring students for credit. Something about needing volunteer hours for his degree, or maybe it’s for some honors society. You don’t really care about the why. You just need the when and where.
The library is quieter than usual, the Monday morning crowd sparse. You spot him almost immediately, sitting at one of the large tables near the windows, his laptop open and a stack of textbooks beside him. He’s alone right now, tapping away at his keyboard with the kind of focus that makes you think he’s probably forgotten the rest of the world exists.
You take a breath, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and walk over.
He doesn’t notice you at first. You have to actually stop in front of his table and clear your throat before he looks up, and when he does, his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses.
“Um,” he says, his voice soft and uncertain. “Hi?”
“Hi,” you say, flashing your most disarming smile. “You’re Park Sunghoon, right?”
“Uh. Yes?” He blinks up at you, clearly confused about why you’re talking to him. His gaze flickers down for just a second—taking in your outfit, probably—before snapping back to your face, his cheeks flushing pink.
Perfect.
“I heard you do tutoring,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. “For Statistics?”
“Oh.” His expression shifts slightly, relaxing into something more familiar. This is territory he knows. “Yeah, I do. Are you… do you need help with a class?”
“Desperately,” you lie, letting a little frustration creep into your voice. “I’m in STAT 400, and I’m completely lost. Like, I don’t even know where to start.”
STAT 400 is a class you could probably teach at this point—you’d aced it last semester—but he doesn’t need to know that.
Sunghoon nods, pulling out a notebook. “That’s a tough class. What specifically are you struggling with?”
You wave a hand vaguely. “Honestly? All of it. Probability distributions, hypothesis testing… I just can’t make it click, you know?”
He’s scribbling something down, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay. Yeah, I can definitely help with that. I tutor that class a lot, actually.”
“Really?” You lean forward slightly, resting your chin in your hand. “You’re a lifesaver. I was seriously worried I was going to fail.”
His eyes flicker to you again, and you can see him trying very hard not to stare. It’s almost endearing, the way he’s fighting to keep his focus on his notebook.
“So, um,” he says, clearing his throat. “When works for you? I usually do sessions twice a week, an hour each.”
“Whatever works for you,” you say easily. “I’m pretty flexible.”
He checks his phone, scrolling through what looks like a calendar. “How about… Tuesdays and Thursdays? 5 PM?”
“Perfect.” You pull out your own phone, typing in the times. “Should I meet you here?”
“Yeah, here’s good.” He looks up at you, and for a moment, you’re struck by how dark his eyes are behind those glasses. “Can I get your name? For my schedule.”
You tell him, and he types it into his phone, his fingers quick and precise.
“Got it,” he says, offering you a small, polite smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Looking forward to it.” You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and give him a little wave. “Thanks, Sunghoon.”
His blush deepens at the sound of his name, and you have to bite back a grin as you walk away. This is going to be easier than you thought.
You show up to the library on Tuesday at 4:55 PM, which is late enough to seem casual but early enough to seem eager. You’ve dressed down slightly from yesterday—a fitted long-sleeve shirt that still manages to show off your figure, paired with jeans that sit low on your hips. Still hot, but approachable. You’re playing a character here, and the character is a girl who’s struggling with statistics and needs help, not a girl who’s about to ruin someone’s life for two hundred dollars.
The guilt hasn’t hit yet. Right now, it’s still just a game.
Sunghoon is already at the same table by the windows, his laptop open and a thermos of what you assume is coffee beside him. He looks up when you approach, and you catch the tiniest flicker of surprise in his expression, like he half-expected you not to show.
“Hi,” you say, dropping your bag onto the table and sliding into the seat across from him.
“Hi.” He closes his laptop and pushes it aside, pulling out a notebook instead. “Ready to get started?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh. “Fair warning, I’m really bad at this.”
“That’s okay,” he says, and there’s something unexpectedly kind in his voice. “Everyone starts somewhere. Can you show me what you’re working on in class right now?”
You pull out your own notebook—you’d actually done some prep work last night, writing out problem sets from the STAT 400 syllabus you still have saved on your laptop. You’d deliberately gotten some of them wrong, made your handwriting a little messier than usual, added some confused notes in the margins. It has to look real.
Sunghoon takes the notebook and studies your work, his brow furrowing in concentration. His fingers tap against the edge of the paper, a nervous habit, and you notice that his nails are neatly trimmed, his hands surprisingly elegant for someone so awkward.
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “I see what’s happening here. You’re getting tripped up on the notation, I think. The concepts aren’t that complicated once you understand what the symbols actually mean.”
He flips to a blank page in your notebook and starts writing, his handwriting neat and precise. As he explains the basics of probability distributions, you force yourself to pay attention, nodding along and asking questions that someone who’s actually confused would ask.
“Does that make sense?” he asks after a few minutes, glancing up at you.
“I think so,” you say. “Can you go over that last part again?”
He does, patient and thorough, and you notice the way he relaxes slightly when he’s teaching. The nervousness fades, replaced by something that almost resembles confidence. This is where he’s comfortable—explaining things, breaking down complex ideas into manageable pieces.
It’s… not what you expected.
You’d thought this would be painful, sitting through tutoring sessions for a class you don’t need help with. But Sunghoon is actually a good teacher, and there’s something almost soothing about the way he talks through problems, his voice low and steady.
“Try this one,” he says, sliding the notebook back to you with a new problem written out.
You make a show of working through it, deliberately hesitating in places, second-guessing yourself. When you write down the final answer—which you know is correct—you look up at him uncertainly.
“Is that right?”
He checks your work, and a small smile crosses his face. “Yeah. That’s perfect.”
The praise shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
“Really?” You let yourself sound surprised, pleased.
“Really. You’re getting it faster than you think.”
You beam at him, and his cheeks flush pink again. He looks away quickly, clearing his throat.
“Let’s do a few more,” he says.
The hour passes faster than you expected. By the time Sunghoon checks his phone and announces that your session is up, you’re almost disappointed.
“Same time Thursday?” he asks, packing up his things.
“Yeah, definitely.” You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks, Sunghoon. You’re really good at this.”
“Oh. Thanks.” He ducks his head, and you catch the small smile on his face as he turns away.
As you walk out of the library, you pull out your phone and text Mina.
Session one: complete. He blushed like four times.
Her response is immediate: you’re evil. i love it.
Thursday’s session follows a similar pattern. You show up right on time, dressed in a crop top and high-waisted pants that make Sunghoon’s eyes widen for just a second before he forces his gaze back to his notebook. You work through more problems, ask more questions, let him guide you through concepts you already understand.
But this time, you start to push things slightly.
“God, I don’t know how you keep all of this straight in your head,” you say at one point, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms above your head. The movement makes your shirt ride up slightly, exposing your stomach, and you don’t miss the way Sunghoon’s gaze flickers down before he quickly looks away.
“It’s just practice,” he says, his voice a little strained. “Once you do enough problems, it becomes automatic.”
“You must be so smart,” you say, propping your chin in your hand and looking at him with wide, admiring eyes. “Like, seriously. I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water in most of my classes, and you’re just… breezing through everything.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not that smart. I just work hard.”
“Don’t be modest.” You nudge his foot lightly under the table with yours, and he actually jumps a little. “You’re like, a genius. Everyone says so.”
“I’m really not,” he insists, but you can see the pleased flush creeping up his neck.
You let it drop, returning your attention to the problems in front of you, but you’ve planted the seed. Compliments, physical proximity, attention—these are the tools you know how to use.
Near the end of the session, as Sunghoon is explaining something about confidence intervals, you let your knee bump against his under the table. It’s brief, could be an accident, but you see the way he falters mid-sentence, his train of thought derailing completely.
“Sorry,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Where was I?”
“Confidence intervals,” you prompt, biting back a smile.
“Right. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath and continues, but his voice is slightly shakier now.
When the session ends, you pack up slowly, deliberately taking your time.
“Hey,” you say as he’s closing his laptop. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you tutor? Like, I know it’s for credit or whatever, but you’re already so busy. Don’t you ever just… want a break?”
He seems surprised by the question. “I don’t know. I guess I like helping people. And it’s good practice for me, too. Explaining things helps me understand them better.”
“That’s really nice,” you say, and you’re surprised to find that you actually mean it. “Most people wouldn’t go out of their way like that.”
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable with the praise. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, though.” You give him a warm smile. “Anyway. Thanks again. I actually feel like I might not fail this class now.”
“You’re not going to fail,” he says firmly. “You’re doing really well.”
Something about the conviction in his voice makes your chest tighten, but you push the feeling aside.
“See you next week,” you say, heading toward the exit.
As you leave, you glance back and catch him watching you. He looks away immediately, his face flushing, and you can’t help the satisfied smile that crosses your face.
This is almost too easy.
By the third week of tutoring, you’ve established a routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 5 PM, the same table by the windows. Sunghoon is always there early, his materials already laid out, a thermos of coffee within reach. You’ve started to learn his habits—the way he taps his pen against the table when he’s thinking, the way he pushes his glasses up when he’s concentrating, the way he smiles when you get a problem right.
You’ve also started to push boundaries more deliberately.
You sit closer to him now, close enough that your arms brush when you’re both leaning over the same textbook. You ask him to show you how to work through problems on your laptop, which means he has to lean in close, his shoulder pressed against yours, his face inches from yours as he points at the screen.
He’s still nervous, still awkward, but he’s getting more comfortable with you. He makes eye contact more often, laughs at your jokes, occasionally offers comments that aren’t strictly about statistics.
“Are you going to the game on Saturday?” you ask during one session, glancing up from your notebook.
“Game?” He looks confused.
“The basketball game. Against State.”
“Oh. No, probably not. That’s not really my thing.”
“What is your thing?” you ask, genuinely curious despite yourself.
He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. I like hiking, I guess. And I play chess online sometimes.”
“Hiking?” You raise an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the outdoorsy type.”
“Why not?” There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
“I don’t know. You just seem like you’d rather be inside with a book.”
“I can like both,” he points out, and there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or challenge.
“Fair enough.” You grin. “Maybe you should take me sometime. I could use the exercise.”
His eyes widen. “Oh. Uh. I mean, if you want. There’s a good trail about twenty minutes from campus—”
“I’m kidding,” you say quickly, laughing. “Can you imagine me hiking? I’d die.”
“Right.” He laughs too, but it sounds slightly forced. “Yeah.”
You almost feel bad for teasing him, but you push the feeling aside. This is the point—keep him off balance, make him think about you, wonder about you.
Later in the session, when you’re both bent over a particularly complicated problem, you reach out to point at something on the page. Your hand brushes against his, and you let it linger for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away.
“Sorry,” you murmur.
“It’s fine,” he says, but his voice is tight, and when you glance at him, his jaw is clenched. Interesting.
After that session, as you’re walking back to your apartment, Mina calls.
“How’s Operation Nerd going?” she asks immediately.
“Good,” you say. “He’s definitely noticing me.”
“Noticing you, or noticing you?”
“Both, I think.” You push open the door to your building, nodding at a couple of girls you recognize from a party last weekend. “He’s still really awkward, but he’s warming up.”
“Have you guys hung out outside of tutoring yet?”
“No. I’m taking it slow.”
“Slow?” Mina sounds incredulous. “Babe, you have like eleven weeks left. You need to speed this up.”
“I know what I’m doing,” you say, climbing the stairs to your floor. “If I come on too strong, he’ll get suspicious. He’s not stupid.”
“Fine, fine. You’re the expert.” There’s a pause, and then: “Are you having fun, at least?”
The question catches you off guard. “What?”
“I mean, is this entertaining? Or is it just a chore?”
You think about the way Sunghoon’s face lights up when you get a problem right, the way he listens so intently when you talk, the way he’s slowly becoming less guarded around you.
“It’s fine,” you say eventually. “He’s not as boring as I thought he’d be.”
“High praise,” Mina says dryly. “Okay, well, keep me updated. I want all the details.”
After you hang up, you find yourself thinking about the question. Are you having fun?
The honest answer is yes. You are. And that should probably worry you more than it does.
The following Tuesday, something shifts.
You’re halfway through the session when Sunghoon’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns, and then looks at you apologetically.
“Sorry, do you mind if I take this? It’s my friend.”
“Go ahead,” you say, waving him off.
He steps away from the table, phone pressed to his ear, and you watch as his expression shifts from confused to annoyed to resigned. When he comes back, he’s running a hand through his hair, making it stick up slightly.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
“Yeah, sorry. That was Heeseung. He’s having people over tonight and wanted to make sure I’m coming.”
“Are you?”
“I guess. He’ll give me shit if I don’t.” Sunghoon sits back down, but he seems distracted now, his usual focus scattered.
“You don’t sound excited,” you observe.
“Parties aren’t really my scene,” he admits. “Too loud, too crowded. I usually just end up standing in a corner wishing I was home.”
You laugh. “Then why go?”
“Because Heeseung, Jake, and Jay are my friends, and they actually want me there. I think.” He says it like he’s not entirely sure, and something about that makes your chest ache.
“They definitely want you there,” you say. “Those guys don’t do pity invites.”
He looks at you, surprised. “You know them?”
“Everyone knows them. We run in similar circles.” You lean back in your chair, studying him. “How’d you end up friends with them, anyway? No offense, but you’re not exactly the typical crowd they hang out with.”
“We lived in the same dorm freshman year,” Sunghoon says. “Heeseung and I got paired as roommates, and Jake and Jay lived down the hall. They kind of… adopted me, I guess. I don’t really know why.”
“Maybe because you’re cool,” you suggest.
He snorts. “I’m definitely not cool.”
“You’re cool in your own way.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I’m a nerd.”
“Being a nerd isn’t a bad thing,” you say. And then, before you can think better of it: “I’ll be there tonight, probably. At Heeseung’s thing. Maybe I’ll see you.”
The rest of the session is slightly stilted, both of you distracted by the knowledge that you’ll be in the same place later, outside the safe confines of the library. When you pack up to leave, Sunghoon clears his throat.
“Hey, um. Thanks. For saying that. About me being cool.”
You smile. “I meant it.”
And as you walk away, you realize with a start that you actually did.
Heeseung’s apartment is packed when you arrive just after ten, Mina in tow. The music is loud enough to make the walls vibrate, and the air is thick with the smell of beer and too many bodies in a small space.
“This is going to be good,” Mina says, already scanning the room. “Is your nerd here yet?”
“Don’t call him that,” you say automatically, and then catch yourself. Since when do you care?
Mina gives you a look but doesn’t comment. “Well? Do you see him?”
You crane your neck, looking over the crowd, and finally spot Sunghoon near the kitchen. He’s wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirt—the most casual you’ve ever seen him—and he’s talking to Jay, looking significantly less uncomfortable than you’d expected.
“There,” you say, nodding toward him.
“Oh my god, he’s actually kind of hot when he’s not dressed like someone’s dad,” Mina says.
She’s not wrong. Without the button-ups and the overly neat hair, Sunghoon looks… different. Younger. More relaxed. And yeah, hot.
“I’m going over,” you say.
“Good luck,” Mina calls after you, already veering off toward the makeshift bar.
You weave through the crowd, dodging drunk dancers and people shouting over the music. When you reach the kitchen, you tap Sunghoon on the shoulder.
He turns, and his face lights up when he sees you.
“You came,” he says, and he sounds genuinely happy about it.
“I said I might,” you reply, grinning. “Hi, Jay.”
Jay gives you an appreciative once-over—you’re wearing a tiny black dress that leaves very little to the imagination—and nods. “Hey. You two know each other?”
“Sunghoon’s my tutor,” you say.
“Tutor?” Jay looks at Sunghoon with mock suspicion. “You didn’t tell me you were tutoring hot girls.”
Sunghoon’s face goes red. “It’s not—she needed help with stats—”
“I’m just giving you shit,” Jay says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go find Jake. You two have fun.”
He disappears into the crowd, leaving you and Sunghoon alone in the relative chaos of the kitchen.
“Want a drink?” you ask, already moving toward the counter where someone’s set up a chaotic array of bottles and mixers.
“I’m okay,” Sunghoon says, holding up a bottle of water.
“Of course you are.” You pour yourself something strong, turning back to him. “So. How are you surviving so far?”
“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” he admits. “Maybe because you’re here.”
The comment catches you off guard. It’s surprisingly bold for him, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something there you haven’t seen before—a flicker of confidence, maybe, or just the tiniest bit of flirtation.
“Smooth,” you say, taking a sip of your drink.
He looks immediately mortified. “Sorry, that was—”
“I’m kidding. It was sweet.” You step closer to him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. “You should let yourself relax more often. You’re less uptight when you do.”
“I’m uptight?” He sounds offended.
“A little,” you tease. “But it’s part of your charm.”
Before he can respond, someone cranks the music even louder, and the kitchen suddenly floods with people trying to escape the living room. You’re jostled forward, and Sunghoon reaches out instinctively to steady you, his hands landing on your waist.
For a moment, you’re pressed against him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.
“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t let go immediately.
“It’s okay,” you murmur.
The moment stretches, tension coiling between you, and you realize with a jolt that your heart is beating faster. Not because you’re playing a role, but because he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room, and it feels…
It feels good.
“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” he asks, his voice low.
You nod.
He takes your hand—his grip warm and surprisingly steady—and leads you out of the kitchen, through the crowd, and out onto the apartment’s small balcony. The noise fades to a dull roar as he slides the door shut behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you under the night sky.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” You lean against the railing, looking out at the campus spread below. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He stands beside you, close but not touching, and for a few moments, neither of you speaks.
“Can I ask you something?” he says eventually.
“Sure.”
“Why did you come tonight? You said parties are your thing, so you probably had other options.”
You turn to look at him. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”
His breath catches. “Really?”
“Really.” You’re not sure if you’re lying anymore.
Sunghoon holds your gaze, and something shifts in the air between you. He takes a step closer, and your pulse spikes.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly.
“Me too,” you whisper.
And when he smiles—a real, genuine smile that makes his whole face light up—you feel something crack open in your chest.
This was supposed to be simple. Easy. A game.
But standing here with him, the city lights glittering below and his hand just inches from yours on the railing, you’re starting to realize that you might be in over your head.
Sunghoon is already at your usual table, but today there’s something different. Instead of his typical setup of laptop and textbooks, there’s a white paper bag and two coffee cups.
“Hi,” he says when you approach, and he looks almost nervous. “I, uh. I brought coffee. And pastries. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just guessed. I hope that’s okay.”
You stare at the cups, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in your chest. “You brought me coffee?”
“Yeah. You mentioned last week that you didn’t have time to grab any before our session, so I thought…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is that weird? That’s probably weird.”
“It’s not weird,” you say softly, sliding into your seat. “It’s really sweet.”
His face lights up, and he pushes one of the cups toward you. “It’s a vanilla latte. But if you don’t like it, I can—”
“Vanilla latte is perfect.” You take a sip, and it’s exactly the right temperature, exactly the right sweetness. “Thank you, Sunghoon.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s smiling now, that soft genuine smile that makes your heart do stupid things.
The session proceeds normally—problem sets, explanations, the comfortable back-and-forth you’ve developed—but the coffee and pastries feel like something more. Like he’s trying to take care of you in his own quiet way.
Halfway through, while you’re working on a problem, Sunghoon speaks up.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” you say, not looking up from your notebook.
“Why economics?”
You pause, pen hovering over the page. “What?”
“Your major. Why did you choose economics?”
No one has asked you that in a long time. Most people just assume you picked it because it’s practical, or because you wanted something that would make money, or because you didn’t know what else to do.
“I like understanding how things work,” you say slowly. “Like, why people make the decisions they make. What drives markets, what causes crashes, all of that. It’s like… a puzzle, I guess. And I’m good at puzzles.”
Sunghoon is looking at you with this intense focus, like he’s genuinely interested in your answer. “That’s really cool.”
“Yeah?” You feel oddly vulnerable suddenly.
“Yeah. Most people just say it’s for the money.”
“I mean, the money doesn’t hurt,” you joke, but it falls flat.
“I get it, though,” he says. “That’s kind of why I like statistics. Everything can be understood if you have enough data. The world makes sense when you can quantify it.”
You find yourself smiling. “We’re more similar than I thought.”
“Is that surprising?”
“A little,” you admit. “I thought you’d be all… I don’t know. Textbooks and equations and no personality.”
He laughs, a real laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. “Wow. Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it like that!” You’re laughing too now. “I just meant—you’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Boring? Uptight? But you’re actually…” You pause, searching for the right word. “You’re actually really easy to talk to.”
Sunghoon’s expression softens. “So are you.”
The moment hangs between you, charged with something you can’t quite name. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table, how easy it would be to just lean forward and—
Your phone buzzes, shattering the moment. It’s a text from Mina: party at sigma chi friday. you coming?
You type back a quick yeah probably and set your phone down, but the spell is broken. Sunghoon has already returned his attention to the textbook, his expression neutral.
The rest of the session passes normally, but something has changed. There’s a weight in the air now, a tension that wasn’t there before.
When you’re packing up to leave, Sunghoon clears his throat.
“Hey, um. Are you doing anything this weekend?”
Your heart skips. “Why?”
“There’s this new exhibit at the art museum. Photography from conflict zones. I thought it might be interesting, and I was wondering if… if maybe you wanted to go? With me?”
He’s asking you on a date. Park Sunghoon is asking you on an actual date.
You should say yes. This is perfect for the bet—spending time together outside of tutoring, building a connection, making him fall harder.
But the thought of it makes your stomach twist with something that feels uncomfortably like guilt.
“I can’t this weekend,” you say, and you’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed. “I have plans with friends.”
“Oh.” He tries to hide his disappointment, but you can see it in the way his shoulders slump slightly. “That’s okay. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Another time.”
As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on your back, and you hate yourself a little bit.
Friday night comes, and you’re at the Sigma Chi house with Mina, three drinks deep and feeling reckless.
The party is packed, bodies pressed together in every room, music so loud you can feel it in your bones. You’re wearing your sluttiest dress—a tiny red thing that barely covers your ass—and you know you look good because you’ve been turning heads all night.
“There’s Jake,” Mina says, pointing toward the kitchen. “With Heeseung and Jay.”
“So?” you say, taking another sip of your drink.
“So, isn’t that Sunghoon’s friend group? Maybe he’s here.”
You scan the kitchen, but you don’t see Sunghoon anywhere. Just his three friends, laughing and drinking and looking effortlessly cool in a way Sunghoon never quite manages.
“I don’t think he’s here,” you say.
“Probably for the best,” Mina says. “You can actually have fun without worrying about the bet.”
But that’s the problem. You’re starting to realize that you have more fun with Sunghoon than without him.
You push the thought away and drain your drink. “I need another.”
The next hour is a blur of alcohol and dancing and the kind of mindless fun you usually thrive on. You dance with strangers, do shots with girls from your econ class, lose Mina somewhere in the crowd. And then Jake finds you.
“Hey,” he says, appearing at your elbow with that easy smile. “You look like you’re having a good time.”
“I am,” you say, and you realize you have to raise your voice to be heard over the music.
“Want to get some air? It’s hot as hell in here.”
You follow him out to the back porch, where it’s marginally quieter and cooler. There are a few other people out here, smoking and talking in low voices, but Jake leads you to a corner that’s relatively private.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” You lean against the railing, looking up at him. Jake is attractive in an obvious way—tall, athletic build, sharp jawline. The kind of guy you’d normally go for without thinking twice.
“I’ve seen you around,” Jake says, moving closer. “You’re hard to miss.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Definitely.” His gaze drops to your lips, then back up. “You’re friends with Sunghoon, right?”
The mention of Sunghoon’s name sends a jolt through you. “He’s tutoring me.”
“That’s all?”
“What else would it be?”
Jake shrugs. “I don’t know. He talks about you a lot.”
Your heart stutters. “He does?”
“Yeah. He tries to be subtle about it, but it’s pretty obvious he’s into you.” Jake grins. “Can’t blame him.”
You should ask what Sunghoon says about you. You should care more about the implications.
But you’re drunk and Jake is hot and he’s leaning in, and when his lips meet yours, you don’t pull away.
The kiss is good—he knows what he’s doing, his hands confident on your waist—but it feels wrong somehow. Like you’re kissing the wrong person. When you break apart, Jake is smiling.
“Want to get out of here?”
“I—”
“There you are!”
You turn to see Mina stumbling out onto the porch, clearly wasted. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We need to go. Now.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m about to throw up and I need you to hold my hair.” She grabs your arm, pulling you away from Jake. “Sorry, Jake. Emergency.”
You let her drag you back through the party and out the front door, and it’s only when you’re halfway back to your apartment that you realize you’re relieved.
“Did I really interrupt something?” Mina asks, her words slurring slightly.
“Nothing important,” you say.
“Liar. That was Jake. He’s hot.”
“Yeah.”
“So why do you sound sad about it?”
You don’t have an answer.
Saturday morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a feeling of vague dread that has nothing to do with the hangover.
You kissed Jake. Sunghoon’s friend. One of his only friends.
It shouldn’t matter. This is a bet. You’re not actually dating Sunghoon. You don’t owe him anything.
But the guilt sits heavy in your stomach anyway.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Sunghoon: Hey! I know you said you were busy this weekend, but if you have any free time tomorrow (Sunday), I’d love to show you that trail I mentioned. No pressure though!
You stare at the message for a long moment.
You should say no. You should keep your distance, maintain the boundaries of this fake tutoring relationship.
But instead, you type: Sure. What time?
His response is almost immediate: 10 AM? I can pick you up.
Sounds good.
You set your phone down and bury your face in your pillow, trying to ignore the voice in your head that’s asking what the hell you’re doing.
Sunday morning dawns clear and bright, and you find yourself actually putting effort into your outfit—athletic leggings, a fitted tank top, your hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Hiking clothes, but still cute.
Sunghoon picks you up at exactly 10 AM in a slightly beat-up Honda Civic that’s meticulously clean inside. He’s wearing athletic gear too, and without his glasses—he’s wearing contacts, he explains—he looks different. Younger. Even more attractive.
“You ready?” he asks as you buckle your seatbelt.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Fair warning, I haven’t hiked since high school.”
“It’s an easy trail,” he assures you. “More of a nature walk, really.”
The drive takes about twenty minutes, filled with easy conversation and music from a playlist that’s surprisingly good—indie rock mixed with some Korean R&B. You learn that Sunghoon is an only child, that he grew up in a small town, that his parents are both engineers and have very high expectations for him.
“Is that why you work so hard?” you ask. “Because of them?”
“Partly,” he admits. “But also because I don’t really know what else to do. School is the one thing I’m actually good at.”
“That’s not true. You’re good at lots of things.”
“Like what?”
“You’re a good teacher. You’re patient, you actually listen, you explain things in a way that makes sense. That’s a skill.”
He glances at you, surprised. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
When you arrive at the trailhead, it’s not crowded—just a few other cars in the small parking lot. Sunghoon grabs a backpack from the trunk, and you start walking.
He was right about it being an easy trail. The path is well-maintained and mostly flat, winding through trees that are just starting to show their fall colors. It’s beautiful in a quiet, understated way.
“I come here when I need to think,” Sunghoon says as you walk. “It’s peaceful.”
“What do you think about?”
“Everything. School, the future, whether I’m making the right choices.” He pauses. “Sometimes I feel like I’m on this path that was decided for me, you know? Like, I’m going to graduate, get a good job, make my parents proud. But I’m not sure if it’s what I actually want.”
You’re surprised by the honesty. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He looks at you. “What about you? Do you know what you want?”
The question catches you off guard. What do you want?
A month ago, you would have said you wanted to graduate, make money, have fun. Simple things.
But now, standing here with Sunghoon, you realize you don’t know anymore.
“I’m figuring it out,” you say finally.
You walk in comfortable silence for a while, and then Sunghoon leads you off the main path to a clearing that overlooks a small lake. The view is stunning—water glittering in the sunlight, trees reflected on the surface.
“Wow,” you breathe.
“Right?” He sits down on a large flat rock near the edge of the clearing, and you join him. “I found this spot last year. I don’t think many people know about it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He pulls out his backpack and produces two bottles of water and some trail mix. “Snack break.”
You laugh. “You really came prepared.”
“I try.”
As you sit there, eating trail mix and looking out at the lake, you feel something loosen in your chest. This is nice. Simple. Real.
“Can I tell you something?” Sunghoon says after a while.
“Of course.”
“I’m really glad you agreed to come today. I know tutoring is our thing, but I wanted…” He trails off, looking uncertain. “I wanted to spend time with you outside of that. As friends. Or, I don’t know. Whatever this is.”
Your heart is pounding. “Whatever this is?”
He turns to face you fully. “I like you. I know that’s probably obvious, and I’m sorry if that makes things weird, but I can’t stop thinking about you, and I thought maybe—”
You kiss him.
You’re not sure why you do it. Maybe because of the way he’s looking at you, so open and vulnerable. Maybe because you want to stop him from saying more things that will make you feel guilty. Maybe because you’ve been wanting to kiss him for weeks and you’re tired of pretending otherwise.
Whatever the reason, you lean in and press your lips to his, and for a moment, he freezes.
Then he’s kissing you back, tentative at first and then deeper, his hand coming up to cup your face. His lips are soft, and he tastes like trail mix and mint gum, and it’s good—better than it should be, better than kissing Jake, better than anything you expected.
When you finally pull away, you’re both breathing hard.
“Wow,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“Does this mean…?”
“I don’t know what this means,” you say honestly. “But I like you too. I think.”
He smiles, bright and genuine, and pulls you in for another kiss.
You lose track of time there by the lake, kissing Sunghoon like teenagers, his hands respectful but wanting, your fingers tangled in his hair. It feels right in a way that scares you.
When you finally break apart for real, the sun has shifted position, and you realize you’ve been here for over an hour.
“We should probably head back,” Sunghoon says reluctantly.
“Yeah.”
The hike back to the car is different from the hike out. Sunghoon holds your hand the entire way, his grip warm and steady, and you can’t stop smiling.
This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to actually like him.
But as he helps you into the car and leans over to kiss you one more time before closing the door, you realize you’re completely screwed.
That night, lying in bed, you finally respond to Mina’s texts.
how’s the bet going?
You stare at the message for a long time before typing: Good. He’s definitely into me.
perfect. keep it up. easy money.
Yeah. Easy money.
But it doesn’t feel easy anymore.
The following week, everything changes.
Your tutoring sessions become something more—study dates, really, where you spend as much time talking and laughing as you do working through problems. Sunghoon brings you coffee every time now, always remembering exactly how you like it. You find excuses to touch him, and he finds excuses to touch you back—a hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing when you pass papers back and forth.
On Thursday, after your session ends, he walks you back to your apartment. It’s out of his way, and you both know it, but neither of you mentions it.
At your door, he kisses you goodbye, slow and sweet, and you have to physically stop yourself from inviting him inside.
“I’ll see you next week,” he says, his forehead resting against yours.
“That’s so far away,” you murmur, and you’re surprised to find that you mean it.
“We could… do something over the weekend?” he suggests. “If you want.”
“Like what?”
“There’s a film festival on Saturday. Foreign films. Probably boring to most people, but—”
“I’d love to,” you interrupt.
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Really.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel yourself melting into him.
When he finally leaves, you float into your apartment in a daze. Jiwoo takes one look at your face and grins.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says.
“Shut up,” you say, but you can’t stop smiling.
That night, you’re lying in bed scrolling through your phone when you see a post on Jake’s Instagram story. It’s from the Sigma Chi party—a blurry photo of the crowd with the caption good times.
And suddenly you remember. The kiss. Jake.
Your stomach drops.
You need to tell Sunghoon. You should tell him before he hears it from someone else, before it becomes a thing.
But how do you explain that you kissed his friend while you were… what? Were you dating him then? Are you dating him now? You never actually defined what this is.
You open your messages with Sunghoon, type out Can we talk? and then delete it.
This is fine. It was one kiss, weeks ago, before you and Sunghoon were actually together. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except it does mean something, because it means you were pursuing the bet. And if Sunghoon ever found out about the bet…
You close your phone and stare at the ceiling, your earlier happiness curdling into anxiety.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
Saturday arrives, and you meet Sunghoon at the small independent theater on the edge of campus. He’s dressed nicely—dark jeans and a fitted sweater that makes him look older, more sophisticated. When he sees you, his entire face transforms with his smile.
“Hi,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss that makes your toes curl.
“Hi yourself.”
The film festival is showing three movies back-to-back, and you settle into your seats with a large popcorn between you. The first film is French, subtitled, about a woman navigating love and loss in Paris. It’s beautiful and melancholy, and halfway through, Sunghoon reaches over and takes your hand.
During the second film—a Japanese drama about family—you rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around you. It feels domestic and comfortable and utterly terrifying.
By the third film, you’re barely paying attention to the screen. All you can focus on is the warmth of Sunghoon’s body next to yours, the way his thumb traces patterns on your shoulder, the way he occasionally leans down to whisper commentary that makes you laugh.
When the festival ends and you step out into the evening air, you feel drunk on happiness and caffeine from the terrible theater coffee.
“That was amazing,” you say.
“Yeah?” Sunghoon looks pleased. “I wasn’t sure if it was too pretentious.”
“It was exactly pretentious enough.” You loop your arm through his as you walk. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for coming. I know it’s not exactly a typical date.”
“Who says I want typical?”
He grins and pulls you close, kissing you in the middle of the sidewalk like you’re the only two people in the world.
You end up at a small cafe nearby, ordering hot chocolates and splitting a piece of chocolate cake. The conversation flows easily—he tells you about his thesis project, you tell him about your internship applications, and somehow you end up talking about childhood dreams and fears and all the small details that make up a life.
“I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid,” Sunghoon admits. “I was obsessed with space.”
“What changed?”
“I realized I get motion sickness really easily.” He laughs. “Not exactly ideal for space travel.”
“That’s tragic.”
“What about you? What did you want to be?”
You think back. “A lawyer, I think. I liked arguing.”
“That tracks.”
You kick him lightly under the table, and he catches your foot between his, holding it there.
The cafe starts to close, and reluctantly, you both leave. Sunghoon walks you home again, and at your door, the goodbye kiss turns into several goodbye kisses, which turn into you pressed against the door with his body flush against yours.
“Do you want to come inside?” you breathe against his lips.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
You unlock the door and pull him inside, grateful that Jiwoo is gone for the weekend. The apartment is dark and quiet, and you lead Sunghoon to your bedroom, your heart pounding.
Inside, you turn to face him, suddenly nervous. This feels different than all the other times you’ve done this with other guys. This feels like it matters.
“Hey,” Sunghoon says softly, stepping closer. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
“I want to,” you say. “I want you.”
He kisses you then, slow and deep, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fall together, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, and as he hovers over you, looking down with so much want and tenderness that it makes your chest ache, you think: I’m in so much trouble.
But you push the thought away and pull him down into another kiss, losing yourself in the feeling of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your neck, the weight of him above you.
When you pull him inside your bedroom, the air between you feels electric. Sunghoon’s hands are tentative at first, skimming over your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low and rough in a way you’d never heard before.
“More than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to pull him into another kiss.
That seems to break something loose in him. His kisses become deeper, more urgent, his hands more confident as they explore. You pull at his sweater, and he breaks away just long enough to tug it over his head.
You’ve never seen him like this—shirtless, his body leaner than you expected but defined, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your hands find his skin, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his ribs, and he shivers under your touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips trailing down to your collarbone. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”
The admission sends heat pooling in your stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he looks up at you, waiting for permission.
You answer by pulling it off yourself, and his eyes go dark with want.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and the curse sounds foreign in his mouth, which somehow makes it hotter.
His hands cup your breasts through your bra, and you arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.
“Can I?” he asks, looking up at you.
“Please.”
He unbuttons your jeans slowly, reverently, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear. When you are finally bare before him, he sat back on his heels just looking at you, and you feel genuinely seen in a way that should have made you self-conscious but instead makes you feel powerful.
“You’re staring,” you say, but is no bite to it.
“Can’t help it.” He leans down to kiss you again, his body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is through his jeans.
Your hands go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle until he helps you, kicking off his jeans and boxers in one motion. And then there was nothing between you, just skin on skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.
“Do you have…?” he starts.
“Nightstand,” you gasp. “Top drawer.”
He reaches over, finds a condom, and you watch as he rolls it on with shaking hands. When he settles back over you, positioning himself between your legs, he pauses.
“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he said, his eyes searching yours.
“I will. I promise.”
He pushes into you slowly, carefully, and you both groan at the sensation. He fills you perfectly, and when he’s fully seated inside you, he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.
“Okay?” he manages.
“So okay,” you whisper. “Move. Please move.”
He did, starting with slow, deep strokes that have you gasping and clutching at his shoulders. His technique was unpracticed but enthusiastic, and when you shift your hips to find the angle you need, he paid attention, adjusting immediately.
“Like that,” you breathe. “Right there.”
“Here?” He hits the spot again, harder this time, and you cry out.
“Yes, fuck, yes.”
He set a rhythm then, his hips snapping against yours, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the sounds he makes—low groans and whispered curses—were pushing you closer to the edge.
“You feel so good,” he pants against your neck. “So fucking good.”
Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he regains control. You can feel yourself getting close, that familiar tension building low in your belly.
“Touch yourself,” he says, his voice strained. “I want to feel you come.”
The command sends a shock of heat through you. You slide your hand between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation combined with the feeling of him inside you is too much.
“Sunghoon,” you gasp. “I’m—”
“Come for me,” he says, and that’s it.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, your body tensing and shaking as pleasure rolls through you. You feel yourself clenching around him, and he groans, his movements becoming erratic.
“Fuck, I’m—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just buries himself deep and comes with a broken moan, his body shuddering against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you catching your breath. Then he carefully pulled out, disposed of the condom, and collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms.
“That was…” he started.
“Yeah,” you agreed, your voice still shaky.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your temple, your lips. “You’re amazing.”
And lying there in his arms, your body still humming with aftershocks, you feel something crack wide open in your chest. Something that feels dangerously close to real feelings.
Later—much later—you lie tangled together in your sheets, Sunghoon’s arm wrapped around you, his breathing deep and even. You should feel satisfied, content.
Instead, you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.
You wake up to sunlight streaming through your window and the unfamiliar weight of someone else in your bed.
For a disorienting moment, you forget where you are, who you’re with. Then Sunghoon shifts beside you, his arm tightening around your waist, and everything comes rushing back.
The film festival. The cafe. Bringing him back here. The sex.
Oh god, the sex.
Your face heats at the memory, and you bury it in the pillow. Sunghoon makes a soft noise in his sleep, nuzzling into your neck, and despite everything—the guilt, the confusion, the looming disaster of the bet—you can’t help but smile.
“Are you awake?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin.
“Maybe.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” You turn in his arms to face him, and he’s unfairly attractive like this—hair messy, eyes soft, a small smile on his lips.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He kisses you, slow and lazy, and you can feel him hardening against your thigh. Your body responds immediately, heat pooling low in your stomach, but before things can progress, his phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand.
He groans, breaking away to check it. “It’s Heeseung. He wants to know if I’m alive.”
“Are you?”
“Barely.” He types out a quick response and sets the phone down. “I should probably go. I have a study group at noon.”
Disappointment lances through you, which is ridiculous. You just spent the entire night with him. “Yeah, okay.”
“Unless…” He looks at you hopefully. “Do you want to get breakfast first? There’s that place near campus that does really good pancakes.”
You should say no. You should put some distance between you, figure out what the hell you’re doing.
But instead you say, “I love pancakes.”
The diner is busy with the Sunday morning crowd, but you manage to snag a booth near the back. Sunghoon orders a truly obscene amount of food—pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns—and you raise an eyebrow.
“What? I’m hungry.” He grins. “Last night was… athletic.”
You kick him under the table, face flaming. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying.” His grin widens. “You’re very… energetic.”
“Oh my god, stop talking.”
But you’re laughing, and so is he, and when the food arrives, you end up stealing bites from his plate while he pretends to be offended.
It’s domestic and easy and terrifying.
Halfway through the meal, Jake walks in with Heeseung and Jay. Your stomach drops.
Jake sees you first, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or understanding. Then he’s heading over with the other two in tow.
“Sunghoon!” Heeseung says cheerfully, sliding into the booth beside him without asking. “You never came home last night. We were worried.”
Jay smirks, looking between you and Sunghoon. “Clearly not that worried.”
Sunghoon’s ears turn red. “We were just… we went to the film festival and then—”
“And then you stayed over,” Jake finishes, his eyes on you. There’s something unreadable in his expression.
“Hi, Jake,” you say carefully.
“Hey.” He slides in next to you, forcing you to scoot over. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah.”
The tension is palpable, at least to you. Sunghoon seems oblivious, too busy fielding questions from Heeseung about the films, but Jake is looking at you like he knows something.
“So you two are like, together now?” Heeseung asks bluntly.
Sunghoon glances at you, and there’s vulnerability in his eyes. “I… we haven’t really talked about it.”
“We’re seeing each other,” you say, reaching over to lace your fingers with his. “Right?”
“Right.” His smile is so genuine it makes your chest ache.
“Cute,” Jay says, stealing a piece of bacon from Sunghoon’s plate. “Our boy’s all grown up.”
“Fuck off,” Sunghoon says, but he’s grinning.
The conversation shifts to other topics—an upcoming game, someone’s disastrous Tinder date, plans for Halloween. You mostly stay quiet, hyperaware of Jake beside you, wondering if he’s going to say something about the party. About the kiss.
But he doesn’t. He just eats his food and makes jokes with the others, and when they finally leave, he gives you a long look that makes your stomach twist.
“He knows,” you say once they’re gone.
“Knows what?” Sunghoon asks, signaling for the check.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
The next week passes in a blur of classes, tutoring sessions that turn into makeout sessions, and stolen moments in empty classrooms and dark corners of the library.
You can’t keep your hands off each other. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and now that you’ve crossed that line, neither of you can go back.
On Tuesday, your “tutoring session” lasts all of fifteen minutes before Sunghoon is pulling you into his lap, his mouth hot on your neck.
“We should actually study,” you gasp, even as you grind down against him.
“We should,” he agrees, not stopping.
You end up in the single-user bathroom on the third floor, Sunghoon pressing you against the door as he kisses you breathless. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up under your shirt to cup your breasts.
“God, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he breathes against your lips. “It’s affecting my grades.”
“Liar. You’re incapable of getting bad grades.”
“Want to test that theory?” His hand slips between your legs, rubbing you through your jeans, and you bite back a moan.
“Someone could hear.”
“Then you’ll have to be quiet.”
He drops to his knees, and your brain short-circuits.
“Sunghoon, what are you—”
“Let me,” he says, already unbuttoning your jeans. “Please. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
You should say no. You’re in a public bathroom in the library. Anyone could walk by.
But then he’s pulling your jeans and underwear down, and his mouth is on you, and all rational thought flies out the window.
“Oh fuck,” you breathe, your hands flying to his hair.
He’s enthusiastic if not entirely skilled, his tongue exploring with scientific precision, trying to figure out what makes you gasp and moan. When he finds your clit and sucks lightly, your knees buckle.
“There,” you manage. “Right there, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He works you with his mouth, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady, and you have to bite down on your fist to keep from crying out. The knowledge that you’re doing this here, in public, with Sunghoon of all people on his knees for you, makes it even hotter.
You come embarrassingly quickly, your orgasm hitting you hard and sudden. Sunghoon works you through it, lapping at you until you’re shaking and oversensitive, and when he finally pulls away, his lips are shiny and his eyes are dark with lust.
“You taste amazing,” he says, his voice wrecked.
You pull him up and kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Your place. Now.”
“I have a roommate.”
“My place then.”
You somehow make it back to your apartment without attacking him in public, though it’s a close thing. The moment you’re through the door, you’re on him, pushing him toward your bedroom and stripping off his clothes.
“Bed,” you command, and he goes willingly, lying back and watching as you undress.
When you straddle him, positioning yourself over his cock, he groans.
“Condom,” he manages.
“Nightstand.”
He reaches over, fumbles with the drawer, and rolls one on with shaking hands. Then you’re sinking down onto him, both of you moaning at the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips. “You feel so good.”
You start to move, riding him slowly at first and then faster, chasing your pleasure. His hands roam your body—your breasts, your stomach, your thighs—like he can’t decide where to touch you first.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, his eyes locked on you. “So fucking beautiful.”
The praise sends heat through you, and you lean down to kiss him, your movements becoming erratic. He takes over then, thrusting up into you hard and fast, and the change in angle has you gasping.
“Touch yourself,” he says, echoing his words from last time. “I want to see you come again.”
You do, your fingers finding your clit, and the combination of his cock inside you and your own touch is too much. You come with a cry, your body clenching around him, and he follows a moment later with a groan, his hips stuttering.
You collapse on top of him, both of you breathing hard, and he wraps his arms around you.
“I’m never going to be able to concentrate in the library again,” he says, and you laugh into his chest.
Thursday’s session is more of the same. You try to actually study—you really do—but Sunghoon keeps looking at you with these heated glances, and his hand keeps finding your thigh under the table, and eventually you give up and suggest going back to his place.
His roommate is at class, and you have exactly ninety minutes before he’s back.
You make the most of it.
This time, you’re the one on your knees, learning what makes Sunghoon gasp and curse. He’s bigger than you expected, and you take your time, using your tongue and lips and hands until he’s gripping the sheets and saying your name like a prayer.
“I’m close,” he warns, but you don’t pull away.
When he comes, you swallow, and the look on his face is worth it—complete bliss mixed with awe.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “That was…”
“Good?” you ask, crawling up his body.
“Understatement of the century.” He pulls you in for a kiss, apparently not caring that you just had him in your mouth. “Your turn.”
“We don’t have time—”
“We have time.”
He proves it by going down on you again, this time with more confidence and skill. He’s a fast learner, you’ll give him that. He remembers exactly what you liked before, adding new tricks that have you squirming and begging.
When you come, it’s intense enough that you see stars, and Sunghoon looks so pleased with himself that you can’t help but laugh.
“What?” he asks, grinning.
“Nothing. You’re just… you’re really into this.”
“Into making you feel good? Yeah, I am.” He kisses your inner thigh. “Is that weird?”
“No. It’s perfect.”
And it is perfect, which is the problem.
Because every moment with him feels more real, and every real moment makes the lie bigger.
That night, Mina corners you at a party at some frat house you don’t remember the name of.
“Okay, what the fuck?” she demands, pulling you into a relatively quiet hallway. “You’ve been dodging my texts for two weeks.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to update me on the bet? Because from what I’m hearing, you and Park Sunghoon are basically dating now.” She raises an eyebrow. “Which is great for the bet, obviously, but you’ve been weird about it.”
“I haven’t been weird.”
“You’re being weird right now. What’s going on?”
You take a long drink from your cup, buying time. “Nothing. It’s going fine. He’s definitely into me.”
“And are you into him?” The question is pointed.
“It’s a bet, Mina. Of course I’m not actually—”
“Bullshit.” She crosses her arms. “I’ve known you for three years. I can tell when you’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“Do you actually like him?”
The question hangs in the air between you. You could lie. You should lie.
But you’re so tired of lying.
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “Maybe.”
Mina’s expression softens. “Babe…”
“I know. I’m an idiot. This was supposed to be easy, and I’m making it complicated.”
“So end the bet. Just tell him the truth.”
“And say what? ‘Hey, funny story, I only started talking to you because my friend bet me two hundred dollars that I couldn’t make you fall for me, but surprise, I actually caught feelings’? That’ll go over well.”
“Better than him finding out some other way.”
“He’s not going to find out.”
“Jake knows.” Mina says it casually, but the words hit like a punch.
“What?”
“Jake knows about the bet. He was there when I made it, remember? And he’s Sunghoon’s friend. You really think he’s not going to say something?”
Your stomach drops. “Jake wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t he? You two hooked up at that party. And now you’re dating his friend. You don’t think that’s going to come up eventually?”
Panic rises in your throat. “We didn’t hook up. We just kissed.”
“Does Sunghoon know that?”
“No.”
“So you’re keeping secrets on top of secrets. Great plan.”
“What do you want me to do, Mina?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “I can’t unfuck this situation. It’s already fucked.”
She sighs, her expression gentler now. “Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch. I’m worried about you. This isn’t like you. You don’t do feelings, you don’t do relationships. And now you’re in this mess because I made a stupid bet. So I’m giving you an out. Call it off. Keep your money. I don’t care. Just… don’t hurt him. And don’t hurt yourself.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It could be.”
But she doesn’t understand. It’s not about the money anymore. It’s not even about the bet.
It’s about the fact that you’ve built something real with Sunghoon, even if it’s built on a foundation of lies. And you don’t know how to tell him the truth without destroying everything.
The next morning, you wake up to a text from Sunghoon: Can’t stop thinking about yesterday. When can I see you again?
Despite everything—the guilt, the fear, the looming disaster—you smile.
Tonight? My place?
Perfect. I’ll bring dinner.
You spend the day in a state of anxious anticipation. Part of you wants to cancel, to put some distance between you and figure out what to do. But a bigger part of you just wants to see him, to pretend for a little while longer that everything is okay.
He shows up at seven with Thai food and that soft smile that makes your heart hurt.
“Hi,” he says, kissing you hello like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi.”
You eat on your bed, cross-legged and trading bites of pad thai and spring rolls. Sunghoon tells you about his thesis advisor giving him shit for missing a meeting, and you tell him about your nightmare group project in your econometrics class.
It’s domestic and comfortable and you wish you could freeze this moment forever.
After dinner, you end up tangled together, kissing lazily. His hands are under your shirt, yours in his hair, and it’s not urgent or desperate—just sweet and slow.
“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon says against your lips.
“Mm?”
“Are we… I mean, I know we said we’re seeing each other, but are we like, exclusive? Because I’d like to be. Exclusive, I mean. If you want.”
Your heart squeezes. “You want to be my boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I really do.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s such open honesty in his face that it makes you want to cry. “Is that okay?”
You should say no. You should end this before it gets worse.
But instead you kiss him hard and whisper, “Yes. I want that too.”
His smile is brilliant, and he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. Things heat up quickly after that—clothes coming off, hands and mouths everywhere.
This time, Sunghoon takes his time. He kisses every inch of your skin, mapping your body with his lips and tongue. When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up at you with dark eyes.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“You. Just you.”
He works you with his mouth until you’re trembling and gasping, and when he finally pushes inside you, it feels different. More intimate. Like you’re not just fucking but making love, which is a thought that should terrify you but instead just makes you hold him tighter.
“I’m falling for you,” he breathes against your neck as he moves inside you. “I know it’s fast, but I can’t help it.”
You should tell him the truth. Right now, in this moment, you should come clean.
But instead you just kiss him and whisper, “I’m falling for you too.”
And the worst part is, you mean it.
Later, after he’s fallen asleep, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
You’re in love with Park Sunghoon.
You’re in love with the boy you were supposed to play, the bet you were supposed to win. And he loves you back, except he doesn’t really love you—he loves the version of you that you’ve been pretending to be.
Or maybe he does love the real you. Maybe all the pretending has become real. Maybe there’s no difference anymore.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Jake: We need to talk.
You stare at the message, your heart pounding.
Everything is about to fall apart. You can feel it.
And you have no idea how to stop it.
You meet Jake at a coffee shop off campus, somewhere you’re unlikely to run into anyone you know.
He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in a corner booth with two cups of coffee in front of him. He slides one toward you as you sit down.
“Vanilla latte,” he says. “I remembered from that party.”
“Thanks.” You wrap your hands around the cup, more for something to do than because you actually want it.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Jake studies you with an unreadable expression, and you force yourself to meet his gaze.
“So,” he says finally. “You and Sunghoon.”
“Yeah.”
“How long has that been going on?”
“A few weeks. Officially, I mean. We’ve been doing the tutoring thing for longer.”
Jake nods slowly. “He’s really into you. Like, really into you. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone.”
Guilt twists in your stomach. “I know.”
“Does he know about the bet?”
There it is. The question you’ve been dreading.
“No,” you say quietly.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Eventually.”
“Eventually,” Jake repeats, his tone flat. “So you’re just going to keep lying to him?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It actually is that simple.” He leans forward. “You made a bet that you could make him fall for you. You did. Congratulations. Now either you tell him the truth, or you don’t. But this middle ground where you’re pretending everything’s fine? That’s fucked up.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “I know it’s fucked up. I know I should tell him. But how do I do that without destroying everything?”
“Maybe everything deserves to be destroyed if it’s built on a lie.”
The words hit harder than they should. You take a shaky breath. “Why do you care so much? You barely know him.”
“He’s my friend. And he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve this.” Jake pauses. “And honestly? I don’t think you deserve to hurt yourself like this either. I saw your face when you’re with him. Whatever started as a bet isn’t a bet anymore. You actually care about him.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Tell him the truth. Before someone else does.”
Your blood runs cold. “Are you threatening me?”
“No. I’m warning you.” Jake’s expression softens slightly. “Look, I’m not going to tell him. That’s not my place. But Mina was drunk when she made that bet, and there were other people around. Someone’s going to say something eventually. And it’s going to be a lot worse if he hears it from someone else.”
He’s right. You know he’s right.
“I’ll tell him,” you say. “I just… I need to find the right time.”
“Don’t wait too long.” Jake stands, leaving his coffee untouched. “For what it’s worth, I think he’d understand. He’s not perfect either. None of us are. But he deserves honesty.”
After he leaves, you sit alone in the coffee shop for a long time, staring at your phone.
You pull up your messages with Sunghoon, dozens of texts full of inside jokes and sweet nothings. Then you scroll to Mina, her most recent message asking if you want to go out this weekend.
You type out three different messages to Sunghoon—variations of “we need to talk”—and delete them all.
Tomorrow. You’ll tell him tomorrow.
But tomorrow comes and goes, and you don’t tell him.
You tell yourself you’re waiting for the right moment, but the truth is you’re a coward. Every time you’re with him, you see how happy he is, how he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and you can’t bring yourself to shatter that.
The week passes in a strange tension. On the surface, everything is perfect. You and Sunghoon are inseparable—studying together, eating together, sleeping together. He’s introduced you to his parents over video chat, and you’ve started keeping a toothbrush at his place.
But underneath, you’re drowning in guilt and anxiety, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It happens on Friday night.
There’s a Halloween party at one of the bigger fraternity houses, and everyone is going. Sunghoon isn’t thrilled about it—he’s still not much of a party person—but you’d promised you’d go together, and he’s trying.
You’d put actual effort into your costume—a devil, complete with red bodysuit, horns, and a tail. Sunghoon is dressed as an angel, which he’d been embarrassed about until you told him how hot he looked in all white.
“We’re very on the nose,” he says as you walk to the party, his hand in yours.
“I think it’s cute. Heaven and hell, together at last.”
“Is that what we are?” He grins. “I’m corrupting you or you’re corrupting me?”
“Definitely the second one.”
The party is already in full swing when you arrive, the house packed with people in various states of intoxication and costume creativity. You spot Mina almost immediately—she’s dressed as a sexy nurse and is already drunk, dancing on a table with some guy from her marketing class.
“I’m going to get us drinks,” Sunghoon says, kissing your temple. “Want your usual?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He disappears into the crowd, and you start making your way toward Mina. But before you can reach her, someone grabs your arm.
It’s Jenna, a girl from your econometrics class. You’ve talked to her a few times, but you wouldn’t call her a friend.
“Oh my god, I’ve been looking for you!” She’s clearly drunk, her words slightly slurred. “I need to know—is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“The bet! With Park Sunghoon!” She’s practically shouting over the music. “Mina told Sarah who told me that you made a bet you could make him fall for you. And oh my god, you guys are actually dating now? That’s hilarious. How much did you win?”
Your blood turns to ice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, but your voice sounds wrong even to your own ears.
“Come on, don’t be modest! It’s genius, honestly. I mean, he’s such a nerd, it probably wasn’t even that hard—”
“Stop.” The word comes out harsh, cutting. “Just stop talking.”
Jenna blinks, taken aback. “Whoa, okay. I was just—”
But you’re not listening anymore. You’re scanning the crowd frantically, looking for Sunghoon, praying he’s still in the kitchen getting drinks, praying he didn’t hear any of that.
And then you see him.
He’s standing about ten feet away, two cups in his hands, his face completely blank.
Your heart stops.
“Sunghoon—”
But he’s already turning away, setting the cups down on the nearest surface and heading for the door.
“Shit,” you breathe, pushing past Jenna and fighting your way through the crowd. “Sunghoon, wait!”
You catch up to him outside, on the front lawn. He’s walking fast, his shoulders tense, and when you grab his arm, he jerks away.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice cold in a way you’ve never heard before.
“Please, just let me explain—”
“Explain what?” He whirls to face you, and the hurt in his eyes is devastating. “Explain how you made a bet that you could make me fall for you? Explain how this entire thing has been a lie?”
“It’s not—it wasn’t all a lie—”
“How much?” His voice cracks. “How much did you win?”
“Sunghoon—”
“How much?” He’s shouting now, and people are starting to stare.
“Two hundred dollars,” you whisper. “But I don’t want it. I never wanted it. That’s not what this is about.”
He laughs, a bitter sound. “Right. So what is it about? Entertainment? Did you have fun? Watching the awkward nerd fall all over himself for you?”
“No, it’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you played me. You pretended to need tutoring, pretended to be interested in me, pretended to—” His voice breaks. “Did you fake all of it? Every moment, every kiss, every time you said you cared about me?”
“No!” Tears are streaming down your face now. “I didn’t fake it. I swear, I didn’t. It started as a bet, yes, but it became real. My feelings are real.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?” He’s crying too, and seeing him cry because of you is the worst thing you’ve ever experienced. “How am I supposed to believe anything you say when everything has been a lie?”
“Because I love you,” you say desperately. “I love you, Sunghoon. That’s real. That’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”
For a moment, something flickers in his expression—hope, maybe, or want. But then it hardens again.
“You don’t love me,” he says quietly. “You don’t even know me. Because if you did, if you cared about me at all, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have—” He stops, taking a shaky breath. “I need to go.”
“Please don’t leave. Let me explain properly, let me—”
“There’s nothing to explain.” He takes a step back, putting distance between you. “You made a bet. You won. Congratulations.”
“Sunghoon—”
“I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you. I just… I need you to leave me alone.”
And then he’s walking away, and you’re standing alone on the lawn in your stupid devil costume, crying so hard you can barely breathe.
Behind you, the party continues, oblivious to the fact that your entire world just imploded.
You don’t remember getting home. One minute you’re on the lawn, the next you’re in your apartment, Mina’s arms around you while you sob into her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she keeps saying. “I’m so, so sorry. I should never have made that stupid bet. This is my fault.”
But it’s not her fault. It’s yours.
You’re the one who accepted the bet. You’re the one who lied. You’re the one who kept lying even after you started developing real feelings.
You’re the one who broke Park Sunghoon’s heart.
Your phone won’t stop buzzing—texts from people at the party, from Jenna apologizing, from people you barely know asking if it’s true. You turn it off and curl up in bed, still in your costume, feeling like you’re suffocating.
“What do I do?” you ask Mina, your voice hoarse from crying.
“I don’t know, babe. Give him time, maybe? Let him cool off, then try to talk to him again?”
“He said he doesn’t want to see me.”
“He’s hurt. People say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt.”
But you saw his face. The betrayal, the devastation. That wasn’t just hurt. That was something deeper.
You’d made him believe someone could care about him, could see past the nerd label and the awkwardness and love him for who he is.
And then you’d proven that it was all an act.
“I ruined everything,” you whisper.
Mina doesn’t argue.
The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and swollen eyes. Your phone is still off, and you’re afraid to turn it on.
But you force yourself to. You need to know how bad it is.
The damage is worse than you thought. There are dozens of messages, multiple group chats discussing the drama. Someone apparently recorded part of your argument with Sunghoon and posted it online. Your mentions are full of people calling you a bitch, a heartbreaker, cruel.
And they’re not wrong.
You scroll through until you find messages from people who actually matter. Heeseung sent you a long text that essentially amounts to “what the fuck is wrong with you.” Jay’s is shorter but somehow more cutting: “He really loved you. I hope it was worth it.”
Jake’s is the one that makes you cry again: “I warned you. I hope you figure out how to make this right.”
There’s nothing from Sunghoon.
You open your conversation with him, looking at the last messages he sent—a string of heart emojis in response to a photo you’d sent of your costume. It was less than twelve hours ago, but it feels like a lifetime.
You type out a message: I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but please, let me explain. What I said last night was true. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.
You stare at it for a long moment, then delete it.
Words aren’t going to fix this. Nothing is going to fix this.
You’ve lost him.
And it’s entirely your own fault.
The first week without Sunghoon is the worst week of your life.
You stop going to parties. You can barely drag yourself to classes. Your carefully constructed social life—the one where you were always the center of attention, always having fun, always in control—crumbles around you.
Because it turns out that when people know you’re capable of something that cruel, they look at you differently.
Mina tries her best to support you, but even she doesn’t know what to say. She canceled the bet immediately, told you to keep your money, apologized a hundred times. But it doesn’t change anything.
You avoid the library completely. You can’t bear to walk past your usual table by the windows, can’t bear to remember all those tutoring sessions that turned into something more. Your statistics homework sits untouched—you can’t bring yourself to look at probability distributions without thinking of Sunghoon’s patient explanations, his neat handwriting, the way his face would light up when you got a problem right.
Your roommate Jiwoo walks on eggshells around you. She brings you food you don’t eat, suggests watching movies you can’t focus on, and eventually just sits with you in silence because that’s all you can handle.
“You need to get out of bed,” she says on day five, opening your curtains despite your protests. “You haven’t showered in two days. You’re not eating. This isn’t healthy.”
“I know.”
“So get up. Take a shower. We’ll go get coffee or something.”
“I don’t want coffee.”
“I don’t care what you want. You’re getting out of this apartment.” Her voice is firm but kind. “Come on. I’ll wait.”
You drag yourself out of bed, shower on autopilot, and put on clothes that aren’t pajamas for the first time in days. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize yourself. Your face is pale, eyes hollow and red-rimmed. You look like you’ve been through a war.
You feel like it too.
Campus feels different now. You walk with your head down, avoiding eye contact, hyperaware of every whisper and pointed look. The story has spread—everyone knows about the bet, about what you did. Some people are sympathetic, but most just see you as the girl who broke Park Sunghoon’s heart for two hundred dollars.
You deserve it. Every bit of judgment, every dirty look. You deserve all of it.
Jiwoo takes you to a small cafe on the edge of campus, one you’ve never been to before. It’s quiet, mostly empty, and you’re grateful for the anonymity.
“Talk to me,” Jiwoo says once you’re settled with your drinks. “What are you feeling?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” You wrap your hands around your cup. “I keep thinking about his face. When he found out. I’ve never seen anyone look so… broken.”
“Have you tried to reach out?”
“What would I even say? ‘Sorry I made a bet to make you fall in love with me’? There’s no apology big enough for what I did.”
“Maybe not. But maybe he deserves to hear that you’re sorry anyway.”
You shake your head. “He said he doesn’t want to see me. I have to respect that.”
“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”
“I’m not giving up. I’m accepting that I fucked up so badly there’s no coming back from it.” Your voice cracks. “I lost him, Jiwoo. And it’s my own fault.”
She reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. “For what it’s worth, I think your feelings were real. I saw how you were with him. That wasn’t fake.”
“It doesn’t matter if they were real. Not when everything else was a lie.”
You start seeing Sunghoon around campus, though “seeing” isn’t quite right because you make sure he never actually sees you. You’ve become an expert at ducking into buildings, changing directions, hiding behind groups of people.
Each glimpse of him is like a knife to the chest.
He looks tired. Sad. He’s always alone now, you notice—no more walking with Heeseung and the others, no more sitting in groups at the dining hall. He’s retreated back into himself, back into the lonely, isolated version of himself that existed before you.
Before you ruined everything.
On Tuesday at 5 PM, you walk past the library and see him at your old table. There’s a girl sitting across from him—you don’t recognize her—and she’s working through what looks like statistics problems. He’s explaining something, using the same patient tone he used with you, and seeing it makes you feel physically ill.
He’s moved on. He’s replaced you.
Which is what you wanted, right? For him to be okay? But watching it happen feels like dying.
Week two is somehow worse than week one.
You run into Heeseung at the gym. You’ve been going at odd hours to avoid people, but apparently not odd enough. He’s on the treadmill next to yours, and for a moment you consider just leaving. But he speaks before you can.
“You look like shit,” he says bluntly.
“Thanks.”
“Sunghoon looks worse.”
Your chest tightens. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Too bad.” Heeseung stops his treadmill and turns to face you fully. “You fucked up. We all know it. But I’m not here to lecture you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I’ve known Sunghoon since freshman year, and I’ve never seen him as happy as he was with you. And I’ve also never seen him as miserable as he is now.” He pauses. “And because Jake told me what you said. That you actually fell for him.”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It matters to him. Even if he won’t admit it.”
You stop your treadmill too. “What do you want me to say, Heeseung? That I’m sorry? I’m sorry. That I wish I could take it back? I do. That I love him? I—” Your voice breaks. “I love him so much it’s destroying me. But he doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t blame him.”
Heeseung studies you for a long moment. “He’s stubborn. Probably the most stubborn person I know. When he decides something, it’s really hard to change his mind.”
“So I’m fucked.”
“I didn’t say that.” He grabs his water bottle. “I’m just saying, if you really love him, you’re going to have to fight for it. Because he’s not going to make it easy.”
“He shouldn’t have to make anything easy. I’m the one who screwed up.”
“Yeah, you did. But people screw up. That’s life. The question is whether you’re going to let one mistake define you, or whether you’re going to do everything you can to make it right.”
He leaves you there, heart pounding, his words echoing in your head.
On Saturday morning, you wake up to a text from Mina: brunch? you need to eat and i miss you
You almost say no. But Jiwoo would just drag you out anyway, so you agree.
Mina picks the place—a cute little diner near campus that does bottomless mimosas on weekends. It’s the kind of place that’s usually packed, but you arrive early enough to get a table.
You’re halfway through your pancakes when the door opens and Sunghoon walks in.
Your heart stops.
He’s not alone. There’s a girl with him—the same one from the library, you realize. She’s pretty, with long dark hair and a sweet smile. She’s laughing at something he said, and he’s smiling back, and seeing them together feels like someone reached into your chest and ripped your heart out.
“Oh shit,” Mina breathes, following your gaze.
You can’t look away. You watch as they’re seated at a booth near the window—the same booth you and Sunghoon sat in that Sunday morning after your first night together. The morning when everything felt perfect and possible.
The girl says something and Sunghoon laughs—really laughs—and you realize with a sick feeling that you haven’t heard that laugh in weeks. Not since before everything fell apart.
“We should go,” Mina says, already signaling for the check.
“No.” Your voice sounds strange, hollow. “It’s fine. We were here first.”
“Babe—”
“I said it’s fine.”
But it’s not fine. Nothing is fine. You watch as they order coffee, as Sunghoon does that thing where he pushes his glasses up when he’s happy, as the girl reaches across the table to show him something on her phone and their fingers brush.
Does he touch her the way he touched you? Does he kiss her like he kissed you? Does he tell her about the hiking trail, about his dreams of being an astronaut, about all the little things he shared with you?
Has he replaced you that easily?
“I need to go,” you say abruptly, standing up. Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and several people look over—including Sunghoon.
Your eyes meet across the diner.
For one terrible, eternal moment, everything else falls away. It’s just you and him, all the hurt and love and regret hanging between you like a physical thing.
His expression shifts—surprise, then pain, then carefully controlled blankness. He looks away first, turning his attention back to the girl across from him with deliberate focus.
The dismissal is clear. You mean nothing to him now.
You barely make it outside before you start crying.
Mina follows, wrapping her arms around you while you sob on the sidewalk. People walk past, staring, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“He’s moved on,” you choke out. “He’s already moved on.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe she’s just a friend—”
“Did you see the way he looked at her? He was happy, Mina. Really happy. Like he is when he’s—” You can’t finish the sentence. Like he was with you.
“Come on,” Mina says gently. “Let’s get you home.”
You let her lead you back to your apartment, your mind stuck on repeat. The image of Sunghoon laughing with that girl, the way he looked away from you like you were nothing, the realization that you’ve truly, permanently lost him.
This is what you deserve, you tell yourself. This is the consequence of your actions.
But knowing you deserve it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
That night, alone in your room, you finally let yourself break completely.
You pull out your laptop and open the folder of photos from the past few weeks. There are dozens—candid shots of Sunghoon studying, selfies you took together, photos from the hiking trip. In every single one where he’s looking at you, his expression is so full of love it makes your chest ache.
He really did love you. Completely, genuinely, without reservation.
And you destroyed that.
You find yourself scrolling through your text messages with him, reading through months of conversation. The early ones are formal—just coordinating tutoring sessions. But they gradually shift into something more. Long conversations about nothing and everything. Stupid jokes. Good morning and goodnight texts. The kind of constant communication that happens when you can’t stop thinking about someone.
The last text is still the string of heart emojis he sent in response to your costume photo. You’d been so happy that night, getting ready for the party, excited to show him off to everyone.
And then it all came crashing down.
You start typing before you can stop yourself: I saw you today at the diner. You looked happy. I’m glad. You deserve to be happy. I know you don’t want to hear from me, and I promise this is the last time I’ll bother you. But I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. What I did was unforgivable, and I understand why you hate me. But I need you to know that my feelings were real. Are real. I fell in love with you, Sunghoon. Really, truly in love. And I know that doesn’t excuse what I did, and I know it doesn’t change anything, but I needed to say it. You made me want to be a better person. You made me see that there’s more to life than parties and surface-level friendships and keeping people at arm’s length. You made me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling. And I ruined it. I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me because I was selfish and careless and stupid. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t even expect you to respond to this. I just need you to know that I’m sorry. And that I love you. I’ll always love you.
You read it over three times, your finger hovering over the send button.
Then you delete it.
He’s moved on. He’s happy. And sending that message would just be selfish—making yourself feel better at his expense.
So instead, you close your laptop, turn off your phone, and cry yourself to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up to pounding on your door.
“Go away, Jiwoo,” you mumble into your pillow.
“It’s not Jiwoo.”
You bolt upright. That’s not Jiwoo’s voice. You stumble to the door and open it to find Jay standing there, looking uncharacteristically serious.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“I don’t—”
“It’s about Sunghoon. Let me in.”
Your heart racing, you step aside. Jay walks in, looking around your disaster of an apartment—tissues everywhere, empty takeout containers, your laundry piled in the corner.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You really are a mess.”
“If you came here to insult me—”
“I came here to tell you that Sunghoon is miserable.” Jay turns to face you. “That girl you saw him with? That’s his cousin. She’s visiting for the weekend, and he agreed to show her around campus. But according to Heeseung, the entire time they were at that diner, he kept staring at the door like he was hoping someone specific would walk in.”
Your breath catches. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s too stubborn to admit that he misses you. And you’re apparently too much of a coward to fight for him.” Jay crosses his arms. “Look, what you did was shitty. We all agree on that. But Sunghoon isn’t some innocent victim in all this either.”
“Yes, he is—”
“No, he’s not. He put you on a pedestal. He built up this image of you as this perfect girl who chose him over everyone else, and he didn’t give you room to be human. To make mistakes.” Jay pauses. “I’m not saying what you did was okay. But I am saying that relationships are complicated, and people fuck up, and maybe if you both actually talked to each other instead of suffering in silence, you could figure this out.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Have you actually tried? Like, really tried? Or did you just accept his initial reaction and give up?”
You don’t have an answer to that.
“That’s what I thought.” Jay heads for the door, then pauses. “He’s going to that hiking trail. The one he took you to. He goes every Sunday morning. Maybe you should accidentally run into him.”
“Jay—”
“Or don’t. Keep wallowing in your guilt and let him keep wallowing in his hurt. But I’m telling you, you’re both miserable apart. So maybe it’s worth at least trying to be miserable together.”
He leaves, and you stand in your apartment, his words echoing in your head. Maybe it’s worth at least trying.
Sunday morning dawns gray and overcast, threatening rain.
You almost take it as a sign to stay home. But you’ve spent two weeks being a coward, and you’re done with that.
You dress in the same athletic clothes you wore the first time Sunghoon took you hiking. No makeup, hair pulled back. This isn’t about looking good. This is about being honest.
The drive to the trailhead feels both endless and too short. Your hands shake on the steering wheel, and you have to give yourself a pep talk in the parking lot before you can get out of the car.
Sunghoon’s Honda Civic is already there.
He’s here.
You start up the trail on unsteady legs, every step feeling monumental. The trees are mostly bare now, leaves crunching underfoot, fall having settled fully into the world while you were busy falling apart.
You find him at the clearing overlooking the lake, sitting on the same flat rock where you first kissed him. His shoulders are hunched, head down. Even from a distance you can see the exhaustion in his posture. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping any better than you have. You step into the clearing.
He hears you immediately, head snapping up. When he sees you, his expression cycles through surprise, pain, anger, and finally settles on something carefully neutral.
“What are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“I thought I made it clear—”
“I know. Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and if you still want me to leave after that, I will. I’ll never bother you again.”
A long pause. Then he gestures stiffly to the rock beside him.
You sit, leaving space between you, and for a moment you both just stare out at the lake. The water is choppy today, reflecting the gray sky.
“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “I know that’s not enough. But I need to say it again. What I did was cruel and selfish and unforgivable, and I hate myself for it.”
“Why did you do it?” His voice is quiet. “Was I really that much of a joke to you?”
“No. You were never a joke. That’s the thing—you were supposed to be. It was supposed to be easy. I was supposed to play a part, win the bet, and move on.” You take a shaky breath. “But then I actually got to know you. And everything changed.”
“When?” he asks. “When did it become real?”
“Maybe when you brought me coffee without being asked. Maybe on Heeseung’s balcony. Maybe the first time you made me laugh for real.” You look at him. “I don’t know the exact moment. I just know that somewhere along the way, pretending became impossible because what I felt was completely real.”
He’s quiet. You press on.
“I saw you at the diner with your cousin. I thought she was someone you were moving on with, and it destroyed me. The idea of you loving someone else—” Your voice breaks. “That’s when I knew I couldn’t just accept losing you without a fight.”
“Jay told you she was my cousin,” he says flatly.
“Yes. And Heeseung told me you still had feelings for me. And Jake—” You pause. “Jake warned me weeks ago to tell you the truth. I should have listened.”
“You should have told me from the beginning.”
“I know. I was a coward. I kept telling myself I’d do it tomorrow, and then tomorrow became two weeks, and then it was too late.” Tears stream down your face. “I don’t expect you to forgive me easily. I’m not asking for that. I’m just asking for a chance to prove that I’ve changed. That my love for you is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”
Sunghoon is quiet for so long you think he’s going to ask you to leave. Then he speaks.
“I’ve been miserable without you,” he says roughly. “I’ve been trying to be angry. Trying to hate you. But every time I come here, I think about kissing you on this rock. Every time I tutor someone new, I compare them to you.” He exhales. “I told my cousin about you. She called me an idiot for not hearing you out.”
Something flickers in your chest. “You talked about me?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He finally turns to look at you, really look at you, and his expression breaks open. “You look terrible.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah.” He reaches out hesitantly, brushing a tear from your cheek. The touch sends electricity through you. “I missed you.”
“I missed you every single day.”
“I want to forgive you,” he says slowly. “But I’m scared. How do I trust you again? How do I know this isn’t another performance?”
“You don’t. Not yet. I can’t hand you trust—I have to earn it back. Slowly, honestly, for however long it takes. I’ll be transparent about everything. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll do whatever it takes.” You lace your fingers through his. “Just don’t give up on us before we even try.”
“You’d go to therapy?”
“I’d do anything for you.”
He looks down at your joined hands. “I really loved you. Love you. Present tense. I can’t seem to stop, no matter how hard I try.”
“Then don’t try.” You move closer, until your knees are touching. “Let me love you back. For real this time.”
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, something has shifted.
“No more lies,” he says firmly. “No more games. If we do this, we do it honestly. Complete honesty, always.”
“Complete honesty. Always.”
He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don’t.
When his lips meet yours, it’s careful at first, tentative—like you’re both afraid of breaking something fragile. But then you’re kissing him deeper, pouring everything into it. All the guilt, all the love, all the desperate hope that you haven’t destroyed something irreplaceable.When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.
“I love you,” you whisper. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Even though I probably shouldn’t.”
“We’ll make this work. I promise.”
“We’d better.” He squeezes your hand. “Can I take you to breakfast? Somewhere new. Not the diner.”
“New memories,” you say softly.
“New memories.”
He stands and offers his hand. You take it.
Three months later, you’re back at the library table by the windows.
Actually studying this time. Sunghoon is beside you, working on his thesis, occasionally stealing your coffee or reaching over to help with a problem. His hand finds yours between pages, a habit neither of you noticed developing.
Things aren’t perfect. There have been arguments, moments of doubt, nights where old wounds reopened. But you’ve worked through them. Therapy helped. Honesty helped more.
Mina waves from across the library. Jake gives you shit sometimes, but it’s affectionate now. Heeseung and Jay have folded you into the group like you were always there.
Your life looks different. Quieter in some ways, fuller in others. Less performance, more presence.
“Want to get out of here?” Sunghoon asks, already packing up his bag. “I know this hiking trail…”
You laugh. “Always with the hiking.”
“You love it.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” He takes your hand. “Come on. Let’s go make some more memories.”
Park Sunghoon was never just the biggest nerd on campus.
Pairings: Autistic! Jake x Caretaker! fem! reader
Wordcount:32k
Summary:Hired to help a brilliant, autistic young man navigate a world that is far too loud, you, a newly graduated social worker learns to speak his unique language of logic, LEGOs, and quiet routines. As you become the one permanent variable that makes the static in his mind finally stop, the strict boundaries of your job description slowly blur into a profound, life-changing connection.
Warnings:Caretaker/Client Relationship (Blurring of Professional Boundaries), Autism Spectrum Representation, Sensory Overload & Severe Meltdowns, Ableism & Public Bullying, Mild Self-Harm (Frustration Stimming/Hitting Head - quickly stopped by Yn), Panic Attacks/Hyperventilating, Emotional Angst (Self-Doubt/Feeling "Broken"), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Reader, Extreme Fluff, Touch-Starved Jake, Slow Burn, First Time/Virginity Loss (Jake), Smut (M/F)(FULL CONSENT I’m not a weirdo 😒), Sensory-Focused Intimacy, Emotional Overstimulation (Happy Tears).get those tissues ready for the absolute softest boy.
A/N: can you tell I love writing for jake because I can. I did a lot of watching videos with people that have autism and this fic came to mind, how we all should treat people even if they’re different from us the same because they’re trying too! But I’m such a sappy girl.Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.
[Masterlist]
The diploma on your wall was still crooked. It had been hanging there for three weeks, a piece of expensive cardstock in a cheap black frame that declared you were now a Bachelor of Social Work. It was supposed to feel like a victory lap. Instead, it felt like the starting gun of a race you weren't sure you were qualified to run.
You were twenty-two years old. You had a head full of theory—systems theory, behavioral psychology, crisis intervention models—and absolutely zero real-world experience. The imposter syndrome wasn't just a whisper in the back of your mind; it was a scream.You sat at your small kitchen table, staring at the file folder the agency, New Horizons Support Services, had couriered over that morning.
Client Name: Jake Sim.
Age: 23.
Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1/High Support Needs during sensory events). Notes: History of high caregiver turnover. Client experiences acute sensory overload. Rigid adherence to routine is required. Previous workers reported difficulty establishing rapport."High caregiver turnover." That was the phrase that stuck. In the social work world, that usually meant the client was "difficult"—aggressive, non-verbal, or physically demanding.But looking at the photo clipped to the inside of the file, you didn't see "difficult." You saw a boy—no, a young man—looking away from the camera. He wasn't smiling. His hair was a fluffy, dark brown mop that seemed to be trying to swallow his head. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big. He didn't look aggressive. He looked… retreating. Like he was trying to fold himself into a shape that the world wouldn't notice.You closed the file. You drank your lukewarm coffee. You adjusted your blazer, which felt too stiff and too "adult," and grabbed your keys. "Okay," you whispered to the empty apartment. "Don't mess this up." The house was in a quiet suburb, the kind with manicured lawns and basketball hoops in every other driveway. It was a beige two-story with a wrap-around porch.
You parked your beat-up sedan on the street, checking your watch. 8:55 AM. Five minutes early. "On time is late, early is on time," your practicum supervisor used to say. You walked up the path, your heels clicking loudly on the pavement. You made a mental note to wear sneakers next time if you got the job. Click-clack sounds could be a sensory trigger. Think, Y/N. Think.
You rang the doorbell.It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full eight hours in a decade. She was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as the boy in the photo, but there were deep lines etched around her mouth."You must be Y/N," she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were scanning you, assessing you. It was the look of a mother bear who was tired of fighting off wolves but was ready to do it again if she had to. "Hi. Yes, I am," you said, extending a hand. "It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sim."
"Sarah, please," she shook your hand firmly. "Come in. Take your shoes off at the door, if you don't mind. We try to keep the outside noise… outside."
You stepped into the foyer. It was cool and smelled faintly of lemon pledge and lavender. It was aggressively tidy. Not a speck of dust, not a stray shoe.
"So," Sarah said, leading you toward the kitchen. "You've read the file?"
"I have."
"Forget half of it," she said bluntly. She leaned against the granite island, crossing her arms. "The agency writes those reports to cover their liability. They make him sound like a list of symptoms. 'Sensory processing disorder.' 'Social deficits.' It makes him sound broken." She looked at you, her expression fierce. "Jake isn't broken. He’s just… on a different frequency. He’s brilliant. He’s funny, in his own way. But he feels everything. Imagine if you couldn't turn down the volume on the world. That’s Jake’s life. Every light is a spotlight. Every sound is a siren." You nodded, listening intently. "I understand. My goal isn't to 'fix' him, Sarah. It’s to help him navigate the volume."
Sarah softened. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "The last girl… she treated him like a toddler. She used that high-pitched 'baby voice.' Jake hated it. He’s twenty-three. He’s a grown man. He just needs help with the logistics of being a grown man."
"I promise," you said seriously. "No baby voice."
Sarah smiled, a real one this time. "Okay. He’s in the living room. It’s his… sanctuary. He’s having a good morning, so he’s building. Just… go in slow. Let him come to you. If you push, he’ll shut down."
"Got it."
"Good luck," she whispered. You walked down the hallway. The floorboards were carpeted here, muffling your footsteps. The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio, no hum of appliances. You reached the archway of the living room and stopped.The room was large, with heavy blackout curtains drawn halfway, filtering the morning sun into a soft, hazy glow. The furniture was pushed to the perimeter of the room.The center of the floor was occupied by a city.There were thousands—literally thousands—of LEGO bricks. But they weren't scattered. They were organized into plastic trays by color, size, and function. Grey plates. Blue pins. Technic beams.
And sitting in the middle of it all was Jake.
He looked exactly like the photo, but realer. Vivid. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over a massive, half-built grey structure. He was wearing a faded brown hoodie with fraying cuffs, the hood down, revealing that fluffy hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck.He was muttering. A low, rapid-fire stream of words.
"...clutch power on the 2x4 is insufficient for the torque... need to reinforce the sub-frame... bag twelve, bag twelve, where is the axle connector..."
You took a breath. You stepped into the room.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge you existed. His long, elegant fingers continued to snap pieces together with a rhythmic click-click-click. You remembered your training. Parallel play. Don't force interaction. Join the space. You walked over to the sofa, which was a safe ten feet away from his construction zone. You sat down slowly. You placed your bag on the floor. You didn't pull out your phone. You just sat there, hands in your lap, watching him. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Most people would have been awkward. They would have cleared their throat or tried to start small talk about the weather. But you found yourself strangely captivated. There was something hypnotic about the way he worked. He wasn't playing. He was engineering. He would pick up a piece, rotate it, inspect it for flaws, and then place it with the precision of a surgeon.
He was beautiful. That was the unprofessional thought that popped into your head. He had a strong jawline, soft lips that were currently pursed in concentration, and eyelashes that were unfairly long. Fifteen minutes in, he paused. He held a long, grey Technic beam in his hand. He frowned. He looked at the instruction booklet—which was thick enough to be a phone book—then back at the beam. "The inventory is incorrect," he said. He didn't look at you. He spoke to the air. But it was an opening.
"Is a piece missing?" you asked, keeping your voice low and level.Jake stiffened slightly. He turned his head slowly, like a wary deer. For the first time, you saw his eyes. They were big. That was the only word for them. Big, dark, liquid brown eyes that held a depth of innocence that hit you right in the chest. They were "puppy eyes" in the truest sense—guileless, open, and slightly fearful.He looked at you. He blinked. He looked at your feet. He looked at your hands. Then, finally, he looked at your face.
"It’s not missing," he corrected you. His voice was smooth, deep, and sounded very matter-of-fact. "It’s the wrong molding variant. This is a 32523, but the instructions call for a 32524. The friction ridges are different. If I use this, the stabilizer fin will wobble." He held the piece out, not to you, but in your general direction.
"That sounds frustrating," you said. "A wobble would ruin the structural integrity."
Jake’s eyes widened a fraction. He pulled his hand back. "Yes. Structural integrity is the primary variable. Most people don't care about the wobble."
"Well, if you're building the UCS Millennium Falcon," you said, gesturing to the box you recognized in the corner, "you want it to be perfect. It’s a collector's item."
He froze. He turned his body fully toward you now, abandoning the LEGOs for a second. "You know the model number?" he asked. It was a test. "75192," you said. "Released in 2017. It’s the biggest set they ever made, right?"
You thanked your lucky stars for your younger brother, who had begged for this set for three Christmases in a row.Jake stared at you. He was processing this data. New girl. Not loud. Not baby voice. Knows the Falcon.
"It was the biggest," he corrected gently. "Until the Art World Map. But the World Map is just tiles. It’s 2D. The Falcon is 3D engineering. It’s superior."
"I agree," you smiled. "Maps are boring compared to spaceships."
The corner of his mouth twitched. A micro-smile. It was there and gone in a second, but you saw it. "I'm Jake," he said. He looked at your name tag, which you had clipped to your blazer. "You are Y/N."
"I am."
"Are you going to tell me to clean this up?" He gestured vaguely to the chaos on the floor. "The last one... Jenny. She said it was a tripping hazard. She made me put it in bins before I was done." The distress in his voice was subtle, but clear. He remembered the disruption of his routine. "No," you said firmly. "I am not going to make you clean it up. It’s not a mess, Jake. It’s a system. I can see you have the plates sorted by size." Jake let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you walked in. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him.
"It is a system," he whispered, relieved. "Sorted by function, then color."
He picked up the grey beam again. He looked at it, then at you.
"Do you want to... inspect the sub-frame?" he asked. "It’s very dense."
It was an invitation into his world.You stood up and walked over. You didn't rush. You sat down on the floor, crossing your legs, keeping a respectful distance.
"Show me," you said.For the next two hours, Jake Sim taught you about the physics of plastic bricks. He showed you how the internal technic frame supported the weight of the outer shell. He explained the concept of "SNOT" (Studs Not On Top) building techniques.
He didn't make eye contact often. mostly he looked at his hands or the model. But every now and then, when he was explaining a particularly clever bit of engineering, he would look up at you to see if you were following. And when he saw that you were listening—really listening, not just nodding politely—his face would light up.It wasn't a loud happiness. It was a quiet, glowing satisfaction."You're a good listener," he said abruptly, around 11:30 AM. "Thank you, Jake."
"Most people stop listening after the first sentence about gear ratios."
"I like gear ratios," you lied. Well, a half-lie. You liked him talking about gear ratios.
"Okay," he said. He turned back to the pile. "I'm hungry now. It is Tuesday. Tuesday is grilled cheese."
"Do you want me to make it?"
He paused. He looked anxious. "Do you know the cut?"
"Diagonal?" you guessed. He nodded vigorously. "Diagonal. It tastes better. The surface area of the crust is distributed more evenly."
"I can do diagonal." You went to the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, pretending to read a magazine, but she was clearly listening to the silence in the living room. She looked up as you entered. "He’s... talking," she said, sounding stunned. "I heard him talking."
"He was telling me about the Falcon," you smiled, grabbing the bread. "He’s brilliant, Sarah. He knows more about engineering than I know about anything."
Sarah’s eyes welled up. She blinked them back quickly. "He likes you. He usually ignores them for the first week. Or hides in his room."
"I think we're going to get along just fine."You made the grilled cheese. You cut it diagonally. You placed it on a plate (blue, his favorite color, according to the file).
You brought it to him. He ate it sitting on the floor, wiping his hands meticulously on a napkin between bites so he wouldn't get grease on the LEGOs.
When the shift ended at 3 PM, you felt exhausted but exhilarated. You gathered your bag."I have to go now, Jake," you said.He didn't look up from bag thirteen. "Okay."
"I'll be back tomorrow."He paused. He placed a brick. Then, without looking up, he spoke."Bring sneakers," he said.
"Sneakers?"
"Your shoes," he pointed to your heels you put back on without looking. "They go click-clack. It echoes. Sneakers are quieter. Stealth mode."
You smiled. "Stealth mode. Got it. Sneakers tomorrow."
The morning sun was hitting the pavement differently today. Yesterday, it had felt like a spotlight of judgment; today, it felt like a gentle invitation.You parked your sedan in the same spot, checking the time. 8:50 AM. You were establishing your own routine: ten minutes early, park, breathe, enter. Consistency was the currency of trust, and you intended to be rich in it. You looked down at your feet. Gone were the stiff, "professional" black heels that pinched your toes and echoed like gunshots in a quiet hallway. In their place were a pair of white Converse—clean, soft-soled, and silent. You had spent twenty minutes the night before scrubbing a scuff mark off the toe, irrationally worried that a smudge might disrupt the visual harmony of Jake’s morning. "Stealth mode," you whispered to yourself, grabbing your bag. You walked up the path. You made a conscious effort to step lightly, rolling from heel to toe. The silence was noticeable. You felt less like an intruder and more like a ghost, slipping into the ecosystem without disturbing the wildlife. Sarah opened the door before you could ring the bell. She was holding a mug of coffee with two hands, looking slightly more awake than yesterday, though the tired lines were still etched deep around her eyes. She wore a soft grey cardigan wrapped tight around her frame. She looked down immediately. She saw the sneakers. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—not the polite, strained smile of yesterday, but something softer. A crack in the armor.
"You listened," she said, opening the door wider. "He asked for sneakers," you said simply, stepping into the cool, lemon-scented foyer. "I figure he knows his ears better than I do."
"You’d be surprised how many people argue with him on that," Sarah murmured, closing the door with a soft click. "They say, 'Oh, you'll get used to the noise.' As if he can just will his neurology to change."
"I'm not here to argue with him, Sarah. I'm here to work with him."
"I'm starting to believe you." She gestured toward the kitchen. "He’s eating. It’s a... process. Keep your voice low. Morning transitions are hard. His brain is still booting up." You followed her down the hallway, your rubber soles making no sound against the hardwood. The house was still unnaturally quiet, a sanctuary of stillness against the chaotic world outside. When you entered the kitchen, the scene was almost tableau-like in its precision. The kitchen was bathed in natural light, but the blinds were tilted just so to prevent any glare. At the round wooden table sat Jake.
He was wearing a different hoodie today—a navy blue one, equally oversized, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He was hunched slightly over his plate, his focus absolute. On the plate were two scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon. But "scrambled eggs and bacon" didn't quite do justice to what you were seeing. The eggs were a uniform yellow—no brown spots, no runny bits. They were separated perfectly from the bacon. The bacon itself had been cut into precise, one-inch squares.Jake held his fork in his right hand. He didn't shovel the food. He speared one square of bacon, lifted it, inspected it for a brief second, and then ate it. He chewed rhythmically. He swallowed. He took a sip of water from a clear glass (no ice, you noted—ice clinks). Then, and only then, did he spear a forkful of eggs.
It was a ritual. A sequence.
"Hi, Jake," you said, pitching your voice to a soft murmur, staying near the doorway.
He paused mid-chew. He didn't look up immediately. He finished chewing, swallowed, and took his sip of water. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His hair was messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts in the back, giving him a disarmingly boyish look. His eyes were heavy, blinking slowly as they found you. He looked at your face. Then, immediately, his gaze dropped to the floor. He stared at your white Converse for a long, intense five seconds. You stood perfectly still, letting him inspect the data.
"White," he said. His voice was raspy with sleep, deeper than it had been yesterday.
"White," you agreed. "And rubber soles. No clicking."
He nodded once—a sharp, decisive chin dip. "Stealth mode active."
"Active," you smiled. He turned back to his eggs. "Acceptable." Sarah let out a silent breath beside you. She touched your elbow gently and tilted her head toward the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was close enough to see him, but far enough to talk without hovering over his plate. You followed her, sitting on a wicker chair while she perched on the edge of a loveseat. She watched her son eat with a mixture of fierce love and terrified vigilance. "Okay," Sarah whispered, turning to you. "Lesson number one: The morning sets the algorithm."
You pulled a small notebook out of your bag. "I'm listening."
"Jake’s energy is a battery," Sarah explained, keeping one eye on the navy-hooded figure at the table. "Most of us start the day at 100%. We spend energy, we get tired, we sleep. Jake starts the day at maybe... 60%. Just existing costs him energy. The lights, the texture of his sheets, the smell of the coffee I’m drinking—it all costs him."
You wrote down: Baseline energy lower. High sensory tax.
"If breakfast goes wrong," Sarah continued, her voice tight, "if the eggs are slimy, or the bacon is burnt, or the spoon is the wrong weight... he loses 20% right there. Then he starts the day in a deficit. And a deficit means a meltdown is almost guaranteed by noon."
"So the routine isn't just about being picky," you said, realizing. "It’s about conservation."
"Exactly," Sarah nodded, looking grateful that you got it. "He’s controlling the variables he can control, because the rest of the world is completely out of control for him. That plate?" She pointed to his breakfast. "That’s safety. He knows exactly what the bacon will taste like. He knows the texture of the eggs. It’s predictable. Predictability is safety." You watched Jake spear another square of bacon. The deliberate nature of it made sense now. He wasn't just eating; he was grounding himself for the day ahead. "Tell me about the food," you asked. "I noticed he cut the bacon before he started." "Texture and size," Sarah said. "He has trouble with proprioception—knowing where his body is in space, and sometimes, manipulating utensils while chewing is too much multitasking. If the food is big, he worries about choking. Or getting grease on his face. He hates having a dirty face. It feels like burning to him."
"So we keep it bite-sized," you noted. "Clean face, no unexpected textures."
"And no mixing," Sarah added quickly. "The eggs cannot touch the bacon. If the syrup from a waffle touches the sausage? The whole meal is ruined. It’s contaminated."
"Separation is key."
"Yes." Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her eyes darkening slightly. "The last aide... she thought it was 'silly.' She tried to mix his corn and mashed potatoes to 'save space' on the plate. He flipped the table." You looked at the calm, quiet boy eating his squares of bacon. It was hard to imagine him flipping a table. "He felt bad about it for weeks," Sarah whispered, seeing your expression. "He cried for two days. He kept saying, 'I broke the plate, Mom. I’m bad.' He’s not violent, Y/N. He’s never hurt a fly on purpose. But when the sensory overload hits... it’s like a power surge. His body just explodes to get the feeling out."
"I read about the meltdowns in the file," you said gently. "But the file called them 'behavioral outbursts.'"
Sarah scoffed. "Behavioral implies he’s doing it to get something. To manipulate. He’s not. It’s a system crash. It’s pain. Imagine someone blasts an airhorn in your ear while flashing a strobe light in your eyes and scratching a chalkboard. That’s what a disrupted routine feels like to him. The screaming, the rocking? That’s him trying to survive the input." You looked at Jake again. He had finished his food. He was now wiping his mouth with a napkin. Once. Twice. Fold. Wipe again. "What do I do if he crashes?" you asked. "You don't talk much," Sarah said firmly. "That’s the biggest mistake people make. They try to talk him down. 'Calm down, Jake. Use your words, Jake.' He can't use his words. His language center shuts off. Talking just adds more noise."
"So... silence?"
"Presence," Sarah corrected. "Quiet, heavy presence. He responds to deep pressure. You saw the weighted blanket yesterday? He lives under that thing when he’s stressed. If he’s spiraling, don't touch him lightly—light touch feels like bugs crawling on him. But a firm squeeze? A hand on his shoulder, pressing down? That tells his brain where his body is. It anchors him." You wrote down: No light touch. Deep pressure. Silence > Words. "He’s an empath, you know," Sarah said suddenly, her voice softening. You looked up. "The file said he has 'social deficits.'"
"The file is garbage," Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "He struggles with social cues. He doesn't understand sarcasm or hidden agendas. But emotions? He absorbs them like a sponge. If you are stressed, he will be stressed. If you are sad, he will be devastated. He can't filter out other people's feelings. That’s why he withdraws. It’s too loud emotionally." She looked at you pointedly. "So, you have to be calm. Even if you’re panicking inside, you have to be a rock on the outside. If you bring chaos into this house, he will shatter." It was a heavy responsibility. You were twenty-two. You were barely an adult yourself. But looking at Sarah’s exhausted face, and Jake’s solitary figure at the table, you felt a steel rod of determination form in your spine.
"I can be calm," you promised. "I can be a rock." Just then, the chair scraped against the floor in the kitchen. Jake stood up. He picked up his plate and glass. He walked to the sink, rinsed them both, and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, he turned and walked toward the sunroom. He stopped in the doorway, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked at his mom, then at you. "Breakfast is complete," he announced. "Good job, honey," Sarah said.
Jake looked at you. His eyes were clearer now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by that keen, observant intelligence you had seen yesterday. "Are we going to the living room?" he asked you.
"We can," you said, standing up. "Or we can do something else. What’s the plan for Wednesday?"
Jake frowned slightly. "Wednesday is... mid-week. The energy is medium." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I want to disassemble the sub-frame of the Falcon. I dreamed about a better anchor point for the hyperdrive."
"Disassembly," you nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at your feet again.
"They really are quiet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like a ninja." Then he disappeared down the hallway. Sarah let out a laugh, a short, breathy sound. "A ninja. That’s high praise. He likes ninjas. They have discipline."
"I'll take it," you smiled.
"Go on," Sarah shooed you gently. "I'm going to actually take a shower without worrying the house is burning down. You have the conn."
"I have the conn," you repeated. You walked down the hallway, your sneakers silent on the carpet. You found Jake in the living room, exactly where you left him yesterday. He was kneeling beside the massive LEGO structure. He didn't look up when you entered, but his shoulders didn't tense up either. He knew you were there. He accepted you were there.You walked over to your spot on the sofa and sat down.
"So," you said softly. "The hyperdrive anchor. What was wrong with the old one?"
Jake picked up a section of the ship. He rotated it, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It was too rigid," he said. "If the ship moves, the stress fractures the connector. It needs flex. The universe has flex. Ships should too."
"That’s a good philosophy," you noted. "Flexibility prevents breaking."
He looked up at you then. A long, steady look. "Yes," he said. "
People break because they don't flex. They are rigid about the wrong things."
You felt a chill go down your spine. For someone who supposedly struggled with social concepts, he had just nailed the human condition in two sentences.
"I'll try to be flexible, Jake," you said. "Good," he said. He handed you a small bucket of grey pins. "You can sort these. By length. The short ones go on the left."
It was an order, but it was also an inclusion. He wasn't just letting you watch; he was letting you help. You took the bucket. You slid off the sofa and sat on the floor—keeping a respectful three feet of distance.
"Short ones on the left," you repeated. You worked in silence for twenty minutes. It was a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the click-click of his building and the soft rattle of your sorting.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
He didn't look up. He was fitting a gear into place.
"Thank you for the shoes," he said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "The clicking... it hurts my teeth. It makes my spine feel itchy."
"I didn't know," you said. "I'm sorry about yesterday."
"You didn't know the variable," he said simply. "Now you have the data. You updated your software."
"I did."
"That is efficient." He paused, then added, "Jenny never updated her software. She just wore the loud shoes every day." Your heart broke a little for him. You could imagine him sitting here, day after day, his spine "itching" from the sound, unable to articulate why he was so agitated, while a well-meaning but oblivious support worker clattered around him. "I will always try to update my software, Jake," you vowed. "If something hurts, you tell me. I’ll fix it."
He looked at you. He studied your face, your eyes, your posture. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the condescension. He didn't find it. "Okay," he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, red 2x4 brick. He held it out to you. "This doesn't belong in the Falcon," he said. "The Falcon is grey and beige. This is red. It’s an anomaly." You reached out and took the brick. It was warm from his pocket. "What should I do with it?"
"Keep it," he said, turning back to his work. "It’s a good color. High saturation. But it needs to be somewhere else. You can hold it."
You closed your hand around the red brick. It felt like a token. A peace offering. A key. "I'll keep it safe," you said.You spent the rest of the morning sorting pins and listening to him explain the difference between torque and horsepower. You watched the way his hands moved, so sure and graceful. You watched the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.You thought about Sarah’s warning: He feels everything.You looked at the boy who was building a spaceship to escape to a galaxy far, far away, and you thought, I will make sure this room is safe enough that you don't have to leave.By lunchtime (grilled cheese, diagonal cut, blue plate), you had learned more about thermal exhaust ports than you ever thought possible.
But more importantly, when you put the plate down in front of him, he didn't just stare at the food.He looked up. He gave you a micro-smile—a tiny quirk of the lip.
"Diagonal," he noted approvingly.
"Flexibility," you countered with a smile.
"Touché," he whispered.
And as he took his first bite, you realized that the crooked diploma on your wall didn't matter. The textbooks didn't matter. This mattered. The quiet boy, the blue plate, the silent shoes, and the fragile, beautiful bridge you were starting to build, brick by brick.
The warm, soapy water in the kitchen sink was turning a pale, creamy orange—the remnants of the roasted tomato bisque you had served for lunch. You moved the sponge in slow, rhythmic circles against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, the motion meditative. Three months. It had been ninety days since you first walked into this house with your squeaky dress shoes and your imposter syndrome. Ninety days of learning that "on time" meant ten minutes early, that "quiet" meant silent, and that the world was a cacophony that Jake Sim fought to tune out every single minute of his life. Sarah had left an hour ago. It was a milestone, really. For the first two months, she had hovered. She was a ghost in the periphery—folding laundry in the next room, "checking emails" at the dining table while you and Jake were in the living room, watering plants that were already drowned. You didn't blame her. The stories she had told you about previous support workers were horror shows of incompetence and impatience. But last week, she had looked at you, then looked at Jake, who was calmly explaining the aerodynamics of a LEGO helicopter to you, and she had exhaled. A long, heavy breath that released years of tension.
"I'm going to the grocery store," she had said today, pulling on her coat. "Alone. And then... I might go to the library. I might be gone for three hours."
"Go," you had smiled, handing her keys. "We have the conn."
"You have the conn," she’d repeated, a small, terrified smile on her face.
And she had left. Now, it was just you, the soup bowls, and the faint sounds of explosions coming from the living room. You rinsed the bowl, placing it in the drying rack. You wiped your hands on the towel, taking a moment to scan the kitchen. It was spotless. Jake liked spotless. Clutter was "visual noise." If a spoon was left on the counter, he wouldn't say anything, but he would stare at it, his brow furrowed, his internal processor snagging on the anomaly until you moved it.You thought about the lunch you had just shared. Tomato soup. Pureed. No chunks. You had learned the hard way about Jake’s dietary landscape. It was a map filled with landmines.
No surprises. That was the golden rule. A piece of onion in a smooth sauce was a betrayal. A crunch in a soft food was a systemic failure. And the colors... that was a fascinating chapter in your education. Jake hated white foods. You remembered the "Cauliflower Incident" of Month Two. Sarah had been sick, so you tried to make dinner. You mashed cauliflower, thinking it was a healthy alternative to potatoes. You put a scoop on his blue plate. Jake had looked at it like it was radioactive waste. He had pushed his chair back, his breathing hitching.
"It’s a ghost," he had whispered, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "It has no data. It’s blank."
"It's cauliflower, Jake," you’d said gently.
"It’s deceptive," he’d countered, his voice trembling. "It looks like nothing, but it tastes like wet earth. It’s lying to my eyes." He hadn't eaten it. He hadn't eaten anything that night until you brought him a glass of milk. Milk was the exception. You had asked him why, fascinated by the logic. "Milk is structural," he had explained, drinking it down in three large gulps. "It builds bone density. Calcium is a metal. It’s not food; it’s construction material. Therefore, the color is irrelevant."
Logic. It was always about logic. You smiled to yourself, folding the dish towel. You checked the clock. 1:15 PM. Transition time. You walked out of the kitchen, your worn-in Converse making zero sound on the hardwood. You moved like a shadow, a skill you had perfected to avoid startling him.You stopped in the archway of the living room.The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a twilight effect that Jake preferred. The only light came from the massive 65-inch TV screen, which was currently exploding with red and blue light. Spider-Man: No Way Home. Again. Jake was sitting on the floor. He never sat on the couch when he was watching Spider-Man. He needed to be grounded, literally. He sat on the plush rug, his legs crossed, his posture rigid with focus. And he was wearing the pajamas. It was 1:15 PM on a Tuesday, but Jake was wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas covered in little Miles Morales masks. He had three sets. One with the classic logo, one with the Venom symbiote (which he only wore when he was moody), and this one.
He loved them because they were "high-tensile cotton," soft but durable, with no tags. He loved them because Peter Parker was his hero. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, just watching him.It was... cute. There was no other word for it. He wasn't just watching the movie; he was participating in it. He held a small LEGO minifigure of Spider-Man in his left hand. Every time Tom Holland shot a web on screen, Jake’s left hand would twitch, mimicking the thwip motion. It was a subtle stim, a way of processing the action. You knew why he loved Spider-Man. He had told you, in bits and pieces, over the last three months. "He has to wear the suit," Jake had said once, tracing the logo on his pajama shirt. "Because the world is too loud. The suit dampens the input. It holds him together."
"And the Spidey Sense?" you had asked. "Overload," Jake had replied, his voice serious. "When the air changes pressure. When he hears everything at once. He has to learn to dial it down. That is... relatable." Peter Parker was a boy who was overwhelmed by his own senses, who had to hide his true self to survive, who was awkward and nerdy but deeply good. Of course Jake loved him. Jake was him, just without the radioactive spider bite. On the screen, Spider-Man was swinging through New York, the camera panning dizzyingly. Jake rocked slightly back and forth, syncing his vestibular system with the movement on screen.You waited for a quiet moment in the dialogue before speaking. You never interrupted an action sequence. That was a rule. The scene changed to Peter and MJ talking on a roof. "Does the mask fit today?" you asked softly. Jake didn't jump. He knew you were there. He had probably heard your breathing change when you entered the room.
He turned his head slowly. His hair was a chaotic, fluffy halo around his head—he had shampooed it this morning, and it always got extra floofy on wash days. His big brown eyes blinked at you behind his glasses. "The mask is theoretical," he said. His voice was that familiar, soothing baritone. "But the pajamas are optimal. The flannel is at peak softness."
"They look very comfortable," you said, walking over and sitting on the sofa behind him. You didn't sit on the floor with him unless invited. "Is that the bridge scene?"
"It is the preamble to the bridge scene," Jake corrected gently. He turned back to the TV, but he leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It meant you are safe. You are part of the furniture. I can rest on you. You resisted the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair. You knew he liked head scratches, but only when he initiated. Unexpected touch was "bugs." Initiated touch was "grounding."
"I made a discovery today," Jake said, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"Oh?"
"The soup," he said. "The viscosity was different."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Different bad or different good?"
He paused. He tapped the LEGO minifigure against his knee three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Different... efficient," he decided. "You roasted the tomatoes longer. The caramelization added depth. It reduced the acidity. It was... surprisingly pleasant."
You let out a breath. "I'm glad. I tried a new recipe."
"It is approved," Jake said. "You may add it to the rotation."
"Noted. Roasted tomato bisque: Approved." He went quiet for a moment, watching Peter Parker awkwardly try to explain his feelings to MJ. "Peter is bad at talking," Jake observed. "He is," you agreed. "He gets nervous."
"He has too many variables in his head," Jake said, twisting the LEGO figure. "He wants to say 'I like you,' but his brain is saying 'villains, aunt may, geometry, web fluid.' The output gets jammed."
"Does your output get jammed, Jake?" you asked softly.
He went still. The rocking stopped. He turned his head around to look up at you, craning his neck. His face was upside down from your perspective. His eyes were wide, searching yours. "Sometimes," he whispered. "With you."
Your breath caught. "With me?"
"Yes." He blinked. "Usually, with people, the output is jammed because I don't have the script. I don't know what they want me to say. It’s... static."
He paused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing.
"But with you," he continued, "the output jams because... there is too much data. I want to tell you about the soup. And the LEGOs. And the way your shoes don't make noise. And the way you smell like vanilla and oats. It all tries to come out at once. And I get... stuck."
He looked so earnest, so frustrated by his own inability to verbalize the torrent of thoughts in his head.
"That’s okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say it all at once. You can just give me one piece of data at a time."
He seemed to consider this. He righted his head and turned back to the TV.
He reached into the pocket of his Spider-Man pajama pants. He pulled something out.
He held his hand up over his shoulder, blindly offering it to you.
"Data point one," he said.
You reached out and opened your hand. He dropped a small, plastic object into your palm. It was a LEGO piece. A translucent blue "power blast" piece that came with the Spider-Man sets. It was meant to look like energy or webbing.
"It’s a web," he explained, staring at the screen. "It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." You closed your fingers around the small, sharp plastic. It was better than a diamond ring."Thank you, Jake," you whispered. "I love it."
"It’s polycarbonite," he added practically. "It won't break."
"Neither will we." He hummed—that happy, vibrating sound that meant he was content. He leaned harder against your legs. "Do you want a snack?" you asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "It’s 1:30." Jake stiffened. The snack question. It was always a gamble. "No sweets," he said immediately. "Sugar makes my teeth feel fuzzy sometimes. It makes my brain go bzzzzzt." He made a chaotic hand gesture. "No sweets," you promised. "I was thinking... pretzels? Or cheese cubes?"
"Cheese cubes," he said decisively. "Cheddar. Sharp. Cut into 1x1 centimeter blocks."
"I can do that."
"And... maybe milk?"
"Milk is structural," you recited his rule back to him.
"Correct," he said. "Milk is structural."
You stood up to go to the kitchen. Jake turned to watch you go.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jakey?"
He looked at you, really looked at you, with that puppy-dog innocence that masked a profound, deep-feeling soul.
"Sarah is gone," he stated.
"She is."
"And the house is not on fire."
"Nope. No fire."
"And I am not screaming."
"You are definitely not screaming."
He nodded, a slow, satisfied movement. "This is a successful variable test."
"I think so too."
"Okay. Cheese cubes now."
He turned back to the movie, lifting his LEGO Spider-Man in the air to help Peter Parker swing across the screen. You walked to the kitchen, clutching the translucent blue LEGO piece in your pocket like a talisman. You opened the fridge and pulled out the block of sharp cheddar. You got the knife. You cut the cheese into precise, measured cubes. You thought about the last three months. You thought about the crooked diploma on your wall that you used to feel unworthy of. You didn't feel unworthy anymore. You didn't feel like a social worker "managing a case."
You felt like a web. You were holding him, and he was holding you, and together, you were swinging through the chaos of the world, one quiet, comfortable afternoon at a time. You put the cheese on the blue plate—making sure none of the cubes were touching—and poured the milk. "Coming through," you whispered to the empty kitchen. "Stealth mode active." You walked back into the living room, where the boy in the Spider-Man pajamas was waiting for you, safe in the sanctuary you had built together.
The six-month mark didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived with a quiet, steady hum of competence. You were no longer the nervous grad with the squeaky shoes. You were Y/N, the keeper of the routine, the translator of the static, the one who knew that if the humidity was above 80%, Jake’s hair would frizz and the sensation would make him irritable unless he wore his hood up. You knew him. You knew the specific cadence of his breathing when he was happy (slow, deep) versus when he was anxious (shallow, catching in his throat). You knew that he categorized people by color auras he imagined for them—Sarah was a soft yellow, you were a "protective blue." Sarah trusted you completely now. She had started taking yoga classes on Tuesday mornings. She had gone to lunch with a friend. She was reclaiming pieces of her life because she knew that when she left the house, you had the conn. "We need apples," Jake announced one Tuesday morning. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl. It contained three bananas (too ripe, brown spots—he wouldn't touch them) and one orange. Zero apples. "We do," you agreed, closing the dishwasher. "Honeycrisp. No bruises."
"The Gala ones are mealy," Jake said, a shudder running through his shoulders. "Mealy is... bad texture. It feels like wet sand."
"Honeycrisp it is." He looked at you then. He was wearing his "going out" clothes: dark jeans that were soft and worn-in, and a grey hoodie that didn't have logos. He looked calm. His hands were steady at his sides. "I can assist," he said. You paused. "You want to come to the store?"
"Yes." He nodded once, firmly. "I have calculated the variables. It is Tuesday. The store is statistically less crowded at 10:00 AM. I can select the apples myself. To ensure quality control."
It was a big step. You hadn't taken him to the grocery store in two months. The last time had been... okay, but tense. He had gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles turned white."Are you sure?" you asked gently.
"I am operating at 90% battery," he stated confidently. "I have my hoodie. I am prepared."
"Okay," you smiled, grabbing your keys. "Let’s go on a mission."
The drive was easy. You played his favorite playlist—lo-fi hip hop beats with no lyrics. He tapped his fingers against his thigh in time with the rhythm, looking out the window at the passing trees. "The leaves are changing," he noted. "Entropy."
"It’s pretty though."
"It is acceptable decay," he conceded. You pulled into the parking lot of the massive supermarket. It wasn't too full, just as he predicted. Tuesday mornings were for retirees and stay-at-home parents. You turned off the engine.
"Okay," you said, unbuckling. "Game plan. In, apples, maybe some of that specific cheddar you like, and out. Fifteen minutes max."
"Stealth mission," Jake whispered. You got out of the car. Jake got out.
He reached into his hoodie pocket. And froze. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. Then his jeans. He turned to look at the backseat of your car. "Y/N," he said. His voice wasn't calm anymore. It had a sudden, sharp edge to it.
"What is it?" You walked around the car to him.
"My headphones," he said, staring at the empty backseat. "I... I put them on the table. By the door. I didn't pick them up."
Your stomach dropped. The headphones. The Sony noise-canceling over-ear ones. His shield. His buffer against the world. He never left the house without them.
"Oh, Jake," you said, scanning the car quickly, hoping they had just fallen. But you knew. You had seen them on the console table when you grabbed your keys. You had been so focused on making sure you had your wallet that you hadn't done the equipment check. "I forgot them," he whispered. He looked at the looming sliding glass doors of the supermarket. Suddenly, the building didn't look like a store. It looked like a monster's mouth.
"We can go back," you said immediately. "It’s a ten-minute drive. We’ll go get them."
Jake shook his head. He was clenching his fists at his sides. "No," he said. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to show you he could do it. "No. It’s Tuesday. 10:00 AM. Low crowd density. I can do it. I have to flex."
"Jake, you don't have to flex on this. The store is loud."
"I can do it," he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "If we go back, we lose the window. The crowd density increases after 11:00. We are here. I am capable."
He looked so determined. He pulled his hood up over his head, tightening the strings until only his nose and eyes were visible.
"Hood up," he muttered. "Muffled." You hesitated. Every instinct in your social worker brain said abort mission. But every instinct in your heart wanted to support his autonomy. He was an adult. He was telling you he could handle it. "Okay," you said, your voice low. "But the second—the second—you feel the static getting too loud, you squeeze my hand three times. And we leave. We leave the apples, we leave the cart, we just go. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Three squeezes. Emergency exit." He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Let’s execute." The mistake became apparent the moment the automatic doors whooshed open. You had forgotten how aggressive a grocery store is. You filtered it out—your brain ignored the hum of the freezers, the beep of the scanners, the squeak of cart wheels, the generic pop music playing over the PA system. But for Jake, without his headphones, there was no filter.
He flinched as we stepped onto the linoleum. The air conditioning blasted him, a physical wall of cold air.
"Okay?" you checked, moving close to his side.
"Buzzy," he muttered, keeping his head down. "Lights are... flickering. 60 hertz cycle."
"We'll be fast," you promised. "Produce is right here."
You steered him toward the apples. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He was making himself small.
"Honeycrisp," you said, grabbing a plastic bag. "Help me pick three good ones."
He focused on the task. The task was a lifeline. He inspected the apples with intense scrutiny, turning them over in his hands.
"Bruise," he whispered, rejecting one. "Soft spot."
He found three perfect apples. He placed them in the bag gently.
"Good," he said. "Done."
"Okay. Cheese next? Aisle four."
"Aisle four," he repeated. "Dairy. Cold."
You started walking. The store was indeed mostly empty, but 'mostly' isn't 'completely'.
A cart rattled past us. One of the wheels was stuck, making a rhythmic thud-squeak-thud-squeak sound.
Jake winced. He pressed his shoulder against yours. You leaned back into him, offering your solidity.
"Almost there," you murmured.
We turned into Aisle Four. And that’s when the variables shifted. An employee was restocking the yogurt. He was tossing the plastic containers onto the shelf. Clack. Clack. Clack. At the other end of the aisle, a price scanner beeped loudly. BEEP. And then, the intercom crackled to life. "Price check on register three. Clean up in aisle nine." The voice was distorted, loud, and metallic. It echoed off the high industrial ceilings. Jake stopped walking. "Jake?" you whispered.He didn't answer. He was staring at the yogurt cups. His breathing had gone shallow. In-in-out. In-in-out. "Too many," he whispered. "Too many layers."
"Okay," you said instantly. "We're done. Let’s go."
You reached for his hand.But then, the final variable dropped. A woman turned the corner into the aisle. She was pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller was a baby.
The baby wasn't just crying. It was shrieking. It was that high-pitched, piercing wail that evolution designed to be impossible to ignore. It cut through the air like a jagged knife.Jake gasped. It sounded like he had been punched in the stomach.
His hands flew out of his pockets and slapped over his ears, pressing the fabric of his hood tight against his head. "No," he whimpered. "No no no."
"Jake," you said, stepping in front of him. "Look at me. Eyes on me." But the baby screamed again. A sharp, fluctuating cry. Jake’s knees buckled.
He didn't fall; he crumbled. He dropped straight down to the cold linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. He tucked his head between his knees, his hands clamped over his ears so hard his knuckles were white. "Make it stop," he keened. It was a high, thin sound of pure distress. "It’s needles. It’s needles in my ears."
The woman with the stroller stopped. She looked at the grown man curled on the floor. She looked at you.
"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice loud, concerned but intrusive.
"He's fine," you said, your voice sharp, protective. "Please, just keep moving. The noise." She looked offended, but she pushed the stroller away. The crying faded, but the damage was done. Jake was rocking now. Fast. Forward and back. Forward and back. Thump. His head hit his knees. Thump. "Jake," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. You abandoned the cart. You didn't care about the apples. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here." He couldn't hear you. The static had swallowed him. He was in the red zone. System failure. You saw the panic in his posture. He was hyperventilating, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless strobe to his overloaded brain.You knew what you had to do.You moved in. You sat on the floor behind him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his back against your chest.
You wrapped your arms around his chest, over his arms, locking your hands together.
And you squeezed. "Deep pressure," you whispered into his hood. "I've got you. I am the shield." You squeezed him with everything you had. You compressed his ribcage, grounding him. He fought it for a second, his body rigid and trembling, radiating heat. He let out a sob—a broken, terrified sound. "Hurts," he choked out. "Everything hurts."
"I know," you murmured, resting your chin on top of his hooded head. "I know, baby. Transfer it to me. Give me the noise." You started to rock with him. You synchronized your movement with his. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.People were staring. A manager was walking over, looking concerned.You held up one hand, palm out. Stop.
The manager paused. He saw the way you were holding him. He nodded once and backed off, diverting traffic away from the aisle. Thank god for small mercies.
"Breathe with me," you commanded softly, pressing your sternum against his spine. You took a deep, exaggerated breath. In. You held it. Out. Jake struggled. His breath was catching in jagged hiccups. "Focus on my arms," you said. "Feel how heavy they are. Feel the floor. The floor is hard. You are here. You are Jake. I am Y/N."
"Y/N," he gasped. It was a lifeline.
"That’s right. I'm right here. I forgot the headphones, Jake. I’m so sorry. I messed up. But I’ve got you now." He was shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him.
We sat there on the floor of Aisle Four for what felt like an eternity. It was probably ten minutes. Slowly, the rocking slowed. His hands, still clamped over his ears, loosened their grip slightly.
"Static," he whispered. "It’s... lowering."
"Good. Keep breathing."
"The baby?"
"Gone. The baby is gone."
He slumped back against you, his weight fully supported by your chest. He was exhausted. A meltdown burned energy like a marathon. "I fell down," he whispered, shame creeping into his voice. "You sat down," you corrected firmly. "You did what you needed to do to survive the input. That is valid."
"People are looking."
"Let them look. They’re just jealous of how good I am at hugging."
He let out a weak, watery huff of laughter. It was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension. "Okay," you said, loosening your grip just a fraction. "Can we move? Or do we need more time?"
"Car," he said immediately. "I want the car. The bubble."
"Okay. We're going to the car. Do you want to walk, or do you want me to help you?"
"Help," he whispered. "My legs are... jelly. The signal is weak."
"I've got you."
Standing up was an ordeal. You had to hoist him up, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes squeezed shut, hiding inside his hood.
You left the cart with the apples and the cheese. You didn't look back.
The walk to the exit was a gauntlet, but you moved fast. You glared at anyone who lingered too long with their gaze. Move along, your eyes said. This is my person.
When the automatic doors whooshed open, the humid, real air hit you. It was better than the recycled freeze of the store.
You got him to the passenger side. You opened the door. He practically collapsed into the seat. You ran around to the driver's side and got in. You locked the doors. You didn't start the car. You just sat in the sudden, blessed silence of the sedan.
Jake pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball on the seat. He pulled his hood down further. "I failed," he said. His voice was muffled and thick with tears.
"No," you said, turning to him. "No, you didn't."
"I did," he insisted, a sob breaking through. "I said I could do it. I said I could flex. But I broke. The baby cried and I broke." He turned his head to look at you, and your heart shattered. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with such profound disappointment in himself. "I wanted to be good for you," he whispered. "I wanted to show you I could be normal." You unbuckled your seatbelt. You reached across the console. You couldn't hug him fully, so you put your hand on his knee and squeezed hard. "Jake," you said fiercely. "You are good. You are so good. You don't have to be 'normal.' Normal is boring. Normal is overrated."
"But I ruined the mission. No apples."
"Screw the apples," you said. "Jake, look at me."
He blinked at you. "This was my fault," you said. "I forgot the headphones. I am the support worker. It is my job to check the equipment. I sent you into a construction zone without a hard hat. Of course it hurt. That’s not you failing. That’s physics."
"Physics?"
"Yes. If you pour too much water into a cup, it spills. The store poured too much noise into your ears. You spilled. That’s just cause and effect."
He sniffled, processing this logic. "So... I didn't malfunction?"
"No. Your sensors were just overwhelmed. And you know what? You signaled. You didn't scream at the lady. You didn't throw the yogurt. You sat down. That was control."
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It felt like dying."
"I know," you softened. "I know it did. And I am so, so sorry I let that happen to you."
He looked at your hand on his knee. He reached out and covered it with his own. His hand was cold and clammy. "You squeezed me," he said softly.
"Always."
"You blocked the noise. You felt like... a wall."
"I will always be your wall, Jake." He looked up at you then, and the look in his eyes was so open, so raw, it took your breath away. It wasn't the look of a client looking at a worker. It was the look of a man looking at his safe harbor. "I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered, reaching up to touch your cheek. You hadn't realized you were crying until he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "I'm not sad," you lied, your voice wavering. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt."
"I'm okay now," he said. "The static is gone. You're here."
He leaned his head across the center console, resting it awkwardly on your shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, the gear shift was digging into his side, but he needed the contact.
"Can we go home?" he asked. "To the blanket?"
"Yes," you sniffed, resting your cheek on his head. "Home. Blanket. And I’m ordering pizza. No cooking tonight."
"Pizza," he agreed. "Pepperoni. Symmetrical distribution."
"Symmetrical distribution," you promised.
You started the car. The engine purred to life. As you drove out of the parking lot, He reached over and took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed three times.
Thank you
It was the signal you had established for "emergency exit," but in the quiet of the car, with the sun filtering through the trees, it felt like it meant something else entirely.
You squeezed back three times.
You're Welcome
You drove home in silence, hand in hand, the apples forgotten, but the trust between you stronger than any reinforced concrete. You had weathered the storm. You had survived the spill. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as you had the conn, he would always be safe.
The plan for New Year’s Eve was simple, safe, and delightfully boring. You were going to wear your ugliest, most comfortable sweatpants, order an obscene amount of pad thai, and binge-watch the new drama that had dropped on Netflix. You had bought a bottle of cheap sparkling cider (because champagne gave you a headache) and planned to be asleep by 12:05 AM. You were looking forward to the silence. After 9 months of working as a support specialist—a job that required hyper-vigilance, constant emotional regulation, and a lot of noise management—silence was a luxury.
Then, at 9:45 PM, your phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Sarah Sim.
Your stomach did a little flip. Sarah never called after hours unless something was wrong. You answered immediately, pausing the drama where the lead actors were staring longingly at each other in the rain. "Sarah? Is everything okay?"
"Y/N, I am so sorry," Sarah’s voice was breathless, pitched high with stress. In the background, you could hear the distinct panic motion. "I hate to do this to you on a holiday. I really, really hate it."
"Sarah, breathe. What’s going on?"
"It’s my sister. Linda. She slipped on some ice in her driveway and... well, it looks like she broke her hip. She’s at the ER, and her husband is out of town on business, and the kids are..." She trailed off, a jagged sound of frustration escaping her. "I have to go. I’m preparing to go there now. But I can't take Jake. The ER waiting room on New Year's Eve? It would be a nightmare. The sirens, the people, the smell of antiseptic... he’d spiral before we even checked in."
"Say no more," you said, already standing up and reaching for your keys. "I’m coming over."
"Are you sure? It’s New Year’s. You must have plans. You’re twenty-three, you should be out at a party."
You laughed, grabbing your coat. "My plans involved noodles and pajamas, Sarah. I’m not missing anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."
"Thank you," she sobbed, a sound of pure relief. "Thank you. He’s... he’s anxious. The fireworks have started early in the neighborhood. He’s got his headphones on, but he’s pacing."
"I’ve got him," you promised. The drive to the Sims' house was a gauntlet of festive chaos. Even though it wasn't even 8:00 PM yet, the suburbs were alive. You saw teenagers running on lawns with sparklers, and every few minutes, a distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoed off the houses.
You gripped the steering wheel tighter. You knew exactly what those sounds were doing to Jake. To him, a firecracker wasn't a celebration. It was a sonic assault. It was unpredictable, sharp, and threatening. It was a breach of the peace he worked so hard to maintain. When you pulled into the driveway, Sarah was already standing on the porch. The front door was open behind her, spilling warm yellow light onto the snow-dusted concrete. She had her purse over one shoulder and her car keys clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a coat over what looked like lounge clothes.
"You made good time," she said as you walked up the path, your sneakers silent on the pavement.
"Traffic was light," you said. "Go. Go take care of your sister. Don't worry about anything here."
"He’s in the living room," Sarah said, glancing back at the house. "He ate dinner—chicken nuggets, oven-baked, no sauce. He’s... rigid tonight. The noise is getting to him. He keeps checking the windows."
"I'll handle it," you assured her. "We'll build a fort if we need to. We'll turn up the white noise."
She squeezed your arm, her eyes wet. "You're a lifesaver, Y/N. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, Sarah."
She hurried to her car, and you watched her back out before you turned to the house. You took a deep breath, shaking off the cold and the residual stress of the drive, and stepped inside.The transition was instant. The outside world was a cacophony of wind and distant explosions. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The air smelled of lemon and old books. It was warm.You locked the door behind you, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. "Stealth mode active," you whispered to yourself, toeing off your shoes and leaving them on the mat.You walked down the hallway. The house felt different at night. The shadows were longer, the silence heavier. You could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that radiated from the living room. You reached the archway.
The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room against the flashing lights outside. The only illumination came from the TV screen. Jake was sitting on the couch.Usually, he sat on the floor with his LEGOs, or in his recliner. But tonight, he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to his chest.
He was wearing a blue hoodie you hadn't seen before. It looked incredibly soft, a velvet-touch fabric that caught the light of the TV. His pajama pants were a dark plaid flannel. He had his big Sony headphones on, but they were slightly askew, as if he had been adjusting them frequently.He was watching Big Hero 6. The scene where Baymax and Hiro are flying over San Fransokyo at sunset. It was a quiet, visually stunning scene.
He didn't hear you come in.
You stood there for a moment, just watching him. He looked small. He was a grown man, broad-shouldered and tall, but curled up like that, protecting his vital organs from the invisible threat of the noise, he looked like the boy in the file photo from six months ago.You stepped into his line of sight, moving slowly so you wouldn't startle him.Jake’s head snapped up. For a second, there was fear in his eyes—a deer-in-headlights look. Then, recognition flooded in. His face transformed. The tension in his jaw released. His shoulders dropped three inches.
His eyes—those big, expressive, puppy-dog eyes that had hooked you from day one—lit up. It wasn't a dramatic smile; it was a softening. A light turning on in a dark room. He pulled his headphones down around his neck.
"Y/N," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly, walking over to the couch. "Your mom had to go help her sister. So you're stuck with me tonight."
"I am not stuck," he corrected immediately, uncurling his legs. "This is an upgrade. Mom is stressed. Her aura is jagged yellow. You are blue. Blue is calm."
You smiled, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, giving him space but close enough to be an anchor. "I'm glad I'm blue. How are you holding up? It’s loud out there." Jake frowned, looking toward the curtained window.
"The explosions are irregular," he murmured. "There is no pattern. Pop. Then silence. Then boom. My brain tries to predict the next one, but it can't. It’s a broken algorithm."
He picked at the fuzz on his blue hoodie. "I hate the sound. It vibrates in my teeth."
"I know," you said sympathetically. "It’s the worst kind of noise."
"But..." He hesitated. He looked at the TV screen, where colorful lights were dancing. "I like the data. I like the chemistry."
"The chemistry?"
"Strontium carbonate," he said, listing it like a fact from a textbook. "That makes red fireworks. Barium chloride makes green. Copper chloride makes blue. It’s just burning metal. It should be beautiful. Physics is beautiful."
He looked at you, his expression wistful and sad. "I want to see the chemistry. But I can't handle the physics of the sound wave."
Your heart gave a little tug.You thought about the parking lot downtown. The one on the hill that overlooked the river. It was a popular spot, but if you stayed in the car...
An idea formed."Jake," you said slowly. "What if I told you there was a way to see the chemistry without feeling the sound wave?" He tilted his head. "That is impossible. Light and sound travel together. Well, light is faster, but the sound always arrives."
"Not if we're in a bubble," you said. "My car. It’s insulated. If we drive to the lookout, park, roll the windows up tight, turn on the heater, and put your headphones on... you’d see them through the windshield. But you wouldn't hear the boom. Or at least, it would be a tiny thud. Not a bang."
He stared at you. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was calculating the risk. "The car is a Faraday cage," he whispered. "For sound."
"Exactly. A shield." He looked at the window, then back at you. He trusted you. You had established that over six months of grilled cheese sandwiches and LEGO builds. You were the one who saved him in the grocery store. You were the one who brought the frozen peas for his headache.
"Can I bring my blanket?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And the headphones?"
"Non-negotiable."
He took a deep breath. He stood up. He smoothed down the front of his soft blue hoodie.
"Okay," he said. "Let’s go to the bubble."
The preparation for the expedition was precise.
Jake put on his shoes (velcro, no laces to trip on). He grabbed his grey weighted blanket. He put his headphones on, checking the battery life (84%—acceptable). He grabbed a small bag of pretzels, just in case he needed to chew to regulate his jaw tension.
You walked him to your car. The cold air bit at your cheeks. Somewhere down the street, a firecracker went off—a sharp CRACK. Jake flinched violently, stopping in the middle of the driveway. His hands flew to his ears over the headphones.
"Hey," you said, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the street. "Eyes on me. Look at my coat. Look at the buttons." He focused on your coat. He breathed in. He breathed out.
"Car," he gasped.
"Car," you agreed.
You got him inside and slammed the door. You ran to the driver's side and got in. You immediately cranked the heater and turned on the radio to a classical station—low, steady cello music. "Status?" you asked, looking at him. He was adjusting his headphones. He pushed the noise-canceling button. The world outside muted.
"Status green," he said, though his voice sounded far away to himself. "The seal is tight."
"Okay. We're moving."
The drive to the lookout took twenty minutes. The traffic was light; most people were already at their parties. You drove carefully, avoiding potholes, keeping the ride as smooth as possible. Jake sat in the passenger seat, clutching his weighted blanket to his chest. He watched the streetlights pass by, counting them under his breath.
"You look nice," he said suddenly. You glanced at him, surprised. You were wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat. You had zero makeup on. "I look like a marshmallow, Jake."
"No," he said seriously. "Your face is... nice. And you look calm. You always look calm. It makes the inside of the car feel slow."
"Slow is good?"
"Fast is scary. Slow is safe. You feel safe."
You felt a flush rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the heater. "Thank you, Jake. You look nice too. That hoodie looks very soft."
He looked down at his chest. He rubbed the fabric. "It is velvet-fleece blend. Sarah bought it. I usually only wear hoodies with zippers, but this one... the texture is superior. It feels like a cat."
"A cat hoodie. I like it." You reached the lookout. It was a large paved lot on a bluff overlooking the River. Across the water, the city skyline was lit up. There were other cars parked there, facing the river, their engines idling, mist rising from their tailpipes.
You found a spot near the edge, away from a truck that was blasting bass-heavy music. You put the car in park. "We have arrived," you announced.
Jake leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The view was panoramic. The dark water reflected the city lights, creating a shimmering mirror.
"The vantage point is optimal," he noted.
"We have about fifteen minutes until midnight," you said, checking the dashboard clock. 11:45 PM.
"Fifteen minutes," Jake repeated. "900 seconds."
He leaned back, relaxing slightly. He pulled the weighted blanket up so it covered his chin, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. He looked like a cozy, anxious turtle. "Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Why are you here?"
The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"
"It’s New Year's Eve," he said. "The social convention is to be at a gathering. Drinking ethanol. Counting down with many people. You are twenty-three. The data suggests you should be partying." He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.
"I didn't want to be at a party," you said honestly. "Parties are loud. And the floor is usually sticky. And you have to talk to people you don't know."
"You don't like loud?" Jake looked surprised.
"Not really. I do it for work, but... I like quiet. I like slow."
"Like the car."
"Like the car." You turned in your seat to face him fully. "And besides... I’d rather be here. With you." Jake went still. He stared at you. You could see him processing the statement, turning it over in his mind, looking for the hidden meaning.
"With me?" he whispered. "But I am... work."
"No," you shook your head gently. "You stopped being just work a long time ago, Jake. We're friends. Right?"
He blinked. "Friends."
"Yes. And I like hanging out with my friend. Especially when he teaches me about strontium carbonate." A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He snuggled deeper into his blanket. "Friends," he tested the word. "That is... acceptable. Highly acceptable."
He looked back out the windshield. "Sarah says friends don't get paid to hang out."
"Well, tonight I'm not getting paid," you lied (technically the agency would bill for this, but the sentiment was real). "Tonight I’m just Y/N."
"Just Y/N," he echoed. "And just Jake."
"Just Jake."
The dashboard clock clicked to 11:59 PM.
"One minute," you said. "Sixty seconds."
Jake tensed up. He pressed his hands over his headphones, ensuring the seal was perfect. "The bubble holds," he whispered to himself.
"The bubble holds," you confirmed.
Across the river, in the city center, a single flare shot up into the sky. A white streak against the black. Then—bloom. A massive golden sphere exploded in the air. It was huge, glittering, and silent. Inside the car, you heard nothing. Just the cello music and the heater. Jake flinched visually when the light exploded, his shoulders jerking up. He waited. He braced himself for the boom.
One second. Two seconds. No boom. Just a soft, dull thud that vibrated vaguely in the floorboards, barely noticeable. Jake let out a breath. His shoulders dropped.
Another one went up. Red this time. Strontium carbonate. It burst into a heart shape.
Jake leaned forward. He pressed his hands against the dashboard. His eyes went wide. "Red," he breathed. Then came the finale. The sky erupted. Greens, blues, purples, golds. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of chemistry and light. The river below caught the reflections, doubling the show.
You weren't watching the sky.
You were watching Jake.
The colored light from the fireworks washed over his face in waves—blue, then red, then gold. His glasses reflected the explosions, making his eyes look like they held galaxies.
His mouth was slightly open in awe. The fear was completely gone, replaced by a childlike wonder that was so pure it made your chest ache. He wasn't the anxious young man in the grocery store aisle. He wasn't the client with the file. He was just a boy loving the lights.
He looked beautiful.
The soft slope of his nose, the messy hair falling over his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught the light. You felt a swell of emotion so strong it almost knocked the wind out of you. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just protectiveness.
It was love. You had known it for a while, but here, in the quiet bubble of the car, with the new year raining down in sparks of fire, it felt undeniable.
Suddenly, Jake turned his head.
He caught you staring. Usually, when you were caught staring, you would look away. You would check your phone. You would pretend you were looking past him.
But tonight, you didn't. You held his gaze. The fireworks were still exploding behind him, framing his silhouette in halos of light.Jake looked at you. He saw the way you were looking at him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his shoes.
He smiled.It wasn't his polite smile. It wasn't his nervous smile. It was an innocent, soft, intimate smile that said I see you seeing me, and I am okay with it.
He reached up and pulled one side of his headphones back, just an inch, breaking the seal.
"Happy New Year, Y/N," he said softly.
The cello music swelled. The heater hummed.
"Happy New Year, Jake," you whispered.
He didn't put the headphone back. He kept looking at you. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, one he probably didn't even realize he made, but you saw it.
"The chemistry is beautiful," he said.
"Yeah," you breathed, looking right into his brown eyes. "It really is."
He held your gaze for another long second, the air between you thick and warm and incredibly soft. It felt like the start of something. Not a frantic race, but a slow, steady walk.Then, he turned back to the windshield as a massive blue weeping willow firework drifted down toward the water. "Copper chloride," he noted, sliding his headphone back into place. But he reached out his hand, the one not holding the blanket, and placed it palm-up on the center console.
It was an invitation. You reached out and placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours. His hand was warm. He squeezed three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You squeezed back three times.
The fireworks ended. The smoke drifted over the river. The year turned over.
But in the quiet car, holding Jake’s hand while he hummed a happy little tune under his breath, you knew the best part of the year had already begun. The new year didn't come in with a bang. It came in with a soft, steady warmth, wearing a blue hoodie and holding your hand.
March arrived with a slow, hesitant thaw, washing away the stubborn winter snow and leaving behind a world that felt raw, muddy, and ready to wake up.
It had been months since you first walked up the driveway of that quiet suburban home, a fresh-faced social work graduate clutching a file folder that tried to summarize a human being into a list of clinical symptoms. Back then, you had been terrified of making a mistake, of wearing the wrong shoes or breathing too loudly. Now, as the first hints of spring began to show through the living room windows, you navigated the complex, beautiful landscape of Jake Sim’s life with a quiet, practiced confidence.
You were officially his support worker. But unofficially, you had become his translator, his anchor, and his closest confidante. The boundaries of your job description had blurred into a deep, unwavering affection. You weren't his girlfriend—you strictly maintained your professional role, aware of the ethics and the fragile nature of his trust—but the feelings you harbored for the twenty-four-year-old were a warm, heavy reality in your chest that you could no longer deny.
Over the winter, the walls Jake had built to protect himself from a world that was too loud, too bright, and too unpredictable had slowly begun to lower. He was more trusting now. The rigid, closed-off young man from the file was gone, replaced by someone who sought out your presence.
You knew him completely. You knew his dietary map so well you didn't even need to consult the notes Sarah had left you on your first day. You knew he despised the texture of anything "mealy," like certain types of apples or boiled potatoes. You knew he had a strict rule against white-colored foods because they felt "deceptive" to his brain, with the sole exception of milk, which he categorized as "structural calcium" rather than a beverage. You had even managed to successfully introduce new variables into his routine. It had happened on a quiet Tuesday in early March. You had taken a massive gamble and driven him to a small, dimly lit Mexican restaurant on the edge of town for a late lunch. Jake had been rigid in the passenger seat, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray hoodie.
"Spicy is a pain signal," he had informed you, his brow furrowed anxiously behind his glasses. "Capsaicin tricks the brain into thinking the tissue is burning. I do not wish to be tricked. My baseline for sensory input is already at capacity."
"I promise we won't get anything spicy," you had assured him, parking the car in the empty lot. "But they have chips. Corn chips. And I think you’ll like the texture. They're uniform and crunchy." He had agreed to the mission, trusting you enough to step inside. The restaurant was practically deserted, which kept his anxiety at bay. When the basket of warm tortilla chips arrived, Jake had inspected one like a scientist examining a new element. He noted the uniform triangle shape. He took a tiny bite.
The loud, satisfying crunch made his eyes widen. He hummed, a low vibration of approval in his chest.
Then, you introduced the mild salsa. You explained that it was blended completely smooth—no hidden chunks of onion or tomato to surprise his palate. He had dipped the microscopic corner of a chip into the red sauce. He ate it. He blinked, processed the flavor profile, and dipped again, a little deeper this time.
"The acidity of the tomato cuts through the oil of the corn chip," he had observed, looking at you with a profound sense of realization. "It is mathematically balanced. It is... highly acceptable."Chips and smooth salsa had instantly become a staple. You started keeping jars of it in the pantry, and he would happily eat it as a snack while watching his shows.That same evening, the shift in his trust had become distinctly physical. You were sitting on the couch in the living room, the blackout curtains drawn, watching an animated movie.Usually, when you watched movies, Jake would either sit on the floor, grounded on the rug, or he would sit on the far end of the sofa, leaving a careful, deliberate two-foot gap between you. He wasn't big on physical proximity unless he was in the middle of a meltdown and needed deep pressure to ground himself.But that night, he had sat down on the sofa and looked at the gap. He looked at you. And then, he scooted over.He didn't press flush against you, but the gap shrank to a mere inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. When he leaned forward to watch a visually intense scene, his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn't pull away.You had frozen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering tap-dance against your ribs. You didn't pull away, but you didn't push closer, either. You just sat there, hyper-aware of his presence, feeling incredibly honored that he felt safe enough to let his guard down and share your personal space.
A few days later, a new sensory challenge presented itself.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. The house was quiet, but Jake was not. He was pacing the length of the living room, his steps heavy and agitated. He kept reaching up to swat at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing as if something invisible was attacking him. "Jake?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter, where you were organizing his schedule for the week. "Is your shirt tag bothering you? I can cut it out."
He stopped pacing. He looked at you, his brown eyes clouded with severe distress. He reached up and grabbed a handful of his dark, fluffy hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten long over the winter—curling over the tops of his ears and brushing against the collar of his hoodie. "It’s not the shirt," he said, his voice tight and breathless. "It’s my hair. It’s touching me. Every time I turn my head, it feels like cobwebs. Constant, heavy cobwebs. It is distracting my processor. The input is overwhelming."
"Do you want me to ask your mom to make an appointment at the barber?" you suggested gently. The look of sheer, visceral terror that crossed his face made you instantly regret the question. The barber was a sensory nightmare for him. It meant the loud buzzing of electric clippers vibrating against his skull, the strong smell of chemical barbicide, the bright fluorescent lights, and the unpredictable, light touch of a stranger’s hands on his sensitive scalp."No," he breathed, taking a step back, his hands flapping slightly at his sides as he tried to regulate his rising panic. "No barber. The buzzing hurts my teeth. The cape is too tight on my throat. I can't. I can't go."
"Okay," you said instantly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "No barber. I promise, Jake. We won't go." You thought for a second, watching him scratch frantically at the back of his neck.
"What if... what if I did it?" you offered.
He blinked, his hands freezing. "You?"
"Me. Right here in the kitchen. No buzzing clippers, just regular scissors. We can take breaks whenever you need to. I won't tie a cape around your neck; we'll just use your favorite soft towel."
He considered this. His logical brain weighed the risk of a bad haircut against the immediate relief of getting the "cobwebs" off his neck. He looked at your hands. He trusted your hands."Do you have the data?" he asked skeptically. "Are you trained in cosmetology?"
"I don't have the data yet," you admitted with a reassuring smile. "But I have YouTube. Give me ten minutes to study the algorithm."
He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Okay. Ten minutes."
You set up a wooden dining chair in the middle of the kitchen linoleum. You found a pair of sharp styling shears Sarah kept in the bathroom vanity. You propped your phone up against the sugar bowl and watched a video titled How to Trim Men's Medium Length Hair - Scissors Only.When you were ready, Jake walked into the kitchen. He had changed into an old, faded t-shirt. He sat down in the chair, his posture rigid as a board. You draped his favorite plush bath towel over his shoulders, securing it loosely with a binder clip so nothing constricted his throat."Okay," you murmured, standing behind him. "I'm going to touch your hair now. Deep pressure, just like we always do."
"Deep pressure," he echoed, closing his eyes tightly.
You placed your hands firmly on his scalp, letting him feel the solid weight of your touch before you ran a comb through his dark waves. He shivered slightly, but he didn't pull away."I'm going to start at the back," you narrated, knowing that unexpected sensory input was his biggest trigger. "You're going to hear the scissors. They make a sharp snip sound."
Snip. Snip.
"It sounds like a metronome," Jake observed softly, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair seat. "A fast metronome."
"Just focus on the rhythm," you soothed, working meticulously.
You weren't a professional, but you were infinitely careful. You trimmed the heavy curls away from his collar. You cleared the bulk from the sides. Every time you had to fold his ear down to cut around it, you warned him first.
It took forty-five minutes. A barber would have been done in ten. But this wasn't about efficiency; it was about safety. He sat perfectly still for you, enduring the falling hair and the metallic snip of the blades because he knew you were on the other end of them."Alright," you said finally, stepping back and carefully brushing the loose trimmings off the towel. "I think we're done, Jake. The cobwebs are gone."
He opened his eyes. He reached a hesitant hand up to the back of his neck. He felt the smooth skin, the clean line of hair that no longer brushed his collar. He felt around his ears, marveling at the empty air.
A slow, brilliant smile broke across his face. He stood up, shaking off the towel, and turned to look at you."It is optimal," he breathed, running his long fingers through the top of his hair, which you had left perfectly fluffy. "The static is reduced. My head feels... lighter. The processing speed is back to normal."
"You look very handsome," you smiled, reaching out to brush a stray clipping from his shoulder."Thank you, Y/N," he said softly, holding your gaze for a long moment. "I trust your scissors."
The trust they shared spilled over into the following week.
It was a chilly afternoon, the kind that made the house feel like a cozy, insulated bubble. It was the perfect afternoon for baking. "Cookies," Jake had announced around 2:00 PM, pulling his favorite glass mixing bowl from the cabinet. "The barometric pressure is low. We need to introduce a superior olfactory variable. Vanilla and butter."
"Sugar cookies?" you asked, rolling up your sleeves and washing your hands.
"Cutouts," he specified, retrieving his plastic container of cookie cutters.
Baking with Jake was a science experiment. He didn't believe in "eyeballing" ingredients. Everything was leveled with the flat edge of a butter knife. The dough had to be chilled for exactly thirty minutes. You did the main work—measuring, mixing, and rolling the heavy dough out flat on the counter—while he stood close beside you, supervising the chemistry of it all.
When it was time to cut the shapes, Jake took over. He treated the rolled-out dough like a puzzle of spatial geometry. He had chosen the star cutter and a specific dinosaur cutter.
"The goal is optimization," he explained seriously, pressing the star into the very edge of the dough. "We must minimize the negative space between the shapes to reduce the need for re-rolling. Re-rolling introduces excess flour and toughens the gluten matrix."
"You are a cookie architect," you laughed, watching his precise, careful movements.
"I am maximizing yield," he corrected gently, pressing the dinosaur cutter down directly next to the star.
You took the filled trays and slid them into the oven. "Okay, timer set for twelve minutes." But variables happen. Your phone buzzed on the counter—it was a call from the agency about a sudden change in scheduling protocols. You answered it, stepping into the hallway so you wouldn't disturb Jake, who was focused on washing the mixing bowl. The coordinator on the phone was chatty, and you got pulled into a frustrating, complicated discussion about paperwork.
You didn't hear the oven timer go off over the sound of the phone call.
You smelled it first. The sweet, buttery scent of baking cookies suddenly turned sharp, followed by the undeniable, acrid smell of burning sugar.
"Oh, shoot!" you gasped, hanging up on the coordinator mid-sentence.
You ran into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, and yanked the trays out. Smoke billowed into the air.You slammed the trays onto the stovetop. The cookies were ruined. The stars were a dark, unhappy brown, and the dinosaurs looked like they had been caught in a prehistoric meteorite strike. They were hard as rocks and blackened around the edges."Dammit," you sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You felt a hot prickle of tears in your eyes. You were his support worker; you were supposed to be on top of things. You had ruined his perfectly optimized geometric dough because you were distracted.Jake turned around from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at the smoking trays. He looked at your face.
He saw the disappointment. He saw the way you were picking at your thumbnail—a nervous habit he had memorized over the last six months.
He walked up to the stove. He looked at the burnt, sad little dinosaurs.
He reached out and picked one up. It was still hot, but he barely flinched.
"Jake, don't, it’s going to taste like ash," you warned, reaching out to stop him.
He lifted the burnt cookie to his mouth and took a bite.
A loud, aggressive CRUNCH echoed in the kitchen. You winced, waiting for him to spit it out. You knew how sensitive his palate was. Bitter flavors were usually an instant, gag-inducing rejection.He chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. He looked at the cookie, then looked at you.
"The structural integrity is phenomenal," he stated, his face completely serious.
"Jake, they're burnt."
"They are heavily caramelized," he corrected smoothly. "The Maillard reaction was simply allowed to progress further than usual. It adds a... bold, smoky complexity."
He took another bite. Another loud crunch.
"And the crunch is superior," he continued, holding eye contact with you. "Soft cookies crumble. These cookies are resilient. They require effort. I appreciate the effort."
He was overriding his own intense sensory aversions. He was eating a burnt, bitter cookie just to protect your feelings, to make sure you didn't feel like you had failed him. He was a total sweetheart, wrapping his rigid sensory needs around his care for you.Your heart melted right into the linoleum. You couldn't help yourself—you walked over and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face into his chest in a brief, fierce hug.
"You are the absolute sweetest guy in the world, Jake Sim," you mumbled against his shirt.He patted your back awkwardly but affectionately with his free hand. "I am just analyzing the data," he said, taking a third, agonizingly crunchy bite. "But thank you. They really are good."The emotional safety established on those quiet afternoons paved the way for something far more delicate.
It happened late one evening, a few days later. Sarah had gone to a late movie with a friend, leaving the two of you in the living room. The lights were dimmed, and the TV was playing softly in the background.
Jake was sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his hoodie. He had been quiet for an hour, a heavy, contemplative silence that usually preceded a deep thought.
"Y/N?" he murmured finally. His voice was low, lacking its usual confident, factual cadence."Yeah, Jakey? I'm here."
He kept his eyes glued to the loose thread. "I had a birthday a few months ago. Before you started working here."
"I know," you smiled gently. "Your mom told me. You turned twenty-four."
"I am twenty-four," he repeated, rolling the number around in his mouth like it tasted strange and unpleasant. "You are twenty-three."
"That’s right. You’re older than me."
He didn't smile. His brow furrowed deeply, and he stared down at his hands.
"Twenty-four is a prime integer for adulthood," he said softly. "I read articles online. At twenty-four, normal men are... doing things. They are driving on the interstate. They are navigating tax brackets. They are going to loud places and drinking ethanol. They wear suits that scratch their necks. They live alone."
He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice jagged and painful to hear.
"I do not do those things," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I cannot drive on the highway because the cars move too fast and the input overwhelms my processor. I cannot do taxes. I wear pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. I spend hours sorting plastic bricks. I need Mom to help me make doctor appointments. I need you to help me go to the grocery store."He turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes swimming with a profound, deep-seated insecurity. It was the awareness of a man who knew he was out of sync with the timeline of the world, a man who felt like he was failing a test everyone else inherently knew how to pass.
"I feel... broken," he choked out, the word hitting the quiet room like a dropped glass. "Like I missed the manual on how to be an adult. And you... you have a degree. You fit in the world. I don't understand how you can stand being here with someone who is stuck on the wrong setting."Your heart cracked right down the middle. You shifted on the couch, turning fully toward him, and reached out to take both of his hands in yours. You held them tightly, anchoring him to the present moment."Jake, look at me," you said fiercely.He blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but he met your eyes."There is no manual," you said, your voice steady and full of absolute conviction. "There is no 'normal' in adulthood. Everyone is just guessing and hoping they don't mess up."He sniffled, processing this. "But they do the normal things."
"Normal is a myth," you promised him. "You think because I have a degree I know everything? Jake, I had to Google how to fix a leaky pipe yesterday, and I still couldn't do it. I am terrified of making phone calls to strangers. I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week. Everyone has things they can't handle. Adulthood is completely new for everyone, and we're all just trying to survive the input."
You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his cheek, gently wiping the tear away with your thumb.
"You aren't broken, Jake. You are just you. You built a working replica of the Titanic from memory. You notice when the air pressure drops before the weather app does. You ate a burnt, charcoal cookie just so I wouldn't feel bad about my baking skills. Do you know how rare that kind of empathy is? How brilliant your brain is?"
He leaned into your palm, closing his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips.
"You don't have to like loud bars or scratchy suits to be a man," you whispered, maintaining your professional boundary but pouring every ounce of your care into your words. "You just have to be kind, and honest, and try your best. And you do that every single day. You don't have to fit into the rest of the world, Jake. Everything is new, and you just find where you fit most."
He opened his eyes. The fear was slowly draining away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful relief.
"Find where I fit most," he repeated, testing the weight of the concept.
"Exactly. And you fit beautifully right here, just the way you are."
He let out a shaky breath, a small smile finally breaking through the sadness. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, pulling you into a tight, grounding hug.
"You are my favorite variable, Y/N," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you for the data." To prove your point that his interests were valid and wonderful, you stopped by a department store the very next morning before your shift. When you walked into the house, you handed him a plastic shopping bag. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously. "A reminder that what you like is perfectly fine," you smiled.
He reached in and pulled out a brand new, neatly folded package of pajama pants. They were dark navy blue, covered in small, minimalist red Spider-Man logos.
"I checked the tags," you said proudly. "They are tagless. And it’s a modal-cotton blend. Super soft." Jake’s eyes lit up instantly. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, checking the friction coefficient.
"It is superior," he breathed, a wide grin stretching across his face, the insecurities of the previous night completely forgotten. "The texture is incredibly smooth. Thank you, Y/N."
"You're welcome, Spidey. Go test them out."
He hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was wearing the new pants, looking incredibly cozy and relaxed. He did a small crouch in the living room, testing the stretch of the fabric."Range of motion is uninhibited," he declared happily. "They are perfect."The final days of March brought the first true, undeniable breath of spring. The sun came out, warm and insistent, waking up the dormant life in the backyard.
It was a Saturday morning. You were standing at the kitchen sink, washing out your coffee mug, while Sarah sat at the island, looking over some mail. Jake had been outside in the backyard for twenty minutes, "patrolling the perimeter" in his new Spider-Man pajamas and a light jacket.
You watched him through the window. He was pacing the fence line, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the gentle breeze.Suddenly, he stopped. He knelt down in the grass, inspecting something on the ground. Carefully, with precise, deliberate movements, he pinched something between his fingers and plucked it from the earth.
He stood up and turned around, walking back toward the house with a determined stride.
When the back door opened, he walked straight into the kitchen, bypassing his usual routine of wiping his shoes exactly three times. He walked right up to you, holding his hand out, his fist closed around something delicate.
"I found anomalies in the grass," he announced.
He opened his hand.
Sitting in his palm were a half-dozen dandelions. They were bright, aggressive yellow, their stems slightly crushed from his firm grip.
"They are weeds," Jake explained, looking at you earnestly. "Most people apply herbicide to them to make their lawns uniform. But I researched them. They are the first food for bees in the spring. They are incredibly resilient. They grow through cracks in the driveway. They do not care if they belong; they just grow where they fit."
He held the messy, yellow bouquet out to you."I picked them for you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "Because you are resilient. And because you help me find where I fit."You stared at the bright yellow flowers.You were horribly, violently allergic to dandelions. The pollen made your throat itch, your eyes swell, and your nose run like a broken faucet. If you held them too close, you’d be sneezing for the rest of the day in absolute misery.You didn't hesitate for a microsecond.
You reached out and gently took the crushed, beautiful weeds from his hand. You would never, ever tell him."They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, Jake," you said, forcing your breathing to remain shallow so you didn't inhale the pollen directly. "Thank you so much. I love them."
His chest puffed out slightly with pride. "They require water. A small vessel. Their stems are short."
"I’ll put them in a shot glass right now," you promised.
You turned around, grabbed a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and arranged the dandelions carefully on the windowsill above the sink. As soon as his back was turned to grab a glass of water, you quickly turned your head and stifled a massive, aggressive sneeze into the crook of your elbow.
"Bless you," Jake said, drinking his water.
"Just dust," you lied smoothly, your voice thick as you quickly washed your hands with soap to remove the pollen. "Spring dust."
Sarah had watched the entire exchange from the kitchen island, her mail forgotten. As Jake wandered into the living room to adjust the volume on the TV, feeling successful and completely at ease, Sarah stepped closer to you.
She looked at the dandelions in the shot glass, and then she looked at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're allergic to those, aren't you?" she whispered, having seen you pop an antihistamine just yesterday when a neighbor mowed their lawn.
"Deathly," you whispered back, rubbing your itchy nose with the back of a clean hand.
Sarah let out a soft, watery laugh. She reached out and squeezed your arm, her grip tight and full of a mother's profound gratitude.
"He hasn't picked flowers for anyone since he was six years old," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Before the world got too loud and he folded in on himself. I used to wonder if I’d ever see that sweet, expressive little boy again."
She looked out toward the living room, where Jake was happily sitting on the couch, completely in his element. He wasn't hiding behind his hands or his headphones. He was just a young man, comfortable in his own skin, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas you bought him."He’s not just surviving anymore, Y/N," Sarah said, looking back at you with fierce, unwavering respect and praise. "He is living. He is confident, and he is himself again. But he’s not doing it alone. He has you. You brought him back."
You looked at the dandelions, their bright yellow petals soaking up the sun in the window, stubborn and resilient against all odds. You weren't his girlfriend, and you were technically just doing your job, but looking at the life and light that had returned to Jake Sim’s eyes, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I think we're just finding where we fit, Sarah," you smiled, your eyes watering from the pollen, but your heart completely full. "I really do."
April crept in with a deceptive warmth, bringing days that started crisp and ended bathed in golden, gentle sunlight. Over the past month, the trust between you and Jake had solidified into something unbreakable. The boundaries of your job title as his support worker had softened so completely that you often forgot you were on the clock. You were just Y/N and Jake, navigating the world together, one carefully calculated variable at a time.
Because he had been doing so well—expanding his safe foods, managing his sensory input, and initiating communication—you had planned a special outing.
There was a specialty hobby shop about twenty minutes away. It wasn't a big-box toy store with screaming children and blinding fluorescent lights; it was a quiet, dimly lit collector’s shop. It smelled of old cardboard, modeling clay, and dust. More importantly, they carried retired, vintage LEGO sets. Jake had been talking about a specific, out-of-production Architecture set for three weeks. He had saved his own money for it, meticulously budgeting his allowance in a small notebook.
"The crowd density on a Thursday at 11:00 AM will be approximately 12% of peak capacity," Jake had announced that morning, standing by the front door.
He was prepared. He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones securely around his neck, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Underneath his unzipped, soft grey hoodie, he wore a subtle, vintage-wash Spider-Man t-shirt you had found for him online. It didn't have any scratchy tags, and the seams were flat.
"The math is solid," you agreed, jingling your car keys. "We have a clear window. Are you feeling good? Battery at 100%?" He closed his eyes for a brief second, running an internal diagnostic. "Battery is at 94%. I slept well. The eggs were uniform. I am ready to initiate the mission."
"Let's go get that set, Spidey."The drive was peaceful. You kept the radio volume low, playing a soft instrumental track that Jake liked because the time signature was mathematically consistent. He spent the drive looking out the window, his fingers tapping a complex, rhythmic pattern against his thigh. He was excited. It was a subtle excitement to anyone else, but to you, it was loud and vibrant.
When you pulled into the strip mall where the hobby shop was located, the parking lot was blissfully empty."Twelve percent capacity might have been an overestimation," you smiled, turning off the engine. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves."
Jake unbuckled his seatbelt, a small, proud smile on his face. "My calculations included a margin of error. Empty is an optimal variable."
You walked into the store together. The bell above the door chimed—a soft, pleasant ding that made Jake blink, but he didn't flinch. The shop owner, an older man reading a magazine behind the counter, offered a quiet nod and went back to his reading. It was perfect.
Jake immediately navigated toward the back corner of the store, where shelves were stacked high with pristine, sealed boxes.
You hung back a few feet, giving him space to explore his element. This was his territory. He moved down the aisle with absolute reverence, his eyes scanning the boxes, reading the piece counts and set numbers like they were lines of poetry.
"They have it," he whispered suddenly.You stepped closer. "The Architecture set?"
"Yes." He pointed to a high shelf. "Set number 21010. The Robie House. 2,276 pieces. It was discontinued years ago. The dark red brick count is unprecedented."
His hands started to move. It was a happy stim—his fingers fluttering rapidly in front of his chest, a physical manifestation of the joy bubbling over in his brain. He bounced slightly on his heels, a soft, high-pitched hum of pure excitement vibrating in his throat."I have the exact funds required," he said, turning to look at you, his brown eyes shining with absolute delight. "This is... this is a highly significant acquisition."
"I'm so happy for you, Jake," you beamed, your heart swelling at the sight of his unbridled joy. "Let me help you get it down."
You reached up and carefully pulled the box from the top shelf, handing it to him. He took it as if it were made of glass, tracing the edges of the cardboard, his happy humming growing a little louder.
And then, the bell above the door chimed again.
You didn't think much of it at first. But then the voices carried down the aisle. Loud, booming, aggressively casual.
"Bro, I swear they sell Warhammer stuff here, just look."
Three guys turned the corner into the aisle. They were roughly Jake's age, maybe a year or two younger. College kids. They were wearing baseball caps backward, reeking of sharp, chemical body spray that immediately made your nose wrinkle. They were talking over each other, their voices echoing harshly in the quiet shop.
You saw Jake stiffen instantly. The happy humming cut off. His fingers stopped fluttering and clenched into tight fists around the edges of the LEGO box. He instinctively took a step back, pressing his shoulders against the shelving unit, trying to make himself smaller. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes.
You casually moved, placing yourself slightly in front of him, creating a physical buffer between him and the newcomers.
The guys walked down the aisle, completely oblivious to the sudden tension. One of them, a guy in a bright red polo shirt, stopped to look at the shelf right next to where Jake was standing.
"Man, who drops three hundred bucks on plastic bricks?" the guy scoffed, laughing loudly. Jake flinched at the volume. His hands were shaking. He pulled the box tighter to his chest. He was trying to be invisible, but the movement caught the guy's attention.The guy in the red polo looked at Jake. He looked at the way Jake was hunched over, avoiding eye contact. He looked at the vintage Spider-Man t-shirt peeking out from the hoodie.Then, the guy smirked. He nudged his friend.
"Hey, check it out," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "We got a real-life man-child over here. Hey buddy, aren't you a little old for the kids' aisle?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Jake froze entirely. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut."Excuse me," you said immediately, your voice cold and sharp as a razor. You stepped fully in front of Jake, locking eyes with the guy in the red polo. "Back off."The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, letting out an obnoxious laugh. "Whoa, chill out. I was just making a joke. Didn't realize his mommy was here to defend him."
"I said, back off," you repeated, taking a step toward him, the protective fury blazing in your chest. You didn't care about professionalism. You didn't care about causing a scene. You only cared about the man trembling behind you. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."The second friend sneered, looking Jake up and down. "Jeez, what's wrong with him? He's shaking like a weirdo. Does he need a diaper change or something?"
Snap.
You moved forward, jabbing your index finger hard into the second guy's chest. "If you say one more word to him, I am going to have the owner throw you out by your hair. You are pathetic, miserable little bullies. Walk. Away. Now."
Your voice wasn't yelling, but it was deadly. The guys looked at your face, realizing you were genuinely a second away from a physical altercation. The bravado faltered.
"Whatever, crazy bitch," the red polo guy muttered, rolling his eyes. "Place is a freak show anyway. Let's go."They turned and swaggered out of the aisle, laughing loudly to save face ,mimicking disabilities, their heavy footsteps echoing as the front door chimed and they left the store.The silence that followed was suffocating.You turned around instantly, your heart hammering. "Jake," you breathed, reaching out. "Jake, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
He wasn't okay.He was staring blankly at the floor. His face was entirely devoid of color. The box he had been holding so carefully slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the linoleum with a loud, hollow thud.
"Jake?" you asked softly, not touching him, knowing better than to initiate contact when he was in shock.He didn't look at the box. He didn't look at you. He reached up with shaking, jerky movements and pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned around, completely ignoring the set he had saved up for, and began speed-walking toward the exit."Jake, wait!" you called, abandoning the box on the floor and jogging after him.You caught up to him just as he pushed through the front door. The bright April sun hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands coming up to grip the edges of his headphones so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
"Car," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and entirely monotone. "Take me to the bubble."
"Okay," you said instantly, unlocking the car with your fob. "We're going. We're going right now."
He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He didn't put his seatbelt on. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled into a tight, defensive ball, and pulled his hood over his head and his headphones. He was burying himself alive.
You got in, started the car, and drove.The twenty-minute drive back to his house was the longest of your life. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet you were used to. It was a heavy, toxic, suffocating silence. It was the sound of a mind tearing itself apart.You wanted to reach over. You wanted to pull over to the side of the road, wrap your arms around him, and squeeze the pain out of him. But his body language was a massive, neon DO NOT TOUCH sign. He was completely closed off. The static in his head had turned into a roar.
When you pulled into his driveway, you noticed Sarah's car was gone. She was at her yoga class. It was just the two of you.
Jake opened his door before you even put the car in park. He scrambled out, almost tripping over his own feet, and half-ran to the front door. You hurried after him, unlocking it quickly.He didn't take his shoes off. He walked straight down the hallway, into his bedroom, and slammed the door.
You stood in the empty, quiet living room, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.You gave him ten minutes. You knew he needed time to process the massive spike of negative data. You went to the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water, and tried to steady your own breathing. Your hands were shaking with residual anger at those boys. You wanted to drive back and key their car.
But anger wouldn't help Jake.
After fifteen minutes, you walked down the hall and stood outside his bedroom door. You listened.You didn't hear crying. You heard a rhythmic, dull thump. Thump. Thump.Your stomach dropped.It was a sound you had only heard once, during his worst meltdown months ago. He was hitting his head. Not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to try and physically jar the overwhelming thoughts out of his brain. It was a frustration stim.
You didn't knock. You opened the door.
The blackout curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness. Jake was sitting on the floor in the corner, wedged between his bed frame and the wall. He had his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was rocking violently forward and backward.
Every time he rocked back, the back of his head hit the drywall. Thump.
"Jake, stop," you said, your voice firm but laced with panic. You crossed the room in three strides.
You dropped to your knees in front of him and slid your hand between the back of his head and the wall. When he rocked back again, his head hit your soft palm instead of the drywall.He gasped, the unexpected texture breaking his rhythm. He opened his eyes, glaring at you through the darkness. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn't sobbing. He was hyperventilating, trapped in a spiral of pure, toxic shame.
"Get out," he rasped, his voice raw.
It was the first time he had ever told you to leave. It felt like a physical blow to the chest, but you held your ground. You kept your hand behind his head.
"I'm not leaving you, Jake."
"Get out!" he yelled, a sudden, desperate burst of volume. He grabbed your wrist, trying to pry your hand away from the wall. His grip was frantic. "You are off the clock! Go away! Go back to your adult life!"
"I don't care about the clock," you said fiercely, refusing to let him push you away. You slid closer, ignoring his attempts to push you back, and grabbed both of his wrists, holding them firmly against his chest. Deep pressure. "Look at me. Look at my face."
"No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, trying to hide his face in his knees. "Don't look at me. I am... I am a freak show. I am a man-child."
He was echoing their words. The toxic data had infiltrated his system, overwriting all the confidence you had built together over the last six months.
"They were wrong, Jake," you pleaded, leaning in until your forehead was almost touching his. "They were stupid, miserable bullies who don't know anything about you."
"They were right!" he cried out, a ragged sob finally breaking through his throat. He stopped fighting your grip, his whole body slumping in defeat. "I am twenty-four years old! I wear a superhero shirt! I play with children's toys! I can't even go to a store without my mom or my... my paid caretaker to defend me!"
He pulled his hands out of your grip and buried his face in his palms, weeping openly. The sound of his heartbreak was agonizing.
"I thought I was doing good," he sobbed, his chest heaving. "I thought... I thought I was finding where I fit. But I don't fit anywhere. I am broken. The world looks at me and they see a joke. And you... you just pity me."
"Jake, no," you gasped, the tears finally spilling over your own eyelashes.
"You do," he insisted, his voice muffled by his hands. "You are beautiful. You are smart. You fix leaky pipes and drive cars and yell at scary men. You are a real adult. I am just your charity case. I am a job. You just pretend I am a man so I don't feel bad."
The absolute devastation in his voice, the deep-seated insecurity that had been completely laid bare by three cruel strangers, ripped through you. He didn't just feel humiliated; he felt unlovable. He felt like an imposter in his own life.
You didn't try to reason with him. You couldn't fight this level of emotional static with words alone.You moved. You uncrossed your legs and slid directly into his space. You didn't ask for permission. You wrapped your arms tightly around his trembling shoulders and pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the corner until his chest hit yours.You wrapped your legs around his hips, trapping him in a tight, full-body embrace. You buried one hand in his dark, fluffy hair, pressing his head firmly against your shoulder, and wrapped your other arm tightly around his back. You applied as much deep pressure as your body could physically muster, crushing the space between you.
He stiffened violently, a gasp tearing from his throat at the sudden, overwhelming input. But he didn't fight it. He never fought your pressure.
"Listen to me," you whispered fiercely into his ear, your voice trembling with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Listen to my voice. You are going to delete that data right now. Do you hear me?"
He let out a broken, hiccuping sob against your neck, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides.
"You are not a charity case," you continued, holding him tighter. "You have never been just a job to me. Those boys in the store? They are cowards. They tear people down because they have nothing interesting or beautiful inside their own heads. But you? Your brain is a masterpiece, Jake."
He shook his head weakly against your shoulder. "I'm a child."
"You are a man," you stated firmly, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. You grabbed his face in both of your hands, your thumbs wiping away the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
His brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly shattered, staring at you in the dark room. "A real man isn't someone who wears a scratchy suit and drinks at a bar," you told him, staring directly into his eyes, refusing to let him look away. "A real man is someone who is kind. Someone who is honest. A real man notices when I'm sad and gives up his favorite weighted blanket to comfort me. A real man eats a burnt, awful cookie just so I don't feel like a failure. A real man picks resilient yellow weeds for me because he knows I love them."He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.
"You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible man I have ever met, Jake Sim," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And I don't pity you. I am in awe of you."
You didn't plan the next part. You didn't calculate the professional boundaries or the risk of sensory overload. You just acted on the overwhelming, desperate need to prove to him that he was loved exactly as he was.You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.It wasn't a hesitant, chaste peck. It was firm, grounding, and full of every ounce of love and fierce protectiveness you harbored for him. You kept your hands cradling his face, anchoring him to the sensation.For one agonizing second, Jake froze. He went completely rigid beneath you. The new sensory input—the softness of your lips, the heat, the overwhelming intimacy—was massive.
But then, he melted.
A soft, desperate whimper vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly, came up and gripped your waist with a frantic strength. He didn't know what he was doing, but his instincts took over. He pressed back into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily but eagerly against yours. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.
You kissed him until the shaking in his body finally, slowly began to subside. You kissed him until the frantic rhythm of his heart slowed to a manageable beat against your chest. When you finally pulled back, you kept your foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping softly for air in the quiet, dark room. Jake's eyes were closed. His eyelashes were wet with tears, but his face had lost that pale, terrified pallor. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurt, grounding himself in your physical presence. "Did you mean it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small, incredibly fragile. "I meant every single word," you promised, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, Jake. I don't want a 'normal' guy. I want you. With your Spider-Man shirts and your LEGOs and your beautiful, brilliant brain." He opened his eyes. The shattered glass look was gone. The insecurity hadn't vanished completely—it never did, not instantly—but the toxic shame had been washed away by the absolute certainty in your voice and the lingering heat on his lips.
He swallowed hard. "I dropped the Robie House set."
You let out a wet, tearful laugh, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We can go back tomorrow. Or we can order it online. Whatever you want."
"Online," he decided immediately, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "The crowd density in that store is heavily polluted with negative variables."
"Online it is." He took a deep breath, processing the massive emotional shift that had just occurred. He loosened his death-grip on your waist, moving his hands up to carefully, hesitantly wrap his arms around your back, returning the full-body hug. He rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair.
"You smell like vanilla and anger," he murmured into your neck.
You laughed again, burying your face in his soft hoodie. "I was very angry. I wanted to hit them."
"I am glad you didn't," he said seriously. "Assault is a felony. That would disrupt our routine."
"You're right. No felonies."
You sat there on the floor for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The sting of the outside world, the cruelty of strangers, was still there, but it was locked outside. Inside this room, inside the circle of your arms, he wasn't a man-child. He wasn't a broken algorithm.
"Y/N?" he whispered after a long silence.
"Yeah, Jakey?"
"When you kissed me... the static stopped completely."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. It was... highly effective. Superior to the noise-canceling headphones."
You smiled against his shoulder, your heart finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to keep doing it. For medicinal purposes, of course."
"Agreed," he hummed, the vibration rumbling happily against your chest. "Frequent application is recommended." And as you held him in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, you knew that no matter how loud or cruel the world got, you would always be his quiet place. And he, in all his honest, beautiful complexity, would always be yours.
The aftermath of that afternoon on his bedroom floor shifted the entire axis of your relationship. The kiss had been an impulsive, desperate act of protection on your part, meant to shock him out of a spiral of toxic shame. But for Jake, it had fundamentally rewritten his internal algorithm.
You had become his baseline. In the weeks that followed as April blossomed into a warm, gentle May, Jake became undeniably, profoundly clingy. It wasn't a demanding, suffocating kind of clinginess. It was a quiet, constant gravitational pull. He simply needed to be in your orbit.
Before, he had valued his solitary space. He would spend hours in the living room building LEGOs while you read in the armchair, comfortable but separate. Now, if you sat on the sofa, he sat on the sofa, his hip pressed firmly against yours. If you stood at the kitchen island cutting his grilled cheese or pouring his milk, he would stand right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
He initiated touch constantly. It was never light or brushing—he still hated the "spiderweb" feeling of gentle contact. Instead, it was firm and deliberate. He would reach out and wrap his long fingers securely around your wrist while you were talking to Sarah. He would drop his heavy head onto your shoulder while waiting for the microwave to beep. He would randomly press his palm flat against the center of your back as you walked down the hallway.He was seeking deep pressure, but more than that, he was seeking you. You were the variable that made the static stop, and he wanted that quiet safety as much as possible.
You didn't mind it. In fact, your heart swelled every single time he reached for you. You returned his affection in equal measure, leaning into his weight, squeezing his hand back, and resting your cheek against his fluffy, dark hair whenever he ducked his head into your neck.
Nothing was labeled. You hadn't sat down and had a formal discussion about being "boyfriend and girlfriend." You were just existing in this warm, safe bubble of mutual adoration, letting Jake process the new physical and emotional data at his own pace.
Sarah, of course, noticed the shift immediately.
It was impossible to miss. One Tuesday morning, you were standing at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of oatmeal (no lumps, perfectly smooth). Jake had padded into the kitchen wearing his tagless Spider-Man pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. Instead of sitting at his usual spot at the round table, he walked straight up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and let out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against your back.You had simply smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, and kept stirring. "Morning, Jakey. Did you sleep well?"
"Eight hours and twelve minutes," he mumbled into your skin, his arms tightening in a firm squeeze. "The humidity dropped. The sheets felt correct."
Sarah had walked in right at that moment, pausing in the doorway. She froze, a mug of coffee half-raised to her lips. She stared at the way her son, who had spent his entire life flinching away from unexpected contact, was willingly, eagerly anchoring himself to another human being.She caught your eye over Jake’s shoulder. You offered her a soft, reassuring smile.Sarah’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She didn't say anything to disrupt his peace; she just pressed her lips together, gave you a shaky, incredibly grateful nod, and quietly backed out of the kitchen to give you both privacy.Later that afternoon, while Jake was in the backyard inspecting the growth of his beloved dandelions, Sarah sat next to you on the porch."I have never seen him like this," she whispered, watching him carefully step over a line of worker ants on the patio. "He’s always been so guarded. Even with me, sometimes. His sensory threshold is just so delicate. But with you... it’s like he doesn't have a threshold at all. You’re just part of him.""He makes it easy, Sarah," you said honestly, pulling your cardigan tighter against the spring breeze. "He’s so honest. There’s no guessing games with him. I know exactly where I stand."
"You know he likes you, right?" she asked gently, turning to look at you. "More than just as a support worker. I know the agency has rules, but Y/N... I am his mother. And I have never, ever seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
"I like him too," you admitted, the truth feeling warm and bright in the cool air. "I really, really do. We’re just... taking it slow. I want him to figure out the feelings on his own timetable."
"Take all the time you need," Sarah smiled, her shoulders dropping in profound relief. "Just... thank you. For seeing him. For really seeing him."
The culmination of all those quiet, clingy weeks happened on a rainy Friday evening.
It was Movie Night. The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a cozy, insulated cave in the living room. The TV was glowing brightly with the saturated colors of Spider-Man: Far From Home.
Jake was sitting on the sofa. You were tucked seamlessly into his side. His arm was wrapped heavy and secure around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together beneath his favorite fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket. The pressure of the blanket combined with the solid weight of his body pressing against yours was incredibly grounding.
On the screen, Peter Parker was awkwardly fumbling through a conversation with MJ in Venice, clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances and his desperate, clumsy desire to just tell her how he felt.
Jake was usually hyper-focused during Marvel movies, cataloging the physics of the web-shooters or the structural damage to the buildings. But tonight, he was distracted.
His fingers were tracing a repetitive, rhythmic circle on your upper arm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was a self-soothing stim. He had been doing it for twenty minutes."Is the volume okay?" you whispered, tilting your head up to look at his profile. The blue and red light from the television painted sharp angles across his jawline."The volume is at level 14. It is optimal," he replied softly.
He didn't look down at you. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He stopped tracing circles on your arm.
"Y/N?" he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your side.
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Peter's heart rate is elevated," he observed, watching the animated panic on Tom Holland's face. "He is experiencing a stress response. But there is no immediate physical threat. The elemental monsters are not present in this scene."
"No," you agreed softly. "There are no monsters. He's just stressed because he's trying to talk to MJ."
"Because he wants to give her the black dahlia necklace," Jake stated factually. "Because he likes her."
"Exactly. He likes her, and he's terrified of messing it up. Feelings can cause a stress response too, Jake. Adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A fast heart rate."
Jake went completely still. The slight, rhythmic bouncing of his foot beneath the weighted blanket stopped. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I have been experiencing a stress response," he said. The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing a systemic error.
Your heart did a tiny, nervous flip. You shifted slightly under the heavy blanket, turning your body more toward him. "Are you experiencing one right now? Is the environment too loud?"
"No," he said quickly, his grip on your shoulder tightening in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "The environment is safe. The blackout curtains are closed. The blanket is heavy. You are here. The variables are all controlled."
"Then what's causing the stress response, Jakey?"
He finally pulled his eyes away from the television screen. He looked down at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, intensely focused, and swimming with an emotion so raw and heavy it practically took your breath away.
"You," he said simply.
You froze. "Me?"
"Yes," he nodded, his expression deadpan but his eyes betraying a frantic, searching vulnerability. "I have been analyzing the data for weeks. Ever since... ever since the incident at the hobby store. When you kissed me. My baseline changed."
He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, bringing it up to rest flat against the center of his own chest, right over his heart.
"It feels heavy in here," he explained, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to articulate the abstract chaos inside his mind. "But it's not the bad heavy. It’s not a meltdown. It’s like... like when I put the weighted blanket on, but it’s on the inside of my ribs."He reached out and carefully took your hand, lacing his long, elegant fingers through yours. He squeezed firmly.
"When you are not here, the static comes back. When you leave to go to your apartment, I count the hours until 8:50 AM when your car pulls into the driveway. I check the window. And when I see you wearing your quiet white shoes... my heart beats very fast. Like Peter Parker." Tears immediately pricked the back of your eyes. The absolute, unvarnished honesty of his words was staggering. There were no games. There was no posturing. He was laying his entire internal processor bare for you to see. "Jake," you breathed, your voice thick.
"I didn't know how to categorize the data," he continued, his thumb rubbing firmly over your knuckles. "I read the diagnostic criteria for anxiety, but the symptoms didn't match perfectly. Because anxiety makes me want to hide. This feeling... makes me want to be exactly where I am. Sitting right next to you. With no gap between the cushions."
He looked back at the TV for a split second, pointing at Peter and MJ, who were now sharing a quiet, charged moment on the screen.
"Peter feels it," Jake said, looking back down at you. "He feels the heavy, fast thing in his chest. And he calls it love." A single tear spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. Jake saw it. He immediately let go of your hand, his face falling into a mask of panic. "You are leaking. I said the wrong thing. I processed the variable incorrectly—"
"No, no, Jake, look at me," you interrupted quickly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. You held his cheeks firmly, applying the deep pressure he needed to stay grounded in the moment. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm happy. Because it's a good heavy feeling."
He stopped pulling away. He leaned into your palms, his wide eyes searching yours for confirmation. "It is a good variable?"
"It’s the best variable," you sobbed out a watery laugh, swiping your thumbs under his eyes. "You're saying you love me, Jake?"
"Yes," he said. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter. He looked at you with an innocence and a certainty that shattered every doubt you had ever harbored. "I love you. I love your quiet shoes. I love that you know I need the cheese cut into squares. I love that you fought those loud men for me. You are my safe place, Y/N. I love you."
Your heart took a massive, soaring leap against your ribs. You pulled his face down and pressed your lips firmly against his.
It was better than the first kiss. The first kiss had been born of panic and desperation. This kiss was born of absolute, undeniable clarity. Jake responded instantly, his hands coming down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you with that same meticulous, focused attention he applied to everything he cared about, learning the exact pressure and rhythm that made you sigh into his mouth.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jake’s glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed a beautiful, vibrant pink.
"I love you too, Jake," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "So much. My chest gets heavy when I look at you, too."
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a massive weight lifting off his broad shoulders. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "Optimal," he whispered, a huge, gummy smile breaking across his face. You laughed, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since we both have the same data... does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?"
Jake paused. He blinked, processing the terminology. He tilted his head slightly.
"Boyfriend," he repeated slowly. "And you would be my girlfriend."
"If you want to be."
He thought about it. "Labels are useful. They categorize relationships so the boundaries are clear. A girlfriend is a primary, permanent variable."
"I would very much like to be a permanent variable, Jake."
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Yes. I will be your boyfriend. That is... a very pleasing symmetry."
"It's perfect symmetry." He pulled you back against his side, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders, tighter than before. He dragged the weighted blanket higher up over your chests, cocooning the two of you in the dim, flashing light of the television.
"Y/N?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on the top of your head.
"Yeah, boyfriend?" you teased gently. He hummed, a deep, happy vibration that rattled pleasantly against your ribs. "I do not need to buy you a black dahlia necklace like Peter Parker, do I? Because you do not like jewelry that clicks against the table. And glass is fragile."
You couldn't help the joyous laugh that bubbled out of you. "No, Jake. No glass necklaces required."
"Good," he said practically. "I will buy you more smooth salsa instead. It is a superior investment."
"I'd love nothing more." As Spider-Man swung across the screen, saving the city from chaos, you sat safely in the dark, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the boy who held you. There was no more static. There was no more confusion about where you fit into his life. You were dating Jake Sim, and as he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to your hairline, you knew absolutely that you had found exactly where you belonged.
The transition from support worker to girlfriend wasn't just an emotional shift; it required a logistical one, too.
Two days after that rainy movie night on the couch, you walked into the drab, fluorescent-lit office of New Horizons Support Services and placed your ID badge on your supervisor's desk. You explained that you could no longer remain objective. You didn't give them the deeply personal details, but you told them enough: the professional boundary had dissolved, and it was no longer ethical for you to clock in and bill the state for the time you spent at the Sim household.
Your supervisor had sighed, citing "high turnover" again, but you didn't care. You walked out of that office feeling lighter than air.
You drove straight to Jake’s house. When you walked through the front door, you weren't wearing your agency polo. You were just wearing a comfortable sweater and your quiet white Converse. Jake was sitting at the kitchen island, meticulously peeling an apple in one continuous ribbon. Sarah was at the stove, boiling water for pasta. "I quit my job today," you announced softly, standing in the archway.
Sarah froze, the wooden spoon pausing in the pot. She turned to look at you, panic momentarily flashing in her dark eyes. "You... you quit? Y/N, what happened? Did the agency—"
"No, Mom," Jake interrupted. He didn't look up from his apple, but his voice was remarkably steady, imbued with a quiet, undeniable pride. The apple peel fell to the cutting board in a perfect spiral. "She did not quit me. She quit the agency. It is a conflict of interest for her to be on the payroll." Sarah blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you. "Conflict of interest?"
Jake finally looked up. He set the paring knife down carefully. He walked over to where you were standing in the archway. He didn't hesitate, didn't check the room for variables. He simply reached out, took your hand in his, and intertwined his long fingers with yours. He gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.
"Y/N is my girlfriend now," Jake stated, looking at his mother with absolute clarity. "She is my permanent variable. We are dating."
For a full ten seconds, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rolling boil of the pasta water.
Then, Sarah dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered against the stove. She covered her mouth with both hands, a loud, wet sob escaping her throat.
"Oh, my God," she wept, the tears spilling over her cheeks in a flood of sheer, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Jakey." She crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a crushing, messy hug. Jake stiffened slightly at the suddenness of the contact, but he didn't pull away. He just patted his mother’s back awkwardly with his free hand, while keeping his other hand locked tightly in yours.
"I am so happy," Sarah cried into your shoulder, squeezing you tight. "I am so, so happy for both of you. Y/N, you... you are family. You were already family, but this... thank you. Thank you for loving him."
"I couldn't stop if I tried, Sarah," you whispered, wiping your own eyes.
From that day on, it wasn't a job anymore. You were just taking care of your love, and he, in his own brilliant, meticulous way, was taking care of you.
As the damp chill of spring gave way to the heavy, golden warmth of summer, Jake bloomed.The boy who used to flinch away from unexpected contact became entirely, wonderfully unabashed about seeking it from you. He didn't care who was watching. If he needed grounding, he took it.
You started going to the local metro parks together. It was a massive sensory step for him—parks were unpredictable. There were off-leash dogs, shouting children, and the sudden, sharp crack of baseball bats from the nearby diamonds. But he wanted to go, because he knew you liked the walking trails.
To manage the input, he wore his noise-canceling headphones, a pair of dark polarized sunglasses to cut the glare of the sun, and, most importantly, he held your hand.
Jake’s hand-holding wasn't a casual, loose grip. It was a firm, deliberate anchor. He would press the palm of his hand flush against yours, locking your fingers together so tightly you could feel his pulse beating against your skin.
"Deep pressure," he would murmur, adjusting his grip as you walked down the shaded, tree-lined paths. "It keeps the static away. You are my tether."
"I've got you, Spidey," you would smile, swinging your joined arms gently.
One particularly warm afternoon in late June, a golden retriever slipped its leash and came bounding toward you on the trail, barking excitedly. Before you could even react, Jake stepped directly in front of you, placing his body between you and the dog. He was terrified of loud, unpredictable animals, his shoulders hitching up to his ears, but his first instinct was to shield you.
When the owner ran up apologizing and leashed the dog, Jake let out a long, shaky breath."You stepped in front of me," you said softly, rubbing his tense back as he watched the dog walk away.
"I am the boyfriend," he stated, his voice trembling slightly from the adrenaline, but laced with a fierce, protective logic. "The boyfriend protects the girlfriend from biological anomalies. It is in the protocol."
You had pulled him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissed him right there on the trail, surrounded by the buzzing cicadas and the summer heat. He had melted into the kiss instantly, his hands finding your waist, the fear of the dog entirely overridden by the overwhelming, consuming input of your lips against his.
Summer evenings in Jake's backyard became your sanctuary.
When the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple, pink, and deep, saturated orange, the temperature would drop to a comfortable coolness. The neighborhood would quiet down, and the sensory input of the world would finally dial back to a manageable hum.
One evening in July, you had brought a cheap, plastic bottle of bubbles from the grocery store.Jake had been sitting on the patio chair, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the grass. You sat on the grass in front of him, unscrewed the cap, and blew a stream of bubbles into the warm evening air.Jake’s eyes went wide. He watched the translucent spheres float upward, catching the dying light of the sunset.
"They are perfectly spherical," he breathed, leaning forward, utterly captivated. "Surface tension forces the liquid into the shape with the least surface area. It is... mathematically flawless."
"They're pretty, aren't they?" you smiled, blowing another stream toward him.
He reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. It didn't pop immediately. He brought it closer to his face, his dark eyes reflecting the shimmering, rainbow-colored surface of the soap film."Thin-film interference," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The light waves are bouncing off the inner and outer boundaries of the soap film. They are interfering with each other to create the colors. Magenta. Cyan. Yellow. It is chemistry and physics working together."
Pop. The bubble vanished, leaving a tiny drop of soapy water on his skin. He laughed. It was a rare, full-bellied sound that bubbled up from his chest, pure and bright.
"Do it again," he requested, his eyes shining.
You spent an hour blowing bubbles for him. He didn't just watch them; he analyzed them. He tried to catch them without popping them. He tracked their flight paths, calculating the wind currents. And every time he laughed, your heart swelled until you thought it might burst.He looked so beautiful in the fading light. He was stripped of all his anxieties, all his fears about fitting into the "normal" world. He was just a brilliant, joyful man marveling at the physics of a soap bubble.
When the bottle was empty, he slid off the patio chair and sat on the grass beside you. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on your shoulder.
"That was a superior activity," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "The visual input was highly stimulating, but not overwhelming. It was... soft."
"We can get more tomorrow," you promised, resting your cheek against the top of his fluffy hair.
"Yes. But only the brand with the pink wand. The fluid viscosity was excellent."
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his chest and pulling him backward until you were both lying flat on the cool grass, looking up at the first stars pricking through the twilight. He rolled onto his side, throwing a heavy leg over yours and burying his face in your chest.
"I love you, Y/N," he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice drowsy and content.
"I love you too, Jakey."
As the summer wore on, your integration into his daily life became seamless. You didn't just watch him build LEGOs anymore; you built them with him.
It was a profound level of trust. Jake was highly territorial over his LEGO sets. They were his system of order in a chaotic world. But one rainy August afternoon, he pushed the massive instruction booklet for the LEGO Rivendell set toward the middle of the coffee table.
"You may assemble the roof tiles," he announced, handing you a plastic sorting tray filled with hundreds of tiny, earth-toned pieces.
You took the tray, deeply honored. "Are you sure? I don't want to mess up the symmetry."
"I have observed your fine motor skills," he stated pragmatically, clicking a wall piece into place. "You are careful. You do not force the bricks if they resist. And... I like seeing your hands next to mine."
You spent four hours sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. You learned the specific, satisfying snap of a perfectly placed tile. You learned not to talk when he was counting studs. It was an intimate, quiet language you developed together.
When you finished the Elven council ring, Jake stopped. He looked at the structure, then looked at you."We built this," he said, the realization settling heavily on him. "Together as a unit."
"We make a good team."He reached out and traced the edge of the plastic roof you had assembled. "My life used to be a solo build. I did not want anyone to touch my pieces because they always knocked them over. But you... you reinforce the structure. You make the build stronger."By the time the leaves began to turn the vibrant reds and oranges of October, months had passed since the kiss.And with the passage of time came the deepest intimacy of all: spending the night.
The first time it happened, it hadn't been planned. You had been watching a marathon of animated movies, and the heavy rain outside had lulled you to sleep on the sofa, your head pillowed on his chest.
When you woke up, it was 2:00 AM. Jake was still awake. He was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his arm wrapped tightly around you.
"Jake?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? Your arm has to be numb."
"My arm is numb," he confirmed softly. "But you were in the REM cycle of sleep. Your breathing was deep. Interrupting the REM cycle causes cognitive fatigue. And... I liked the weight of you. It is better than the blanket."
You had smiled sleepily, stretching your stiff back. "I should probably drive home."
Jake’s grip on your waist tightened instantly. His heart rate spiked against your cheek.
"The roads are slick," he said, his voice rising in that familiar, anxious pitch. "The visibility is reduced by 60%. The statistical probability of an accident is elevated."
He looked down at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading in the dim light of the living room. "Please do not drive. The variables are unsafe. My bed is... it is a king size. There is room. You can sleep there."
You hadn't hesitated. "Okay. I'll stay."
Sleeping in Jake’s bed was a sensory experience in itself. His mattress was firm. His sheets were 100% Egyptian cotton, washed in unscented detergent because artificial lavender made his nose itch.
When you climbed into the bed, wearing a spare oversized Spider-Man t-shirt he had given you, he immediately pulled his heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket over both of you."Is the weight acceptable?" he asked anxiously, hovering over you. "It can be crushing to neurotypical nervous systems."
"It feels like a hug," you assured him, settling into the pillows.
Jake climbed in beside you. He didn't leave a gap. He closed the distance immediately, turning on his side and wrapping himself around you like an octopus. He pulled your back flush against his chest, throwing his heavy arm over your waist and tangling his long legs entirely with yours.
He buried his face in the back of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.
"Optimal," he whispered into your skin.
You reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach. "Goodnight, Jake."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You learned that Jake didn't move in his sleep. Once he found his anchoring position against you, he was dead weight. He slept deeply and heavily, his breathing a steady, soothing rhythm against your spine.
Waking up to him was even better.The first time you opened your eyes in his bed, the morning sun was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Jake was already awake.He was propped up on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand, just staring at you. His hair was an absolute bird's nest of fluffy, chaotic curls sticking up in every direction. His face was soft, relaxed, completely devoid of the tension he carried during the day.
"You have a freckle on your left eyelid," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "I never noticed it before. It is very small. Exactly 1.5 millimeters."
You smiled lazily, reaching up to push a stray curl out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Spidey."
"You look different when you sleep," he observed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Your facial muscles lose their tension. You look very peaceful. It made my chest feel heavy again. The good heavy."
"I was peaceful because I was sleeping next to you," you murmured, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until his chest rested against yours.
He hummed happily, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. Waking up together became a staple of your weekends. You learned that he needed exactly ten minutes of quiet transition time before speaking about complex topics. You learned that he liked it when you traced light patterns on his bare back to help him wake up his sensory receptors.You learned that you had never, ever felt a love like this before.
It was a love completely stripped of games, manipulation, and societal expectations. It was a love built on raw honesty, calculated variables, and an intense, unwavering loyalty.
Now, exactly six months since that rainy New Year's Eve, you were sitting in the living room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
The Thanksgiving break was approaching, and the air outside was biting and crisp. Inside, the fireplace was crackling.
Jake was sitting on the floor, leaning back between your legs as you sat on the couch. This was his favorite position. He called it "the grounding chair." You were running your fingers slowly and rhythmically through his dark hair, scratching gently at his scalp.He had his eyes closed, practically purring.
"The tactile input is superior," he murmured, his head tilting back against your knee to give you better access. You smiled, looking down at him. He was beautiful. He was so incredibly bright. You thought about the file you had read a year ago. Difficulty establishing rapport. Rigid. High support needs. They had missed everything that mattered. They missed the way his mind was a kaleidoscope of logic and empathy. They missed the way he noticed the iridescent colors in a soap bubble. They missed the fierce, protective way he would step in front of a strange dog for the person he loved.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking up at you upside down."I'm thinking about you," you said softly, cupping his face in your hands.
"Is the data positive?" he asked, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. He was learning how to joke with you, understanding the cadence of playful banter.
"The data is overwhelmingly positive," you assured him, leaning down to kiss him upside down, like Spider-Man.
He smiled against your lips. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists."I am operating at 100% battery," Jake whispered, looking at you with those deep, liquid brown eyes that held his entire, beautiful soul. "And you are the power source. I love you, Y/N."
"I love you too, Jake. Forever."
"Forever is a mathematical concept denoting infinite time," he stated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I accept those parameters."
He closed his eyes and leaned back against you, completely at peace, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that your parameters were perfectly, infinitely aligned.
The seven-month mark of your relationship with Jake, the world outside the house had grown cold, brittle, and gray. But inside the house, the atmosphere was a saturated, brilliant gold.
You knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was relaxed; you knew the precise weight of the fifteen-pound blanket; you knew that when the world got too loud, you were the quiet room he retreated into.
It was a Friday night. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windowpanes with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm that would have usually sent Jake into a spiral of sensory defense. But tonight, the blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the unpredictable elements away. The living room was bathed in the warm, colorful glow of the television screen.
You were having a movie night. It was a comedic, wildly colorful animation film about a chaotic family trying to save the world from a robot apocalypse. Jake had initially been skeptical of the plot's disregard for basic physics, but he had quickly become captivated by the vibrant, symmetrical animation style and the logical, deadpan humor of the family’s pug.For the last hour, you had been spooning on the sofa.
It was a position that had required careful calibration over the last few months. Jake’s sensory processing meant that light, feathery touches felt like crawling insects on his skin. But deep, firm pressure was his anchor. So, he lay behind you, his broad chest pressed flush and firm against your back. His heavy arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach, grounding you both. His long legs were tangled with yours beneath the plush velvet blanket.
He was incredibly warm, a human furnace radiating a steady, comforting heat through his vintage, tagless t-shirt.On the screen, the animated pug did something ridiculous, and a bright, bubbly laugh escaped your lips. Behind you, Jake laughed —a bright, resonant vibration in his chest that you could feel all the way down your spine. It was his version of a laugh, a happy, contented sound that meant his battery was operating at optimal capacity."The canine’s center of gravity is entirely disproportionate to its mass," Jake murmured into the shell of your ear, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down your neck. "It is impossible for it to run that fast."
"It's a cartoon, Jakey," you smiled, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. "Physics take a holiday in cartoons."
"Physics never take a holiday," he corrected softly, his nose brushing against your hair. "But I will suspend my disbelief because the color palette is soothing."
You relaxed further into his hold, feeling utterly, completely safe. But after another ten minutes of lying in the exact same position, biology demanded a shift. Your left arm, which was tucked beneath your body and wedged against the cushions, was beginning to tingle uncomfortably.
"Jake," you whispered, squirming just a fraction. "My arm is falling asleep. The nerve is pinched."
"Paresthesia," he noted immediately, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to allow you to move. "You need to restore the blood flow."
"Yeah. Just give me a second."
You pushed backward against him to free your trapped arm, using your hips to gain leverage against the cushions. You shifted your weight, pressing your backside firmly against his lap to brace yourself as you pulled your arm free and rolled your shoulders. As you pushed your hips back into him, Jake made a sound you had never heard before. It wasn't his happy, vibrating hum. It wasn't the sharp, panicked gasp of a sensory overload. It was a low, breathy whimper that hitched in the back of his throat—a sound that was raw, involuntary, and entirely instinctual.
You froze. Before you could ask if you had accidentally hurt him, you felt it. Pressed flush against the soft curve of your backside, right through the fabric of your sweatpants and his soft flannel pajamas, was a distinct, solid ridge of heat.
He was hard.For a microsecond, the living room was dead silent, save for the cartoon explosions on the TV screen. You stopped breathing, your mind racing to process the new variable. Jake’s body, however, didn't wait for his logical brain to catch up.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming biological imperative, Jake’s hips twitched. He pushed forward, pressing that hard, aching heat deliberately into your backside, seeking the friction.Another soft, ragged moan escaped his parted lips, hot against your neck. His heavy arm, which was still wrapped around your waist, suddenly tightened, his large hand gripping your hip with a frantic, desperate pressure.
"Jake?" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flutter against your ribs.
He jerked slightly, as if your voice had snapped him out of a trance. The physical pressure against your back remained, but his breathing had turned shallow and erratic.
"I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to pull his hips back, a sudden wave of panic radiating from his tense muscles. "I did not calculate that reaction. The friction... when you moved... the sensory input was massive. It bypassed my primary processor." You didn't let him pull away. You reached down and placed your hand firmly over his where it gripped your hip, anchoring him to you.
"Jake, it's okay," you said softly, keeping your voice low and steady. "You don't have to apologize. It's just biology. It's a natural variable."
"My heart rate is elevated to 110 beats per minute," he whispered, his chest heaving against your back. "The blood flow has heavily redirected. The physical sensation is... it is loud, Y/N. It is very loud."
"Is it a bad loud?" you asked carefully. "Is it overwhelming like a meltdown, or... is it something else?" He went still, analyzing the internal data. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, taking a shaky breath.
"It is not a meltdown," he confessed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "It does not feel like the static. It feels like... gravity. Like I am being pulled toward the center of the earth. It is a very heavy, concentrated need. I want..." He swallowed hard. "I want to press against you again. The pressure felt... optimal."
Your pulse skyrocketed. You had navigated countless sensory challenges together, but this was uncharted territory. Over the last seven months, your physical intimacy had been limited to deep kisses, fierce hugs, and the quiet comfort of sleeping tangled together. You had let him set the pace, knowing that the intense vulnerability of sex could easily turn into a sensory nightmare if not handled with absolute care and trust.
But right now, his body was telling him what he needed, and he was trusting you enough to vocalize it.
You slowly turned over in his arms, shifting until you were facing him on the sofa.
His dark eyes were wide, blown out, and swimming with a chaotic mix of desire, confusion, and vulnerable trust. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under his t-shirt. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, making him look devastatingly beautiful in the flickering light of the television.
"You can press against me, Jake," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, applying the firm, grounding pressure he loved. "If you want to. We can explore this data together. But only if you feel safe."
He leaned into your palms, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I always feel safe with you. You are my permanent variable."
"Do you want to turn the TV off?" you asked. "To reduce the audio-visual input?"
He opened his eyes and nodded once, a jerky, decisive motion. "Yes. The flashing lights are distracting. I only want to focus on one input. I want to focus on you."
You reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the power button. The room was instantly plunged into a soft, velvety darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. The silence in the room was profound, amplifying the sound of your mingled breathing.
"Is the dark okay?" you murmured, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
"The dark is good," he rasped, his hands sliding from your waist to grip your thighs. "It limits the variables. I can only feel."
"Okay," you breathed. "We're going to go very slow, Jake. If anything feels like too much—if the texture is wrong, or the pressure changes, or the static gets too loud—you just squeeze my hand three times. The emergency exit. And we stop immediately. Deal?"
"Deal," he agreed, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Three squeezes."
You moved closer, swinging one leg over his hips so you were straddling him on the wide cushions of the sofa. You settled your weight down carefully.
The moment your center pressed directly against the hard ridge behind the zipper of his flannel pants, Jake let out a sharp, fractured gasp. His head fell back against the armrest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamped down hard on your hips.
"Deep pressure," he groaned, his hips bucking upward instinctively to meet your weight. "Y/N... the pressure is... oh."
"I know, baby," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to the erratic pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. "I'm right here. Just feel it."
You began to move, establishing a slow, rhythmic rock against him. You knew better than to be unpredictable. He needed a pattern. Forward, back. Press, release. You created a physical metronome with your body, allowing his sensory processor to latch onto the predictability of the friction. Jake’s response was breathtaking. Stripped of his anxieties and grounded by the heavy weight of your body, he surrendered completely to the sensation. His hands roamed over your back, mapping the curve of your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. He was learning the topography of your body in a whole new way. "I need..." he panted, opening his eyes to look up at you. "The barrier. The fabric is creating a secondary friction that is confusing my receptors. I want... skin."
"Okay," you said, your own voice thick with desire. "Let's remove the barriers."
You sat up, reaching for the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you in just your bra. Jake’s dark eyes widened, tracing the exposed skin of your chest and stomach. He didn't reach out with a light, tentative touch; he placed his large, warm palms flat against your ribcage, anchoring himself to your warmth.
"Symmetrical," he whispered, a breathless awe in his voice. "You are structurally perfect."
You smiled, a rush of pure affection warming your blood. You reached down and grabbed the hem of his vintage t-shirt, pulling it up and over his fluffy hair. His chest was broad and pale, his muscles tense and defined under the amber light.
You leaned down, pressing your bare chest flush against his.
The skin-to-skin contact was electric. Jake let out a long, shuddering sigh, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing, desperate hug.
"The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured into your hair, his heart hammering against your breasts. "You feel like... you feel like the sun, Y/N."
"You feel amazing, Jake."
You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants. You shimmied them down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the sofa. Jake followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved his flannel pajama pants and boxers down, kicking them away with a clumsy urgency.
When you settled back over him, entirely bare against him, the reality of the moment hit him. It was his first time. Twenty-four years of guarding his body against a world that was too loud, too bright, and too sharp, and he was opening all the doors for you.
"Y/N," he whispered, his hands gripping your waist tightly. Panic flickered in the depths of his brown eyes, a sudden spike in his data processing. "I do not have the manual for this. I have read the biological mechanics online, but... the practical application... what if I malfunction? What if my rhythm is inefficient?"
You stopped moving. You cupped his face again, bringing your forehead down to rest against his."There is no manual, Jake," you promised him, repeating the words you had told him months ago when he felt broken. "There is no malfunction. This isn't a test with a pass or fail grade. This is just you and me, talking to each other in a different way. You just have to tell me what feels good, and I’ll tell you what feels good. We write our own code."
He blinked, processing the logic. "We write our own code," he echoed.
"Exactly. And I promise you, everything you do is perfect to me."
He let out a shaky breath, the panic subsiding. "Okay. Initiate the sequence."
You reached down, guiding his thick, incredibly hot length to your entrance. He was trembling beneath you, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure anticipation.
"I'm going to go very slow," you whispered, locking your eyes with his. "Deep pressure. Ready?"
"Ready."
You sank down.The entry was a slow, deliberate stretch. You took him inch by inch, allowing his body to process the immense, overwhelming sensation of being enveloped.When you were seated fully at the base, you stopped.
Jake’s reaction was instantaneous and profound. His eyes rolled back slightly, his jaw dropping open in a silent shout. His hands flew up, not to your hips, but to your back, pulling you down into a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid as he absorbed the data.
"Jake?" you whispered, your hands stroking his hair. "Are you okay? Is it too much?"
He shook his head frantically against your collarbone.
"No," he gasped, a wet, fractured sound tearing from his throat. "It is not too much. It is... everything. It is all the data in the universe at once, but it is organized. It is quiet. Y/N, you are so quiet."
He meant it as the highest compliment his brain could formulate. You were the only thing in his life that silenced the chaotic noise of the world.
He didn't wait for you to establish the rhythm. His instincts, buried under layers of logic and sensory defense, roared to life. He surged upward, his hips snapping off the cushions, driving himself deep inside you. You cried out, a loud, breathless sound of pleasure that echoed in the dark room. The sound was a positive variable for him. It fueled him.He began to thrust. It wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't hesitant. It was a firm, relentless, driving rhythm. He found the mathematical perfection of the friction and locked onto it. Up, down. Press, release. He held your hips in a vice grip, ensuring the angle never deviated, maximizing the sensory input for both of you.
"Jake... oh my god, Jake," you moaned, your hands bracing on his broad shoulders as you rode the incredible wave of his momentum.
"Is the depth acceptable?" he panted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Is the velocity optimal?"
"It's perfect," you gasped, leaning down to capture his lips in a fierce, messy kiss. "Don't stop. You feel so good."
He growled into your mouth—a primal, masculine sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. The logical, quiet young man who meticulously sorted LEGO bricks was completely subsumed by the overwhelming, consuming fire of his love for you. The pleasure began to build, a tightening coil of heat that radiated outward. The sensory input in the room narrowed down to just him—the smell of his clean sweat, the sound of his ragged breathing, the solid, heavy impact of his hips against yours. "I'm going to fall," he whimpered suddenly, breaking the kiss. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. His eyes squeezed shut, his head tossing back against the armrest. "Y/N, my system is overloading. The pressure is too high. It's too high!" He wasn't panicking; he was climaxing.
"Let it overload, Jakey," you cried out, feeling your own climax rushing forward to meet his. "I've got you! Just let go!"
With a final, desperate, upward surge, Jake broke.
A high, fractured whimper tore from his throat—a sound of absolute, overwhelming release. He froze, his body bowing upward off the couch, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring. He buried himself as deeply inside you as physically possible, his hands digging into your lower back to anchor you to him as he flooded you with his warmth.
The intensity of his release pushed you right over the edge. You shattered around him, your internal muscles spasming and milking him dry, crying out his name into the quiet, dark room.For a long, endless minute, neither of you moved. You lay collapsed against his chest, your breathing ragged and out of sync.
Slowly, the tension drained out of Jake's body. He slumped back against the cushions, his arms wrapping limply but securely around your waist.
You lifted your head, your hair falling in a messy curtain around your face, and looked down at him.His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. And tracing down the sides of his flushed, sweat-dampened cheeks were two steady streams of tears.
Your heart constricted in a sudden panic. You reached down, wiping your thumb across his cheek. "Jake? Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did it hurt? Was the static too loud?"He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, wet, and incredibly bright.He looked up at you, reaching a trembling hand up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to your skin.
"It didn't hurt," he whispered, a watery, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "The static is completely gone. There is no noise left in my head at all."
"Then why are you leaking?" you asked softly, using his terminology.
"Because my capacity is full," he explained, his voice thick with a profound, overwhelming happiness. "I processed the data of the physical connection, and I combined it with the data of my emotional attachment to you. The resulting sum was larger than my internal storage. It had to spill over."
He let out a shaky, joyful laugh, pulling you back down until your ear was resting right over his racing heart."I am crying because I am exactly where I belong," he murmured into your hair, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. "You are my favorite variable, Y/N. You are the only math that makes sense."You closed your eyes, a few happy tears of your own slipping onto his chest, and held your permanent variable as tightly as you could.
Epilogue
The two years following that rainy autumn night unfolded with a rhythm that was entirely your own. Your relationship with Jake wasn't built on grand, unpredictable gestures or spontaneous cross-country road trips. It was built on the quiet, steady accretion of reliable data. It was built on Tuesday grilled cheese, the specific hum of the dryer on Thursdays, and the absolute certainty that when the world outside grew too sharp, you were each other's soft landing.
The seasons cycled —the oppressive, humid summers fading into the stark, brilliant colors of autumn, giving way to the biting cold of winter, and melting back into the muddy hope of spring. Through it all, Jake continued to bloom.
He still wore his Spider-Man pajama pants. He still organized his LEGOs by size, function, and color. He still required a predictable morning routine to conserve his daily battery. He was still undeniably, beautifully Jake. But the fear that had once defined his interactions with the world had largely dissipated. He was anchored. He had found where he fit.
It was a Saturday morning in late May. The air was warm, and the morning sun was filtering through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.
You were sitting at the kitchen island, wearing one of Jake's oversized grey hoodies, nursing a mug of coffee. You were twenty-five now, working full-time at a local community center. Your imposter syndrome hadn't vanished completely, but you no longer felt like a fraud playing at being an adult. You had a handle on your life, mostly.
Jake was standing at the counter, completely absorbed in the meticulous preparation of his breakfast. Two scrambled eggs (uniform yellow), three strips of bacon (cut into one-inch squares). "The humidity is rising," Jake noted, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. He didn't look away from his plate. "It is currently at 68%. By mid-afternoon, it will likely exceed my comfortable threshold. My hair will experience frizz."
"We can stay inside," you offered, taking a sip of your coffee. "We have the new Star Wars puzzle. The 3,000-piece one."
Jake paused mid-chew. He swallowed and took a deliberate sip of his water.
"No," he said, finally looking up at you. His dark brown eyes were serious, but there was a subtle, nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. He was tapping his left foot against the linoleum—a sign of processing complex variables. "I have calculated a different trajectory for today. I require a change in routine."
You lowered your mug, intrigued. A voluntary change in routine was rare. "Oh? What's the new variable?"
"I would like to visit the city Park," he announced, his posture straightening slightly. "The one with the botanical gardens. The rhododendrons are currently in peak bloom. They are highly saturated in color."
"The Park on a Saturday?" you asked, verifying the data. "It might be crowded, Jakey. High density."
"I am aware," he said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his t-shirt. "I have packed my noise-canceling headphones. I have assessed my battery level. I am operating at 98% capacity. I believe I can manage the input. It is... important."
There was a weight to the word important that made your heart skip a tiny beat. You had learned to trust his self-assessments. If he said he could handle it, he meant it.
"Okay," you smiled warmly. "Let's go see the rhododendrons."
The drive to the Park was filled with the familiar, comforting silence of Jake's lo-fi hip hop playlist. He sat in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping a complex rhythm against his thigh. He was wearing his favorite soft, navy blue hoodie and a pair of clean, comfortable jeans.When you arrived at the park, it was, as predicted, relatively busy. Families were walking dogs, joggers were navigating the paved trails, and children were shouting near the playground.Jake immediately deployed his headphones, pulling them over his ears to muffle the auditory chaos. He reached out with his right hand, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, and waited.You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers tightly. Deep pressure. The anchor.
He squeezed your hand three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
You squeezed back three times.
I love you too.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and together, you began to walk down the main path toward the botanical gardens. The gardens were a stark contrast to the rest of the park. They were quieter, designed for contemplation rather than recreation. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.Jake led the way, navigating the winding stone paths with purpose. He stopped occasionally to examine a specific leaf structure or to identify a flower species under his breath."The Fibonacci sequence is evident in the petal arrangement of the Echinacea purpurpea," he murmured, pointing to a purple coneflower. "Nature relies heavily on mathematical efficiency."
"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning against his side.He guided you deeper into the gardens, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reached a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, ornate wooden gazebo, surrounded on all sides by massive, blooming rhododendron bushes. The flowers were a blinding, saturated magenta.The clearing was entirely empty.
Jake stopped walking. He pulled his headphones down so they rested around his neck.
The sudden exposure to the ambient noise of the park made him blink rapidly for a second, but he didn't put them back on.
He turned to face you.
His breathing had grown shallow. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand, which was still gripping yours tightly.
"Jake?" you asked softly, recognizing the physical signs of a stress response. "Is it too loud? Do you need your headphones?"
"No," he said, his voice hitching slightly. "The noise is acceptable. The variables are within manageable parameters."
He let go of your hand. You frowned, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. Jake never let go of your hand in a public place. It was his primary grounding mechanism.
He took a step back, putting a careful two feet of space between you. He reached his hands into the front pocket of his navy hoodie. He was searching for something.
"Y/N," he began, his voice taking on the formal, factual cadence he used when he was nervous. "I have spent the last two years analyzing the data of our cohabitation. I have observed the statistical probability of a successful, long-term human partnership."Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird."The data indicates," Jake continued, his dark eyes locked intensely on yours, refusing to look away, "that relationships are prone to entropy. They break down due to poor communication, mismatched variables, and a lack of systemic maintenance."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket. He was holding a small, square object made of dark, polished wood. It wasn't a standard velvet jewelry box. It looked distinctly handmade.
"However," he said, his voice softening, the clinical distance dropping away to reveal the raw, beating heart beneath. "My internal processor has run the simulation a thousand times. And in every single simulation, the variable that prevents the entropy... is you."
He took a step forward, closing the gap between you. He didn't drop to one knee—he knew that societal conventions didn't dictate the validity of an action, and the ground was damp—but he held the wooden box out between you."You do not try to rewrite my code," Jake whispered, his eyes shining with an overwhelming, profound sincerity. "You learned my language. You understand that the static is loud, and you are the only thing that makes it quiet. You eat burnt cookies, and you do not make fun of my Spider-Man pajamas, and you provide optimal thermal transfer when I am cold."A tear slipped free from your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe."I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately express the magnitude of my attachment to you," he admitted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the small wooden box. "But I have learned that human tradition utilizes symbolic gestures to denote permanent, primary variables."
He opened the wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a ring. It wasn't a massive, flashy diamond. It was a simple, elegant band of polished titanium, inlaid with a thin, continuous stripe of dark, starry lapis lazuli.
"I selected titanium," Jake explained, his voice gaining confidence as he presented the data. "It has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metallic element. It is incredibly resilient. It will not warp or degrade. And the lapis lazuli is blue. You are my protective blue aura." He looked up from the ring, his gaze finding yours. The puppy-dog innocence was still there, but it was anchored by the unwavering conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted."Y/N," he said, his voice clear and resonant. "Will you agree to be my permanent, legally recognized variable? Will you marry me?" A sob tore from your throat—a loud, messy, uncalculated sound of pure joy. You didn't answer with words initially. You couldn't. You closed the remaining distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours. You kissed him with every ounce of love, gratitude, and fierce devotion you possessed.
Jake gasped against your lips, his hands instantly finding your waist, the wooden box clutched safely in one fist. He kissed you back eagerly, grounding himself in the familiar, perfect pressure of your touch.When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. You rested your forehead against his, your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin."Yes," you whispered, your voice thick and wobbly. "Yes, Jake. A million times, yes. I will be your permanent variable."His face broke into a blinding, full-teeth smile—the kind of smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief."Optimal," he breathed. "The simulation was accurate." He carefully extracted the ring from the wooden box. He took your left hand, his fingers steady now, and slid the titanium band onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly. He had likely measured your finger while you were sleeping, calculating the exact circumference."It's perfect, Jakey," you sobbed, looking at the band. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"It is mathematically precise," he agreed, admiring his handiwork.
He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You buried your face in his navy hoodie, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of unscented detergent and the crisp spring air.
You stood there in the quiet clearing, surrounded by the blinding magenta rhododendrons, holding your fiancé. The static of the world was entirely absent.
The wedding, like your relationship, was exactly what you both needed it to be: small, controlled, and deeply personal.There was no massive reception hall filled with hundreds of strangers. There was no loud DJ blasting bass-heavy music. There were no flashing strobe lights.Instead, six months later, you stood in the backyard of the beige two-story house. The late October air was crisp and smelled of fallen leaves. The trees surrounding the yard were ablaze in oranges and reds.
Sarah had spent weeks transforming the backyard into a quiet, intimate sanctuary. Fairy lights—warm white, non-flickering—were strung through the branches of the old oak tree. The grass was meticulously trimmed.
There were only twelve guests. Your parents, your brother, Sarah, and a few close friends who understood the rules of the environment.
You wore a simple, elegant white dress with no scratchy lace or heavy, restrictive corsetry. You wore your new white Converse sneakers beneath the hem.
Jake stood at the end of the short aisle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He had tried one on during the planning phase, but the stiff collar and the tight constraints of the jacket had sent him into a near-meltdown.Instead, he wore a dark navy blue cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, and dark, comfortable trousers. He looked incredibly handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and entirely at peace.He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, a comforting weight, but he didn't need to turn them on. The environment was safe.When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked onto his. He wasn't looking at the ground. He wasn't looking at your shoes. He was looking directly at your face, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
He held his hand out to you as you approached.
You took it, feeling the immediate, deep pressure of his grip.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
The ceremony was short. The officiant, a close family friend, spoke softly and clearly.
When it came time for the vows, you hadn't written traditional promises. You had written your own code."Jake," you said, your voice steady, holding both of his hands in yours. "I promise to always be your quiet place. I promise to never mix the eggs with the bacon. I promise to always check the weather for humidity spikes, and to always have your noise-canceling headphones charged."
Jake smiled, a single tear slipping down his cheek."I promise to fiercely protect your routines," you continued, your own vision blurring. "Because your routines are what allow your brilliant, beautiful mind to thrive. I promise to love you, exactly as you are, in every variable, in every simulation, for the rest of our lives."
Jake took a deep, shaky breath. He didn't have notes. He had memorized his data.
"Y/N," he began, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre that always grounded you. "Before I met you, the world was a chaotic, unmanageable input. I survived by building walls and closing doors. You did not try to break the walls down. You simply sat outside them, in your quiet shoes, until I realized I wanted to open the door."
He squeezed your hands, his thumb brushing over the titanium ring on your finger.
"You are the most statistically improbable, incredibly fortunate anomaly of my life," he said, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that defied any clinical diagnosis. "I promise to provide optimal thermal transfer when you are cold. I promise to eat the burnt cookies so you do not feel inadequate. I promise to step in front of the unpredictable variables to shield you. I promise to be your permanent, primary partner, until the entropy of the universe consumes us both."
There wasn't a dry eye in the small gathering. Sarah was openly weeping into a tissue, clutching your mother’s hand.
When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissed you with the firm, deliberate passion of a man who had finally found his permanent place in the world.The small crowd cheered softly, clapping their hands—a muted, respectful applause that didn't startle him.The reception was a dinner held in the living room and kitchen. The food was carefully curated. There was a macaroni and cheese bar (no mixing required), a tray of perfectly uniform, sharp cheddar cheese cubes, and a massive bowl of smooth, roasted tomato bisque, a roast Sarah made, a salad.For dessert, there wasn't a traditional, multi-tiered wedding cake.Instead, there was a large platter of sugar cookies and other desserts. The cookies were cut into precise geometric shapes—stars and Stegosauruses. They were baked to a perfect, light golden brown.Jake stood by the dessert table, holding a star cookie. He looked across the room at you. You were talking to your brother, laughing at something he had said.Jake walked over to you. He didn't care that you were mid-conversation. He stepped up behind you, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Deep pressure," he murmured into your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Always," you smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth.
Your brother smiled warmly at the two of you and excused himself to get more macaroni and cheese.Jake held the star cookie out in front of you.
"The bake on these is optimal," he noted, his voice a low, happy rumble against your back. "The structural integrity is sound. The Maillard reaction was controlled."
"I set three timers," you laughed, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I wasn't taking any chances today."He took a bite of the cookie. It crunched satisfyingly.
"They are very good," he decided, chewing thoughtfully. "But..."
"But?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"But I think I prefer the fossilized dinosaurs," he said, his eyes crinkling with a subtle, teasing humor. "They possessed a superior... smoky complexity. And they proved that you are fallible. Which makes you mathematically perfect for me."
You let out a loud, joyous laugh, turning fully in his arms to wrap your hands around his neck."You are ridiculous, Jake Sim," you beamed, looking up at your husband.
"I am entirely logical," he corrected softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. "The data supports my conclusion." He leaned down and kissed you again, right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft murmur of your families and the warm, golden light of the fairy lights.Outside, the world continued its chaotic, unpredictable spin. The traffic roared, the sirens wailed, and the variables shifted without warning.
But inside, wrapped in the arms of the man who organized his life with plastic bricks and unyielding honesty, everything was perfectly, mathematically still. The static was gone. You were home. And you knew, with the absolute certainty of a scientifically proven fact, that you would never need to run from the noise again.
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✿︎ 𝐕𝐎𝐋 20 : enha maknae line as your older boyfriend ───── ✹ 𝑺𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐒 ! ... angst ,, fluff ,, suggestive scenes ,, I kinda lost my mind ,, need a riki in my life ,, wholesome ... [ library ]
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐚𝐩𝐬 : I genuinely entered flow state.
ꗃ SUNOO ᝰ
You were painfully aware of how close he was. It made you hyperconscious of every inch of space between you and Sunoo as you sat side by side on his bed, legs tucked under the blanket, a movie playing that neither of you were really watching.
This was new territory. For both of you.
Your first time dating someone significantly older was his first time dating someone younger.
And it showed in the way he kept a careful distance, hands folded politely in his lap, posture straight like he was afraid one wrong move might cross an invisible line. In the way you kept glancing at him from the corner of your eye, heart racing every time his shoulder brushed yours by accident.
“So,” he said softly, clearing his throat. “Is the volume okay?”
You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Perfect.” Silence followed, thick but not uncomfortable. Just….charged. Sunoo had always been gentle with you. Playful in the safest ways, quick pecks on your lips that left you flustered for hours, his fingers pinching your cheeks until you protested and turned red while he laughed. Sometimes he would cup your face afterward, thumbs brushing your skin with an affection that made your knees weak.
But this? this felt different.
A sleepover. A shared bed. The lights dimmed low. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. You wanted him to touch you. Wanted him to pull you closer, to wrap an arm around you like couples did so easily in movies. And at the same time, the thought terrified you.
What if it was too much? What if you misread everything?
You shifted slightly, your knee brushing his thigh. Sunoo stiffened immediately. “Oh–sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—are you okay? I can move if—”
“No,” you blurted. “I mean–don’t move. It’s fine.”
He relaxed, just a little, shoulders lowering. “Okay.”
Another pause.
“You can tell me if I’m… overwhelming,” he added quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. “You’re not,” you replied with a pout “I just… don’t know what I’m doing.”
He let out a small laugh, soft and relieved. “Me neither.”
That made you smile.
The movie played on, forgotten, until Sunoo did something small so small it shouldn’t have mattered. His hand, resting between you, shifted closer. Not touching yet. Just there. An invitation without pressure. Your heart started beating louder.
“You’re really cute when you concentrate,” he murmured suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “You scrunch your nose.”
Heat rushed to your face. “hmm someone got a staring problem....”
“Sorry,” he said, smiling. “I just like looking at you.” Your heart roared loudly. You tried to focus on the movie.
The screen glowed softly in the dark room, actors whispering confessions and brushing hands like it was nothing, like it didn’t rearrange entire lives. You shifted under the blanket again, knees brushing Sunoo’s thigh for the third time in a minute.
He noticed of course. “Are you cold?” he asked immediately, already reaching for the blanket to pull it higher around your shoulders.
“No,” you said quickly. “I’m fine.”
“Too warm?” He hesitated, hand hovering. You laughed under your breath. “Sunoo.”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly “I just—tell me if something’s wrong.” You shook your head, then glanced back at the screen. The actors were kissing now. Properly kissing. Confident. Easy. You frowned slightly. “Can I ask you something stupid?”
He turned to you, all attention. “Always.”
You gestured vaguely at the TV. “How do actors not fall in love after kissing like that?” Sunoo blinked. “What?”
“I mean,” you rushed on, suddenly embarrassed, “they kiss so much. Over and over. How do they not catch feelings?” He thought about it for a moment, lips pursed. “I think… it depends on the kiss.”
You hummed skeptically “kissing can’t be that big of a deal.”
He glanced at you sideways. “You think so?”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “It’s just lips. People hype it up too much.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Sunoo shifted. Before you could process it, his hand slid to your waist, not grabbing, just anchoring and he pulled you closer, slow but deliberate. Your breath caught. “Sunoo—?”
“You said it can’t be that good,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “I was just thinking… maybe you’ve never been kissed like that.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Like what?”
He didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and kissed you. Not a playful peck, shy, and quick kisses you were used to. This was different, unrushed, and certain. His lips moved against yours with intention, fitting like he’d been imagining it longer than he’d admit. You froze for half a second, shocked by the sudden heat of it. Then he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. Your breath stuttered. Sunoo’s hand tightened slightly at your waist, steadying you as his other hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the way his mouth claimed yours. You felt his lips part, felt the gentle press of his tongue, hesitant at first, like he was checking if this was okay.
It was.
You made a small sound without meaning to, and that seemed to undo him. He kissed you again, slower, deeper, teeth grazing your lower lip just enough to make you gasp.
“Oh,” you whispered when he pulled back a fraction, breath uneven. “Still think kissing isn’t a big deal?”
Your mind was spinning. “I–okay hold on....maybe I was wrong. Oh damn I was wrong.”
A soft, breathy laugh left him, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”
You nodded, fingers gripping his shirt. “Very.”
You kissed him again chasing the taste of his lips which ended with both of you giggling and hearts racing in sync.
“I was so scared I’d make you uncomfortable,” Sunoo admitted softly. “I kept telling myself to behave.” You laughed, still breathless. “You were.” He smiled shyly. “I didn’t want to scare you away.”
“You didn’t,” you said, voice gentle. “I was just scared you didn’t want me to… want you.”
His arms tightened around you. “I’ve wanted you. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.” Something warm settled in your chest at that. You shifted, settling more comfortably against him, and he immediately adjusted, pulling the blanket snug around you both. His chin rested on top of your head, fingers tracing slow, soothing lines along your arm. “So,” he said quietly, “actors probably don’t fall in love because they don’t kiss like that.”
You smiled into his chest. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
He kissed your hair, content. And this time, there was no awkwardness, just holding each other close as the movie played on, forgotten.
ꗃ JUNGWON ᝰ
You kept telling yourself it didn’t bother you. That it was just how she was, loud, familiar, woven into Jungwon’s life long before you ever entered it. His best friend always laughed easily, touched his biceps without thinking, spoke like she belonged there. And you stood beside him, smiling, nodding, pretending your chest didn’t tighten every time she joked a little too freely. “Oh, we basically got married when we were kids,” she laughed once, looping her arm through Jungwon’s. “Never officially divorced either. So technically, Y/n, you’re dating my husband.”
You laughed too and added, “Guess I’ll have to fight for custody then,” because you didn’t want Jungwon to think you were childish or insecure. Or too young to handle harmless jokes.
But later, when you were alone, the words replayed in your head like a bruise you kept pressing. Husband. Childhood. History.
You knew Jungwon’s past. You knew he had dated women older than him, women who made sense beside him, who didn’t hesitate before speaking, who didn’t feel like they had to prove they deserved him. Sometimes you wondered if he saw you as temporary. Sweet, but replaceable.
That was why you stayed up the night before his birthday, fingers aching, eyes burning as you worked yarn through a hook over and over again. You couldn’t afford anything expensive. Couldn’t compete with grand gestures or polished gifts. So you made something instead, something warm. Something that took time.
A scarf and a pair of gloves. Uneven in places. Made with love you didn’t know how else to show. The birthday party was louder than you expected. Music filled the room, laughter bouncing off the walls, Jungwon surrounded by people who loved him. He looked beautiful in the chaos, hair slightly messy, smile wide, eyes bright. You hovered near the edge, clutching the small gift bag in your hands like a lifeline.
When it was time for gifts, people gathered around him, handing over boxes and bags. He opened each one with gratitude, thanking them sincerely.
Then his best friend stepped forward. Her gift was sleek. A Tiffany bracelet. Expensive. Something he had mentioned wanting months ago. His reaction was immediate, eyes widening, breath catching. “No way,” he said, stunned. “You actually got this?”
She grinned. “Of course I did.”
You watched as he pulled her into a hug, laughing, already distracted by the gift, by her commentary, by the way she knew him so well. Minutes passed. Then more. You stood there, invisible, the weight of your own gift suddenly unbearable. You waited. You told yourself he would notice. That he would turn and look for you.
He didn’t and suddenly the room felt too loud. Too bright. You slipped away quietly, down the hallway, into an empty bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor until the tears came whether you wanted them to or not.
You cried silently at first. Then harder. Your chest hurt with everything you’d swallowed down for weeks, every joke you laughed through, every comparison you never voiced, every fear that you were too young, too small, too much work. You must have fallen asleep like that, curled inward, because when you woke, the room was dim and quiet.
You thought you would get away with it.
You thought you could hide in the quiet room for a few minutes, rinse your face, steady your breathing, and walk back out like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just stood there, invisible, while the man you loved laughed and hugged someone else, gift forgotten, you forgotten.
But the door creaked open softly. “Y/n?”
His voice was careful and confused. You flinched anyway. “I’m fine,” you said immediately. You wiped at your cheeks, even though they were already dry. “Just feeling a little sick. I think I need water.”
Jungwon didn’t move closer. He just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle that suddenly didn’t make sense anymore.
“You’ve been gone for almost twenty minutes,” he said quietly. You shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “Yeah, I—my head hurts.”
Silence stretched. Then, gently, “Can you look at me?”
You didn’t want to. Because you knew what he’d see.
“Y/n.”
You finally lifted your gaze. His expression changed instantly. Confusion melted into something sharper, something that hurt. His brows pulled together as he took in the redness around your eyes, the faint tear tracks you hadn’t managed to hide, the way your mouth trembled despite your effort to stay composed. “You were crying,” he said. It wasn’t a question. You laughed weakly. “No, I wasn’t. I just—my eyes get red when I’m tired.”
He took a step closer. “Don’t lie to me.” That undone your heart. The way he said it like he was scared, not angry. “tell me,” he continued, voice low, almost pleading, “why my girlfriend disappeared in the middle of my birthday.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t disappear,” you muttered. “I just needed space.”
“For what?” he asked. “Did I do something?”
You shook your head immediately. “No. No, this isn’t about you.”
Jungwon exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. “Then why does it feel like it is?”
You turned away, staring at the wall. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. If you did, everything would spill out, and you weren’t ready for that, not on his birthday, not when he was supposed to be happy. But he didn’t let it go. He stepped into your space, careful, like he was approaching something fragile. “You were standing there earlier,” he said slowly, “...And then suddenly you were gone.”
Your fingers curled instinctively. “I looked for you,” he added, voice cracking just a little. “I thought maybe you had left.” That made your throat burn.
“I didn’t want to ruin your day,” you whispered.
Jungwon’s eyes widened. “Ruin my—Y/n, what are you talking about?”
You laughed, broken and humorless. “See? You don’t even know.”
He reached out, hesitated, then gently touched your wrist. “Then help me understand.” Something inside you finally gave way. You pulled your hand back, tears rising again despite your efforts. “I was standing right there,” you said, voice shaking. “Right in front of you. And you didn’t see me.”
His breath caught.
“You were so happy,” you continued, words tumbling out now. “Everyone had these amazing gifts, and then she gave you that—thing—and you hugged her and laughed and I just… stood there like I didn’t matter.”
“That’s not true,” he said instantly.
“But it felt true,” you snapped, tears spilling over. “And I didn’t want to be the annoying, jealous girlfriend, so I smiled and waited and waited and you never looked back at me.”Jungwon looked stricken.
“I made you something,” you admitted, voice breaking completely now. “I stayed up all night making it because I can’t afford expensive gifts and I thought—maybe if I made something with my hands, it would mean something.”
He stared at you like the words physically hurt him.
“And then,” you whispered, “I felt stupid for even thinking it would.”
You choked on a sob. “You always dated older women. I keep thinking one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m just a phase.”
Jungwon went pale “Is that what you think?” he whispered.
You laughed hysterically through tears. “I screamed at you on your birthday. You’re definitely breaking up with me now.” His eyes filled instantly. “What?” He shook his head, hands tightening on your knees. “No. No, don’t say that.” He stood abruptly and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tight it almost hurt. His voice wavered against your hair. “I was terrified when I couldn’t find you. I thought I lost you.” You clung to him, sobbing. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Neither do I,” he said fiercely. He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb wiping your tears. “You are not a phase. You are… you. And I choose you.”
You whispered, “Then why does it feel like I’m competing?”
His expression hardened with resolve. “Because I failed to protect your heart.” He held you close “She’s my friend. That’s all. But you’re my girlfriend. My partner. And I should’ve noticed you. I should’ve seen you.”
You pulled the small gift bag from behind you with trembling hands. “I made this. I know it’s not much.”
He opened it slowly. When he saw the scarf and gloves, his breath hitched “You made these?” he asked hoarsely. You nodded. He hugged you again, harder this time, like he might fall apart. “This is the most precious thing I've gotten tonight...” You melted into him, heart pounding, fingers clutching his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured against your lips. “And neither are you.”
Jungwon’s eyes filled with tears. “You disappeared,” he said hoarsely, “and all I could think was that I’d lost you without even realizing when.”
He tightened his arms around you, firm and desperate, like he was afraid you’d vanish again if he loosened his grip. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I didn’t see you hurting, and that’s on me. Not you.”
You clung to him, sobbing now, the part of you that always tried to be good and quiet and understanding finally breaking in his arms.
“I just wanted to be chosen,” you cried.
He held you tighter. “You are,” he said fiercely. “You always have been.”
ꗃ RIKI ᝰ
You always knew you were a lot.
Too talkative when you were excited, too bratty when you were annoyed, too dramatic when you were jealous. You walked away from arguments, chin lifted, shoulders squared, heart pounding because leaving first felt safer than staying and saying something you couldn’t take back.
Riki knew this about you. And somehow, impossibly, he stayed patient anyway.
He listened when you rambled. Let you poke at him just to see if he’d crack. Let you huff and puff and storm off, only to find him waiting later with calm eyes and open arms. He was older, steadier, devastatingly hot in a way that made you feel like you’d somehow tricked the universe into handing him to you by mistake.
Part of you didn’t believe you deserved someone like him. Another part of you tried constantly to push him just to see if he’d leave.
But this time you genuinely pissed him off.
You hadn’t taken him seriously when Riki said he wasn’t going to touch you for the rest of the day, you laughed it off, rolling your eyes. It sounded like a joke, something playful, something temporary. You were used to poking him, riling him up just enough to get a reaction that never really came.
Except this time, it did.
He didn’t kiss you goodbye, pulled back when you tried to loop your arms around his waist. Didn’t even look at you the same way.
He stayed calm. Too calm.
And that scared you. By evening, the weight of it sat heavy in your chest. You kept opening your mouth to apologize, to say okay, I pushed too far, but every time you tried, he was already moving away, busy with something else, answering someone, putting physical space between you like it was deliberate.
You told yourself he just needed time. That giving him space was the mature thing to do.
Jake’s place was loud and warm, full of voices and music and familiar faces. Normally, you’d stick close to Riki in crowds like this, fingers tucked into his sleeve, grounding yourself in his presence. But Tonight, he didn’t even offer that.
He drifted ahead, greeting people, easy smiles on his face but not once did he reach back for you. Each step felt like a widening gap you didn’t know how to cross.
Then you saw her. His old flame.
She stood a little too close a laughed a little too freely. Her hand reached up, casual, intimate and ruffled his hair like it belonged to her. Like she had done it a hundred times before.
Your stomach dropped.
Riki didn’t pull away instead He smiled.
Your ears rang and you felt the room tilted. He lets no one touch him like that. Except you.
Except—apparently—not anymore.
You turned before you could think, walking fast, heart pounding so hard it hurt. You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t grab your bag. You just made it to the car and slammed the door shut behind you, breath coming in sharp, furious bursts.
You gripped the steering wheel like you might rip it out. Your vision blurred, rage and heartbreak tangling into something unbearable. You felt sick–actually sick, like you might throw up or scream or do something reckless just to release the pressure building inside your chest.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. You couldn’t tell. The passenger door opened suddenly.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Riki’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and unfiltered.
You didn’t look at him.
“You walked out without saying anything,” he continued, anger finally cracking through his composure. “Do you have any idea—”
“Oh, now you care?” you snapped, turning to face him.
The look on his face stunned you.
He was angry. Really angry. Jaw clenched, eyes dark, hurt threaded deep beneath the surface. Not explosive but controlled in a way that felt more dangerous.
“Don’t twist this,” he said. “I told you I needed space.”
“And I gave it to you,” you shot back, hands shaking. “Clearly. You looked very comfortable in your space”
His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you said, voice rising. “Letting her touch you like that. Smiling like you forgot I even existed.”
Something flickered across his face, confusion, then irritation. “She’s an old friend.”
“You don’t let friends touch you like that,” you said, tears finally spilling over. “You don’t let anyone touch you except me.”
His silence felt like confirmation “You’re overreacting,” he said finally. The words hit like a slap. Your chest caved in.
“Wow,” you whispered, laughing bitterly. “So I’m crazy now.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said, voice breaking “You’ve been punishing me all day, ignoring me, making me feel like I don’t matter—and then I see that?”
“I was angry,” he snapped. “You kept pushing me. You always do.”
“Because I’m scared,” you cried. “Because I don’t feel good enough for you and I don’t know how to say that without sounding pathetic.”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to you. “I’m not your emotional punching bag.”
The moment he said it, he knew. You saw it on his face, the instant regret. But it was too late. You broke.Your shoulders shook as sobs tore out of you, raw and unrestrained. “I never meant to hurt you,” you cried. “I just wanted you to look at me. To choose me.”
Riki stepped forward instinctively, arms opening.
“No,” you choked, backing away. “Don’t touch me.”
He froze.
That hurt him more than anything you’d said.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have—”
He reached for you anyway, and the moment his hands wrapped around you, you collapsed completely. Your knees nearly gave out as you cried into his chest, fists clutching his shirt like you needed him to keep you upright.
“I thought I was losing you,” you sobbed. “I thought you were done with me.”
His arms tightened around you like a vise.
“I was angry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “But I never stopped wanting you. Never.” He sank into the backseat with you, pulling you onto his lap without asking, holding you like you were something precious he’d almost shattered. His forehead pressed to yours, breaths uneven.
“I hate when you walk away,” he admitted. “It scares me. And I handled it wrong.”
You hiccupped, fingers curling into his jacket. “I hate when you pull away. It makes me feel invisible.”
“I see you,” he said fiercely. “I always see you.”
He didn’t let you move.
Not when your sobs faded into uneven breaths. Not when you tried to wipe your face, embarrassed by how hard you’d cried. His arms stayed locked around you, one hand splayed warm against your back, the other threaded through your hair “you’re shaking,” he murmured.
You hadn’t even noticed. Your body was still coming down from the high of fear and rage and heartbreak all tangled together. You nodded weakly, forehead dropping against his collarbone.
“I hate that I made you feel like that,” Riki said quietly. “I hate that you thought you were replaceable.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt again. “You smiled at her.”
His chest rose sharply beneath you. “That smile didn’t mean anything,” he said immediately. “It was automatic” Then he spoke, softer “You’re not.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were glassy, lashes damp, jaw tight like he was holding himself together with effort.
“You didn’t push her away,” you whispered. He swallowed. “I didn’t realize what it looked like,” he admitted. “And I should’ve. I should’ve been thinking about you, not about proving I was fine.”
“Proving what?” you asked.
“That I wasn’t hurt,” he said honestly. “That you didn’t get to me.”
Your heart cracked open all over again “So you were hurt.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “I was pissed. And scared. And I thought if I didn’t touch you, if I didn’t give in, maybe you’d finally stay instead of running.”
Your breath hitched. “I wanted you to chase me,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But I want you to know there's always a safe place you can run back to.”
Silence settled between you — thick, heavy, real.
Then Riki shifted, guiding you higher on his lap without thinking, forehead pressing to yours. His voice dropped, raw and exposed. “When you disappeared tonight,” he said, “I thought—fuck—I thought you finally decided you’d had enough of me.”
Your eyes widened. “Riki—”
“And then I saw you in the car,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “looking like that? Like you were about to break? I hated myself.”
Your throat burned.
“I said things I shouldn’t have,” he said, regret bleeding into every word. “I thought being harsh would make you stay. But it only hurt you.”
He cupped your face again, this time gentle, reverent, thumbs brushing away the last traces of tears.“I don’t want to be someone you’re scared of,” he said. “I want to be someone you come to.”
You leaned into his touch, voice trembling “sometimes I act out because I want to know you’ll still want me even when I’m not… easy.”
His eyes darkened with something deeper.
“You don’t have to earn that,” he said. “You already have it.”
Then, quietly, like a confession he breathed out “I just need you to stop leaving.”
Your heart stuttered. “I’ll try,” you whispered.
He nodded, like that was enough for now. His lips brushed your cheek, soft. Then your jaw. Then lingered at your throat, where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his mouth. Each kiss felt intentional, grounding, like he was re-claiming something he’d almost lost.
“You okay?” he murmured against your skin. You nodded, breath shaky. “Yeah.”
His hands slid to your waist, thumbs pressing lightly like he was checking you were really there. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You swallowed. “It’s not.”
That was all the permission he needed. His kisses deepened, hungry in a way that made your stomach flip. He kissed you like he was reassuring himself, like he was imprinting the truth back into both of you.
You melted into him, arms curling around his neck, the earlier anger dissolving into heat and relief and something achingly tender.
His breath shuddered, eyes closed “You have no idea how bad I wanted to do this”
You laughed softly, still fragile. “You’re supposed to be the calm one.”
He huffed. “You ruin that for me.” You smiled through the lingering ache, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You love it.” He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he pulled you closer, arms tightening around you as if the night, the world, the misunderstandings couldn’t touch you like this. His kisses slowed, turned softer, lingering, on your temple, your nose, your lips until the intensity settled into something warm and steady.
“I don’t want to fight like that again,” you whispered. “Me neither,” he said. “But if we do… don’t disappear.”
“I won’t,” you promised.
He kissed you once more, slow, sealing, intimate, before resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in. The rest of the night blurred gently after that. You stayed tucked on his lap, wrapped in his jacket, his hands never straying far, his presence solid and reassuring. And for the first time that day, you felt chosen without having to fight for it.
this picture makes me actually SICK just looking at it. making ni-ki hide because he's japanese, not letting him do the fansign and forcing him to do fancalls instead, belift what the fuck is this? this is so heartbreaking for my nini.
