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[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

FOREVER

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

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Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (18k words)

Author's note: This is the final part of Eventually. Hope you enjoy the journey (and the angst as well 🫣). Congratulations and thank you for making it this far. ❣️

That night, after Chris leaves, the house feels too still.

You stand by the window longer than you should, staring at the empty space where his car had been just minutes ago. The porch light hums softly above you, and for a second you almost expect him to come back, say he forgot something, say he changed his mind. But he doesn’t.

You lock the door, climb the stairs, and slip into your old bedroom. You sit at the edge of your bed and let the quiet settle in.

Chris is here. Of all the places in the world, of all the cities you could have run into each other, he found you here—at your childhood home, on a random night when you weren’t even supposed to be in town.

You lie back slowly, staring at the ceiling.

He said he’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. To hangout? Or is it a date?

Your heart does something reckless in your chest. You roll onto your side and bury your face into your pillow, groaning softly at yourself. You’re not eighteen anymore. You run a company. You’ve handled billion worth of business deals and meetings. And yet one look from him tonight had you stammering like a teenager again.

You replay the moment he said, “It’s really you.” The way his eyes softened. The way he looked… relieved.

You press your palm over your chest and ask yourself. Is this a good thing?

The last time your lives collided like this, it hurt. It was beautiful and terrifying and full of almosts. You were the one who told him to chase his dream. You were the one who walked away because you thought you were doing the right thing. And years later, you’re still not sure if you were.

You slowly exhale air and close your eyes. You’ve rebuilt yourself carefully since then—brick by brick. After the broken engagement. After the canceled wedding. After the whispers. After convincing yourself that maybe love just wasn’t meant for you.

Chris feels like something that could unravel all of that. Or maybe… something that could make it make sense.

If this is going to happen again, you don’t want it to be half-hearted. You don’t want it to be fueled by nostalgia or loneliness. You want it to be real. You walk to the mirror, studying yourself—the woman you’ve become. Stronger. Smarter. Guarded in ways you weren’t back then.

And still… when he smiled at you tonight, you felt like the girl who waited on the bleachers with a lunchbox in her lap.

Maybe this isn’t about whether crossing paths again is good or bad. Maybe it’s about whether you’re brave enough now to choose differently.

So you climb into bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin, staring at the ceiling in the dark. You fall asleep not thinking about what went wrong, but wondering what might finally go right.

-

The car ride settles into something that feels like nostalgia.

Chris drives slow with music plays low in the background, just enough to fill the space between you. The car gliding through the streets you know a little too well. It feels natural in a way that almost startles you, like slipping into a memory you didn’t realize your body still remembered.

And yet, something is different.

Not just that you’re older now. Not just that time has layered itself onto both of you. Somehow, you’re even more nervous than you were at eighteen. Back then, everything felt possible in a reckless, fearless way. Now, every glance, every pause feels weighted.

The car stops at a red light and Chris rests one hand on the center console, turning his head toward you. “How’s your mom?”

“I guess she’s doing great,” you answer. “She’s on a cruise. The one I got her for her birthday.”

He raises his brows, impressed. “Wow.”

You shrug. “She’s probably enjoying the bottomless margaritas as we speak.”

He laughs and then teasingly says, “Look at you! Being a good daughter and all.”

You turn your head his way, narrowing your eyes at him. “I’ve always been a good daughter.”

“Alright,” he says, amused. “I stand corrected.”

The light is still red, and now that you’ve started talking, it feels easier to keep going. “So… why are you here?”

He exhales softly, eyes back on the road. “It’s still my hometown.”

“Right. But you’re not—” You hesitate for a second and end up letting out a dry, humorless laugh. “I mean, are you not coaching right now?”

“My contract has just ended,” he simply explains. “They offered to extend it, but I’ve also got another offer. Somewhere else.”

You glance at him. “So you’re… taking time off?”

“Yeah. Thinking things through.”

You poke fun without thinking. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d be a hot commodity.”

He grins, unmistakably pleased. “I am hot.”

Somehow, your cheeks heating at his immediate answer. But you manage to let out a scoff. “Oh, please.”

The light turns green. He eases the car forward, smile lingering as he focuses on driving.

You can wait, patiently following the streets he takes to know where he’s taking you. But after a minute, you ask anyway, “So… where are we going?”

He keeps his eyes on the road for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he glances at you, a playful, dimpled grin plastered his face.

“First,” he says, “we need to update our stats.”

A moment later, the car pulls into a bowling alley parking lot. You stare at the glowing sign for a second, then look over at him. “This is what you meant by updating our stats?”

He grins as he parks. “Absolutely.”

You snort. “So you can prove you’re still the same loser who can’t bowl?”

His mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “Excuse you?”

You unbuckle slowly, unfazed. “Historically speaking, your average was… tragic.”

“I have improved,” he insists, already stepping out of the car. “I’m way better now. Possibly the best.”

You follow him inside, shrugging coyly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, competitive fire lighting his eyes. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

You smile to yourself because some things really don’t change at all.

-

The game turns competitive almost immediately. You tighten the shoelaces on your bowling shoes before getting up and picking a ball to throw. Honestly, you feel a little nervous because the last time you played bowling was years ago. You’re not sure if you’re still good but you think you can rely on muscle memory. And luck.

You take the the ball, feeling the weight in your hand as you walk up toward the lane and exhale air to calm yourself. As you figure how hard, how fast you should throw the ball, you feel a presence behind you. Then, a pair of hands on each side of your waist.

“You aim and throw the ball that way,” Chris says, his warm breath brushing your ears as he speaks.

One hand moves to your elbow as he teaches you how to bowl like you’re new to this. “And try to knock down as much pins as you can,” he further explains.

You try not to focus much on the way his body lingering close behind you or the heat of his body slowly seeping into yours. Or the way his thumb lightly rubbing over the skin on your arm. You scoff and surprise him with an elbow to this stomach.  

“Ow!” Chris yelps rather dramatically.

Before he can distract you again, you throw the ball down the lane with practiced ease. You watch as the ball knocks down a few pins. It doesn’t strike, but it’s solid. You turn around and find Chris has his tongue poking his cheek, unimpressed.

“So you’ve been secretly training, huh?” he says as he takes a step back.

You coyly shrug and confidently say, “Maybe I’ve just always been better than you.”

That seems to rile him up in the best way. He scoffs, grabs his ball, and lines up. “Watch and learn.”

The ball veers just slightly off, clipping pins instead of knocking them clean. Not terrible—but not impressive either.

You raise your hands and feigning tremor. “Wow. I’m shaking.”

“Relax,” he says, waving you off. “I’m warming up.”

Between turns, he gets bold. He leans forward as he’s selecting a ball with more focus than when he throws it. His eyes flicking up to yours as he smirks and says, “My form’s gotten really good over the years, you know. Endurance, control—”

You cut in with a snort. “And you think that would help?”

His hand stops on a ball. “Yeah.”

“Help you with what?” you ask while daringly staring into his eyes.

Chris smirks. He looks down at the ball he chooses, slowly slipping his fingers into the holes and lifts it— muscles flexed, veins strained across his arms. “With my bowling performance, of course,” he says innocently.

You look away, facing the lane to not entertain him further.

He positions himself on the lane, ready to take his turn. But before that, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Get your head out of the gutter.”

You roll your eyes but your cheeks warm anyway.

He throws the ball and it glides straight toward the pins but somehow, by some unexplained phenomenon, the ball turns sideway and into the gutter. When he turns around with his hands on his head, wincing.

You get up from your seat and say his words back to him. “I think you’re the one who should get your head out of the gutter.”

Chris only grins as he watches you take your turn. You step up—only for him to suddenly hold up a hand. “Wait.”

You turn, annoyed. “If you’re trying to sabotage me—”

He crouches down instead and reaches for your sneaker. Your protest dies as he ties your open shoelace. When he looks up at you, your eyes meet for a brief moment but enough for you to notice the way his expression softens, playful confidence melting into something deeper. Your heart stumbles but you school your face to keep neutral.

“Can’t have you blaming me when you trip,” he says lightly, standing.

You clear your throat and joke, “I’d still strike even when I tripped.”

Chris huffs an offended sigh. “Yeah, sure.”

You throw the ball in confidence and to your surprise, you bowl a strike. You don’t even look back, but put on a triumphant smile and lift your arms in victory.

By the final frame, the score is undeniable.

Chris studies the screen, then sighs. “Okay. Fine. I lost.”

“Admitting defeat? Wow, maturity looks good on you,” you tease with a grin.

He holds back a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Dinner’s on me.”

-

The diner feels exactly the same.

Same cracked vinyl booths. Same faint smell of grease and coffee. Same low hum of conversation layered with clinking plates. You slide into the booth across from Chris, and before the food even arrives, you’re already bickering.

“I still think the lane was crooked,” he says, stealing a fry from your plate.

“You just can’t accept that I beat you fair and square,” you reply, swatting his hand away.

“You distracted me.”

“You distracted yourself.”

By the time your burgers arrive, the awkwardness has completely dissolved. Bowling did its job—it cracked something open, loosened the years between you. You laugh easier now, tease without second-guessing, talk like the silence never stretched as long as it did.

The bell above the diner door jingles and a group of high schoolers pours in, loud and energetic, a few of them wearing the same blue-and-black varsity jackets from your old school. You lean back in your seat with a soft sigh as the memories rush in all at once.

Chris notices it too. You’re both watching the same thing—the way they crowd into a booth, talking over each other, laughing like time is endless.

“Things were easier back then,” you murmur.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Then he glances at you. “Well, not all things.”

You smirk. “Your math struggles, for one.”

He groans. “That will never get easier.”

You laugh, the sound light and warm.

Chris looks back at the group, expression thoughtful now. “They don’t know it yet,” he says quietly, “but this is probably the best time of their lives.”

You nod, feeling it settles in your chest. Youth. Blissful ignorance. The way everything feels big and small at the same time. Not caring about anything but the present.

There are so many questions hovering on your tongue—about him, about that night on the boulder, about the years in between—but you swallow them down. At least, not here. Not yet.

Instead, you smile at him over your fries. “Want to take a trip down memory lane?”

His grin spreads slowly, knowing exactly what you mean. “I’d love a trip down memory lane.”

-

Chris keeps one hand on the wheel as he drives while you talk about running into Aaron at the tech expo, about how surreal it felt to see someone from high school in a place so far removed from where you all started. You mention Celia’s baby shower and meeting more people you know from school, the reminder that some people grow in entirely new directions—and some stay achingly the same.

He listens quietly, attentive in that way he’s always had. “So,” he says suddenly, glancing over at you, “what’s changed about me?”

You almost laugh. Internally, the answers come too fast—broader shoulders, stronger build, the way age has settled into him in a way that only made him more attractive. The confidence. The steadiness.

But you don’t say any of that. Not when you know it’s going to make him cocky. Instead, you shrug. “You’re less annoying.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You asked,” you say innocently.

Then you turn the question back on him. “What about me?”

He hums, thoughtful, eyes back on the road. For a moment, you think he might dodge it. “I think you’re the same,” he answers.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “The same, huh?”

He smirks, finally looking your way. “I mean—you’re still as beautiful.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. But inside, your heart flutters.

He laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

The car slows, then turns into the parking lot of the elementary school. The building looms ahead, quiet and dark, windows reflecting nothing but night. You get out of the car first, the quiet, slightly eerie atmosphere sending a faint shiver down your spine. You’re still staring at it when you feel hands settle on your shoulders.

Chris drapes his jacket over you carefully, holding it open so you can slip your arms into the sleeves. His hands linger on your shoulders after, then sliding down your arms, smoothing the fabric. Whether it’s practicality or an excuse to touch you, you’re not sure, but you shiver anyway.

“Thanks,” you murmur, turning your head slightly.

He smiles, then turns on the flashlight on his phone and leads the way. Together, you move past the playground, through the fence, into the woods behind the school.

-

The night is quiet. The trees whisper softly overhead. Shadows stretch longer, branches creak softly overhead, and the path you once knew by heart now feels uneven beneath your feet. You squint, stepping carefully, trying to remember where the ground dips and where the rocks hide.

Chris glances back at you, amused. “You know, maybe your eyesight’s getting worse. Old age and all.”

You scowl at him. “I’m not old.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums. “You just sound like it.”

You open your mouth to retort but your foot catches on a rock. You stumble forward, already bracing yourself for the fall, but Chris’s hand is there instantly, reaching back for you. You don’t hesitate to take his hand, fingers curling around his without thinking.

“Careful,” he murmurs, tightening his hold and guiding you forward now, slowing his pace to match yours.

You’re following the pull of his hand through the dark, every step made easier by the warmth grounding you. The woods don’t seem so intimidating anymore. The night feels softer, held at bay by the simple fact that he’s here.

The boulder finally comes into view, just as rough, as big and as stubborn as you remember.

You shine the light over its surface and there, carved into the stone, are two sets of initials. Yours. And his. Uneven, shallow in places, worn by time but it’s there. From the day you graduated. From the day everything felt both ending and just beginning.

You step closer, fingertips brushing over the grooves. The rock is cold beneath your touch, but the memory is warm and immediate. You trace the letters slowly, like recalling a moment from the past.

You smile as you let go and walk around to the other side. The city stretches out below you, lights scattered like constellations fallen to earth. It’s still breathtaking. Still mesmerizing. Still exactly the same in the ways that matter.

You barely have time to take it in before you feel hands grip your waist. “Chris—!”

You softly gasp as he lifts you off the ground, carries you like it’s nothing, and sets you on top of the boulder. You grab onto his shoulders instinctively, laughing breathlessly as you steady yourself.

He exhales dramatically when he lets go. “You’re heavier now.”

You fix the hem of your dress. “…Thanks?”

He grins, completely unapologetic, then hops up after you without any trouble at all, settling beside you and dusting his hands together like he didn’t just manhandle you.

You eye his right leg and carefully ask. “Is your knee okay? You made that look way too easy.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says simply.

You nod, accepting his answer as it is and look ahead, to the view of the city. The quiet feels comfortable as the two of you sit there, feet dangling, city lights glowing below.

After a while, you sigh. “You were right,” you say softly. “Even after all these years, it’s still beautiful.”

You glance at him and his eyes already on you, smiling. “I know I’m right,” he says.

You hesitate, then inhale air to finally ask, “Was it hard?”

He looks at you. “What?”

“The injury,” you clarify and hesitate when you continue the sentence. “And retiring early.”

He nods once and twice, like he’s forming and calculating words in his head first before speaking. “Yeah. At first. Physical therapy sucked. Losing what I thought my future would be sucked more.”

He softly exhales air and then shrugs lightly. “But I realized I was lucky. I can still walk. I can still use my body. I still get to be on the field—even if it’s not the same way.”

He looks at you and offers a faint smile even though he’s the one who’s needing the consolation. “I’m glad I’m still here.”

You can’t imagine yourself in that position, getting forced to give up your dream when you’ve barely begun. But you smile anyway because Chris doesn’t give up on himself. Because that’s who he is. He doesn’t stay broken. He adapts. He finds a way forward.

Then he looks at you and asks gently, “What about you?”

You quietly swallow air. “What about me?”

“I heard about the broken engagement.”

You always knew you’re fooling yourself when you convince yourself that he wouldn’t know. Everyone knows. Why wouldn’t he?

“I think it wasn’t meant to be,” you say quietly and decide not give too much details about it. “I’m… way past it now.”

He studies you, seeing the cracks beneath the words. “That must’ve been hard.”

Your throat tightens. You close your eyes for a second, then nod. “It was. I trusted him with everything.”

It’s just something about Chris that makes you vulnerable without you intend to. Your voice wavers as you honestly share, “At one point, it made me think I don’t deserve love at all.”

His hand comes to the small of your back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. “That’s not true.”

You shake your head, eyes burning and you feel a lump forming in your throat.

“You should’ve come to me,” he says softly.

You lift your head just slightly. Your voice strained as you tell him, “I did. A few times.”

His brows knit together. “You did?”

“I came to your matches,” you whisper as you look at him. “But I just—I just couldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

The lump now feels like a hot coal in your throat. The tears come then, unstoppable. He doesn’t rush you. Just pulls you closer, keeps rubbing your back as you cry.

“Because I was the one who convinced you to take the offer,” you sob.

It hurts to admit the guilt that’s been haunting you for years now. “And you got injured. You had to retire. It’s all my fault.”

“No—”

You cut him off, voice broken and trembling. “I should’ve trusted you. You knew what you wanted. I should’ve let you choose.”

Your chest aches as tears keep streaming down your face, hot and full of sadness. “I can’t forgive myself for it.”

You cry harder that your body starts shaking, and he wraps his arms around you tightly, like he can’t stand the distance between you and him anymore.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” he says firmly, over and over.

“You might had been the one suggested it but I was the one making the decision. I chose it. I lived it. I’m okay. You didn’t ruin anything.”

When you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes swollen and wet, you whisper, “That’s why I couldn’t reach out. I just thought that I… I didn’t deserve you anymore.”

He smiles softly, heartbreakingly gentle, and wipes your tears away with his knuckles. “What makes you think that?”

He gently pushes you away just enough to allow him to look at you and make you look back at him. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you. Look at you, you’re brilliant. You’re smart, you’re successful, you’re doing what you’re passionate about.”

Your heart shakes at his genuine praises and words because you know he meant it. But you shake your head away.

“I’m so afraid of stepping back into your life because I’m just… me,” he says as he’s wiping fresh tears rolling down your cheek. “And it’s hard no to because the truth is… I can’t stop loving you.”

He smiles as he cradles the side of your face, eyes locked in a soft gaze with yours as he continues. “So what I’ve been doing all these times is just waiting.”

You shake your head lightly while swallowing your cries.

“Waiting for you,” he says with warmth and certainty in his eyes. “To run back to me.”

All these years. He waited. For you.When you thought you caused him this great loss. When you thought there’s no second chance for you. When you thought that you don’t deserve love at all.

Your heart cracks open all over again as more tears flowing in both happiness and sadness. And everything in between. You clear your throat to set the record straight.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not really… running back to you,” you say while laughing weakly through tears.

Chris breaks into a grin and then chuckles. “Let’s not ruin the moment, yeah?”

Then he cups your jaw, his thumb warm against your skin. “And just kiss already.”

You laugh in both relief and joy. And you nod. “Okay”

You don’t know who leans in first. You just know that when your lips meet, everything finally makes sense—the years, the distance, the longing. It all collapses into this one earned, full, loving kiss. And it feels like coming home.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, breaths still uneven. Something inside you feels… lighter.

For years, guilt wrapped itself around your ribs, tightening every time you thought of him. It kept you at a distance. Told you to stay away. Convinced you that loving him meant ruining him, that reaching for him meant taking something you didn’t deserve and now… it’s gone.

Cracked open, dismantled by his arms around you, by his voice telling you he’s been here all along—waiting, steady, choosing you every time even when you weren’t brave enough to choose yourself.

You don’t know what beginning looks like. You only know that this time, you’re not walking away.

This time, you’re ready to start again—with him.

-

You unlock the door, step inside and before it can even close behind you, you turn, grab Chris’s hand, and pull him with you.

He laughs softly, surprised but not resisting, letting you drag him through the house and up the stairs, your footsteps hurried, hearts racing. You don’t stop until you’re in your bedroom, don’t bother closing the door.

Then you turn on your feet and meet his eyes. The air shifts almost immediately.

You face each other, standing still now, and your eyes lock in a soft, heated gaze. A smile slowly booms on his face and you feel your chest swell in response. Everything about him feels close. Wanted. Home.

He places his hands on each side of your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left between your bodies. One hand lifts, cupping your cheek, thumb tenderly caressing your skin, and you lean into his touch without thinking.

You don’t speak but quietly savoring the way he tenderly holds you, touches you, looks into your eyes like he’d find every answer to life in them. Then his gaze drops to your lips and it only lasts for a second until he can’t help himself anymore to lean in and kisses you.

He kisses you slowly, gently like you’d break if does too hard. But the restraint doesn’t last. The kiss deepens, heat blooming between you as his arms tighten, as the moment finally gives in to everything you’ve been holding back.

He guides you backward, step by step, until you laugh breathlessly and stop him, pulling away just enough to catch your breath.

“You remember the rules,” you murmur with a faint smirk.

He blinks with mouth still parted open, lips wet and red. “Rules?”

“No outside clothes on the bed.”

He grins the second he catches the real meaning of it. “Then I’ll just take them off.”

Chris’ grin turns wicked as he leans in once more for a rough, open-mouthed kiss like his intention is to steal all of the air out of your lungs.

Without letting go of the kiss, you run your hands down his front. Your movement are frantic and impatient as you’re feeling his body through the layers of fabric. You need more so you’re tugging at the hem of his sweater, breaking the kiss to take it off of him, only to see the white tank he’s wearing underneath. But God, the bulging biceps, the pecs and the way his skin reddening around the neck — have you biting your lips in want. So much want.

It’s obvious that Chris can see it and senses that you need to see more. He removes his white tank, baring his upper body, muscles in all the right places wrapped in soft, pale skin. In confidence, he takes your hands and puts them on the flat of his stomach.

You don’t move at first until a beat later, you can’t resist but trail the outline of abs with your fingers, feel the ridges, the hardness under your fingertips. You sigh in awe and admiration because you just can't comprehend how beautiful he is, it’s almost godly.

An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close until you’re pressed against his body. He leans in, bringing his mouth close to your ear.

“Let me take your dress off for you,” he whispers, voice low and sultry.

Air caught in your throat but you give him the permission with a slow nod. You keep yourself pressed to him as he reaches for the zipper on the back of your dress. You feel the tug and then— the sound of the zipper opening feels so loud against the heavy silence and mounting tension in the room.

Chris hooks his fingers under the fabric and slowly tear the dress off of you, pulling it down to your waist. He lets it fall until it’s pooling around your ankle and when you look up, you find his eyes looking down at you, staring at you with a mix of lust and affection, want and need and everything in between.

He puts both arms around you once more until your bodies pressed tight against each other. He crashes his lips against yours as his hands roaming around your back, one hand tracing down your spine before it goes lower, finding the softness of your ass cheek. He spread his fingers, palm scooping the flesh before gently squeezing on it.

You gasp into the kiss and retaliate by reaching for the waistband of his jeans, working them open without looking, without letting go of the kiss. But you only get as far as opening the fly as he begins to steers you until your back meet the edge of the desk.

Chris slips his hands into your panties, hooking his fingers under the waistband and pulling them down your legs. At the same time, he’s lowering himself until his knees are on the floor. You lift your feet one by one, letting him to finally get rid of it.

Then, you see it. The way his eyes widen and can’t stop staring at what’s in front of him. You notice him swallows air, Adam’s apple bobbing slowly in his throat at the sight of your bare sex merely inches away from his mouth. He tilts his head, looking you through his lashes, a look that seeks permission from you. You look into his eyes and give him the subtlest of nod in response.

However, Chris doesn’t rush. He begins by leaning in, placing light yet searing kisses that trails up your thighs. A hand gently grabs your leg by the calf and lifts it. Then he holds it there as he places more kisses on your inner. Your breath catches as his mouth inching closer to where you want him the most.

The second his mouth finally makes contact with your arousal — you gasp and grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. First, his hot tongue slides in between your folds. His lips on your clit next, softly kissing at it. Then, you feel the tip of his tongue circling, pressing on it — making you grip the desk tighter.

He doesn’t hesitate to dive into your wetness, planting his mouth deeper into you and slowly, he raises your leg and puts it over his shoulder, allowing him more space to please you.

You gasp, one hand flies to his hair, feeling the way he opens his mouth wider to take more of you. You feel everything all at once — the slick tongue, the wet mouth, the full lips wrapped around your bundle of nerves.

“Chris—” you shriek, hand tugging at his hair harder as he sucks too hard.

Soon enough, you begin to follow the rhythm, rolling your hips against his mouth to seek more of him on you. You’re lowly moaning in reaction, feeling so aroused at how good he makes you feel that you start touching yourself. One hand reaches to your back, unclasping your bra until it snaps open.

You recklessly toss the bra aside. You waste not time but cupping your breast in your hand, fingers teasing the hardening nipple that adds to the building pleasure inside you. You glance down — Chris is tirelessly pleasing you with his mouth, eyes closed and mouth humming against your sensitive skin in delight. Your eyes flick lower only to notice that his other hand disappeared into his jeans, moving in up and down motions.

The sight arouses you more, the knot inside you tightens, your body is hot all over. Before you can process everything that is happening at the moment, he decides to surprise you by sucking hard on your clit.

“Oh, my… Chris…” you moan between your whines and whimpers of pain, of pleasure. You don’t know anymore.

He refuses to let go until your legs are shaking around him, your noises no longer coherent and your essence floods his mouth. When he finally does, you let out a whine from the loss of contact. He quickly compensates by kissing your inner thigh and continues the trail of kisses upward, to your abdomen, to the valley between your breasts and sideway, to take your breast into his mouth. His lips wrapped around your nipple, mouth latches on it for quite a moment before finally let go, leaving it wet his saliva.

Slowly, he rises and back on his feet. His body towering over you now, covering you with his heat. An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you until you’re pressed against him, breasts squashed between chest and yet, when he's about to steer you to bed, you stop.

“Wait,” you say, still panting.

His hand stays there on the dip of your waist. “What is it?”

“I don’t think I packed condoms with me,” you mutter, an eyebrow raised in slight panic.

Chris only grins and tenderly brushes your hair away from your face. “I’ve got it,” he says.

He reaches to the back pocket of his jeans, taking out a condom tucked in the compartment of his wallet, holding it between his fingers as he shows it to you.

“Only one?” you ask, eyebrow raised yet again.

He takes a step forward, closing the last few inches between your bodies. “And we're going to make good use of it,” he confidently says.

He hastily kisses your open mouth and grins when he pulls away. He takes a step back to remove his jeans, fingers hooked on the waistband as he tugs them down his legs.

You just stand there, slightly leaning against the desk as you watch him revealing himself until it’s just him — bare, solid, real. He’s got muscles in the right places, abs that looks like it’s sculpted by the finest sculptor, the veins coiled around his arms and legs — all of it wrapped in miles and miles of soft, pale skin. You don’t even try to hide the way your eyes sweep over him in admiration and lust.

But what got you biting your lower lip in want is the thing between his legs, the way it’s erected toward you, inviting you to touch, to feel how stiff it is in your hand.

“Like what you see?” he asks, confidence and amusement entwined in that dimpled grin of his.

“Very,” you shortly answer, not taking your eyes away from his swollen member.

Chris only chuckles and plops onto the edge of the bed, a hand reaches for you. once he gets a hold of your waist, he gently pulls you until you’re standing between his legs. He doesn’t wait to plant his mouth on your abdomen, kissing the skin there.

You giggle when he begins rubbing his nose and lips against your belly. You’re uselessly trying to stop him by gripping his shoulder. “Chris, that tickles. Stop!” you weakly protest, still giggling.

He eventually stops with a chuckle and this time, when he pulls you in, he helps you get onto his lap. Once you’re settled, he wraps his arms around you, drawing you close until your faces are merely inches away. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as if he needs to see your whole face without any distraction.

A beat later, his hand moves to your chin. He turns your head to the side and then to the other. When he turns you back to face him, he solemnly hums and then says, “You’re not that bad.”

You break into laughter and put your arms around his shoulders. You look down at him as you say, “And you think you’re that good, huh?”

He tightens his hold and confidently says, “I know I’m good.”

“Better put on that condom quick,” you say, eyes briefly glancing down at his hardening cock under you. “Cause I need a proof.”

That seems to trigger him as he moves right away, bringing the packet to his mouth to tear the foil. You scoot a little to the back, giving him space to properly roll the rubber down his length. His movement easy, unhurried like he’s done this plenty of times already. And maybe he did.

In that moment, a thought forms in your head, an envy filled thought: You don’t want anyone to feel his lips, his warmth, his body ever again. Except you.

-

Outside, the world stays quiet. Inside, everything finally aligns.

Chris steadily holds you by the waist as he helps you easing yourself down on him. His grip firm, brows knitted in utter focus, eyes centered on the way you’re taking him in little by little.

“Oh, so good…” he breathless says, a vein on his forehead is evident as he concentrates hard.

You grip his shoulders, whimpering as you feel the blunt tip of his cock stretching you, penetrating deeper and deeper into you. You close your eyes like it would help you feel him better and, in a way, it did. He feels good, overwhelmingly so.

He rubs the side of your thigh as he sighs and softly murmurs, “I know you can take more of me, yeah?”

Your brain is too foggy to compute words so you nod instead. And you will take more of him without him needing to ask for it. You want more of him, more of that hot and pulsating hardness inside you.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, looking up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes.

The second he’s fully buried inside you, you melt into him and he’s more than eager to take you, wrapping you in his solid, warm hold. Just the slightest movement is enough to make you feel his whole size inside you. You feel it as you draw yourself closer to him.

“Oh, you feel so perfect,” he whispers as he presses a rough kiss on your neck.

His hand glides to the back of your neck, taking a fistful of your hair and gently tugging at it to tilt your head, making you facing him.

Through your half-lidded eyes, you can see him staring at you in both lust and affection, his other hand frames your face with thumb caressing your heating cheek. Then he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re so perfect for me,” he murmurs, breathy and sultry. His lips curl in a faint smile.

Heat curls low in your stomach and at the same time, your heart flutters hearing those words coming out of his beautiful mouth. It feels wrong to not kiss him for that so you do. It feels even better when he returns the kiss just as eagerly.

For a moment, the two of you stay like that. Lips locked in a kiss, arms around each other, skin rubs against skin, bodies connected as one. None of you move yet but the sparks turn brighter and hotter.

When you’re ready, you begin rolling your hips back and forth at first, alternating it with slow, circular motions. You gasp as you feel more of him inside of you, engorging the more you stimulating it.

You lean back just lightly to chase that right angle, just so his tip can nudge the right spot and continue moving in that position. You set a steady rhythm with one hand holding his shoulder for support.

“So perfect,” Chris murmurs against the skin on your shoulder.

He drags his mouth lower until he finds your soft mounds, tongue darting out to tease your nipple. He doesn’t hesitate to take a mouthful of your flesh in his mouth, sucking hard on it just enough to leave a blooming mark on it.

His hands move to palm both of your breasts, kneading on them before pushing them to the middle. He leans in, sucking both nipples at once with his greedy mouth. At one point, he decides to latch on one breast and sucks on it a little too hard. He ignores your whimper and tugging at it, only letting go as he slowly pulling away.

“Chris—” you breathlessly scold, gripping tightly at his shoulders.

But he only smirks in response. His arms pulling you close until there’s no an inch of gap left between your bodies. He tilts his head, looking up at you, letting you see the searing desire flickering in his eyes.

You rest your forehead against him as you continue moving, bouncing on his lap, his cock slipping in and out of you in a way that makes you aware the fullness he provides with his size.

“I’m surprised you know how to fuck,” he teases, a crooked grin decorated his face.

“Excuse you?” you say in disbelief.

Chris chuckles at that as he glides his hands lower to the curve of your asscheeks, palming and grabbing at the flesh.

 “I know how to fuck,” you continue with a sly smile. “I’ve read books.”

He scoffs an amused laugh and surprises you by landing slaps on your ass. “Do it right then,” he playfully says.

The slaps sting for a brief moment but somehow it encourages you to keep moving, bouncing on him more. You kiss him as you add speed and intensity to your movements. You know you’re doing it right as he starts groaning into your mouth.

However, it’s you who’s tethering on the edge first. You stop thinking about what works and just following what your body wants — chasing that heat that makes the knot inside you tighten and tighten until it snaps.

A high-pitched moan escapes your mouth and Chris catches you as you free fall into the depth of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your head nestled in the crook of his neck as he holds you close and tight. You’re still catching your breath when you hear him softly smiling into your ear.

“So perfect…” he murmurs, followed with a press of kiss to your jaw. “…Coming for me like that.”

-

The bed takes you in gently as he lays you down.

Chirs gives you time for you to relish your high and gather your senses, allowing your body to recalibrate from the intensity of what just happened. He hovers above you, burying his mouth in your neck to kiss you there. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, hand tenderly puts away the strands of hair covering your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he praises with adoring eyes.

Even with your mind still hazy, your heart flutters anyway. You smile and lift your head to give him a quick kiss on the lips.

He continues to admire you by placing little, searing kisses on you. On the collarbone, your sternum, the soft skin under your breast, your left ribcage, your hip, on the navel, on the patch of hair covering your sensitive bit, on your inner thigh, your knee, the side of your calf, your ankle and finishes it with a longer kiss on the sole of your foot.

You breathe a soft giggle at the feel of his soft, plush lips. Soft, warm and a little ticklish. Yet you feel so admired, worshipped by him. And when he rises on the bed to take a look at you, he looks at you like you’re a wonder of the world. You smile, a smile so wide that your cheeks hurt.

When he positions himself on you, you part your legs for him, eagerly welcoming him. He smiles at that, an appreciative kiss placed on your abdomen. You’re still quivering, still wet that he has no problem slipping his cock into you again. You gasp as he hums in delight. This time, groan spills out of his mouth as he pushes himself deep into you.

He glances down and groans again at the sight of your entrance stuck tightly around his delicious girth, wetness lathering his hot, stiff length. His hardness enveloped in your warm, velvety walls.

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re dark and full of want. His hands reaching for yours, slipping his fingers and laces them together, pining them above your head as he settles himself on top of you. He stills for a moment, adjusting himself to the feel of you that overwhelms him.

A moment later, he starts moving. He’s thrusting into you slowly, steadily. Like adding a little speed would have him losing it right away. His forehead pressed against you, warm breath brushing your lips as he lowly groans in pleasure.

You lift your legs, allowing him more depth and hook them around his hips. You don’t hold back from muttering how you feel to him. How good he feels, how beautiful he is, how this whole thing makes you feel. But they turn incoherent the moment he quickens his thrusting.

Eventually, you move together like you already know how—like your bodies remember what your minds spent years trying to forget. There’s no rush. Just hands finding skin, mouths latched, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.

Chris groans and grunts, they turn louder as he tirelessly chasing his high. His hold tightens. You hold onto him just as tightly, fingers curling into his back, into his shoulders, needing something to hold on to as he takes you right to the edge again. It’s passionate but it’s also tender.

At time, he watches you, checks in with you without words, and you realize how deeply you trust him. How easily your body yields because your heart already has. Loving again feels terrifying, standing on the edge of something that once broke you but with him, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels chosen.

As you move together, chasing for that highs together, it’s like falling in love all over again—slow and fast at once, familiar yet new. Years of longing collapse into this shared heat, this understanding that neither of you is leaving this time.

When you come around him and he follows right after, the world softens around you. You stay wrapped in each other, reveling in this tender moment that is belong only to you and him. Then he kisses you, rough and deep and knowing. And you kiss him back just as passionately. When you pull back, you rest against him, safe and open, knowing with a certainty that steadies you to your core:

Chris would never hurt you and loving him doesn’t feel like a risk.

It feels like coming home.

-

The room is quiet in the way only late nights can be.

Chris lies on his back with one arm wrapped around you, holding you close, your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. His other hand drifts idly through the ends of your hair, gentle and grounding. Your eyes fluttering close when he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

He sighs, the sound warm and almost amused. “I can’t believe I’m back in this room.”

You’re too comfortable to open your eyes, too snug against him to form words, so you just hum in response.

“You know this bedroom used to give me PTSD, right?”

That makes you lift your head immediately. You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Because this is where you taught me. Scolded me when I didn’t get it. Smacked me when I got answers wrong.”

“In my defense, you deserved all of that,” you say firmly with a smirk tugging at your lips.

He clicks his tongue. “Nah. You were just violent.”

You don’t think but land a gentle slap on his chest in protest.

He yelps dramatically, clutching the spot like he’s mortally wounded. “See? Still the same.”

Despite his complaining, he pulls you back in tighter when you settle against him again, like he never intended to let you go. Your leg tangles with his, and that’s when you feel the faint indentation around his knee, the scars left behind by surgeries and healing.

Your fingers trace it gently. “Does it hurt?” you ask softly.

He puts his hand over yours. “Not anymore,” he simply answers.

Then he guides your hand upward, bringing it close to his mouth to kiss it before placing it over his heart, holding it there. You feel the steady rhythm beneath your palm and swallow, emotion tightening your throat.

Looking at him like this, you realize the truth with startling clarity. No one has ever come close. No one has ever made you feel this seen, this safe, this certain.

He’s the one you’ve been looking for all along and you don’t know why you’ve wasted years on looking what’s already in front of you.

Slowly, you lift yourself onto one elbow, turning to face him. “You know, before I came home, I had a fight with my ex,” you quietly share.

He listens as he places a hand on the side of your head, eyes never leaving yours.

“He was making all these excuses to justify his wrongdoing,” you continue, letting out a humorless laugh. “And one of the excuses is because he knows I was never certain of him.”

You shake your head as you recall the moment in your head. “And as much as I hate it… he was right. I wasn’t fully in it.”

Chris reaches up, running his fingers through your hair, keeping it from falling into your face.

“I know that for sure,” you admit softly, “that my heart was never really his.”

Your gaze, your voice, your heart — they barely waver when you say it. “It’s always been yours.”

His smile is slow, tender, overwhelming in its affection. He leans up and kisses you in a long and lingering kiss, like he’s trying to capture this moment with a kiss. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“And you know my heart will always be yours too,” he softly mutters with a smile that is just as bright as his eyes.

“And I know it’s too late but I’d like to take that offer,” you say, eyes affectionate and hopeful.

He looks at you, his stare deepens as he frames the side of your face with his hand. His thumb lazily rubbing your cheek. “To stay close to each other?”

You nod, putting your hand on his and lean into his touch. You close your eyes to savor the warmth, the tenderness in his touch. After a while, you open your eyes and add, “If you’ll still have me.”

His hand moves to your jaw, his thumb now swiping across your lips. “You’re the only one I want,” he says so certainly like it’s his purpose in life.

Hearing him saying that made the years of wait insignificant. Hearing him saying that assured you that he long this as much as you. The smile that blooms on your face is immediate and warm. Your heart squeezes in the softest way inside your chest.

He smiles as he lifts his head to give you a quick, gentle kiss on the lips. When he pulls away with his lips still lingering inches away from yours, he says it.

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air for what feels like eternity. No, it’s not because you don’t love him back but because you’ve been waiting years to hear it again with that voice, that gaze, the intensity of his feelings projected through those three words.

You echo those words back to him, breathless and sure. “I love you.”

This time, you lean in first, kissing him with everything you have—love, promise, certainty woven into the press of your lips.

And you know, without doubt, that you won’t waste this chance again.

-

Morning comes softly.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tiles, scrambling eggs in a pan and trying very hard not to burn them when you hear footsteps upstairs.

A moment later, Chris appears at the bottom of the stairs, tugging a sweater on as he comes down. His hair is a mess of soft curls, eyes still heavy with sleep, face bare and bright. He looks… beautiful. The kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you when you’re not trying to look and you smile without even realizing it.

He comes up behind you, wraps an arm around your side, and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

“Morning,” you reply, eyes still on the pan.

“Need help?”

“I’m almost done,” you say and turn off the stove. “But can you grab the orange juice from the fridge?”

“On it,” he says immediately.

Soon enough, the two of you are seated at the dining table with plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon between you. You sip your orange juice, watching him eat. His mouth full of food, a hand holding a toast and the other scraping the scrambled egg with a fork, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t fully woken up yet.

You can’t stop smiling. You have a sip of your coffee and ask, “So, what’s the plan for today?”

He swallows his food first before talking. “I’ve actually got a meeting about a job offer.”

You nod as you take a bite of your toast. “What time will you be done?”

“Not sure,” he says, then he gently places a hand on the small of your back and softly adds, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him easily.

He looks at you, reaches out, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“And you? What are you doing today?” He asks. Then, teasingly he adds, “Beside waiting for me.”

You scoff at that and simply say, “I have a company to run.”

He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “You’re bragging.”

You shrug coyly and return to your breakfast.

He takes another bite of his toast, then sighs. “No offense, but I kind of miss your mom’s bread.”

“None taken,” you say as you lean back and sigh. “I miss her bread too.”

“When will she come home?”

“Not sure,” you honestly answer. “But I hope it’s soon.”

The two of you fall quiet after that, just chewing, looking at each other. No rush. No need to fill the space. When your eyes meet again, Chris is the first to smile. He reaches across the table, lifts your chin gently, and kisses you. When he pulls back, his grin is soft and familiar.

In that moment, you can’t believe that he’s here, with you, together. And that your lives will be forever intertwined from this moment on. You smile back at him, heart full.

Today couldn’t have started better.

-

The house quiets after Chris leaves with a kiss and a dimpled grin that you know a little too well.

You curl up on the sofa with your laptop balanced on your lap, just checking emails to stay updated but once the screen lights up, the weight settles back onto your shoulders. Nothing is on fire. Nothing is urgent.

Still, you call Lucy to make sure that the company is still running smoothly. She answers on the second right and launches right away, talking about important things happened in the company.

“…And since Herman has that meeting with Palindrome, he has to cancel attending that Blue Wings conference.”

“Oh, no,” you say, feeling bad because you know how much Herman has been anticipating to be a part of that conference. “Herman really wants to go to that.”

“Yeah,” Lucy hesitantly says. “But we’d rescheduled that meeting before so we can’t reschedule it again.”

You nod at that. Rescheduling not only means having no respect for the other company but also messing with the company’s timeframe. You think of a solution fast.

“When is the meeting again?” You ask.

“It’s this Thursday,” Lucy says immediately.

This will be not your first time sacrificing your time and rest for your company. So without further consideration, you tell Lucy, “I’ll go. I’ll attend the meeting.”

Lucy exhales softly. “Does that mean you’re coming back to work sooner?”

“Yeah,” you say, even though part of you resists the word. “I can’t let Herman skipped the conference again.”

She doesn’t argue but you hear the clacking sound of her typing onto the keyboard. “Alright. I’ll move things around and let Herman know.”

“Make sure he calls me before he leaves for the conference,” you add.

“Sure, will do,” Lucy responds and then, softly she offers, “Want me to arrange your trip back?”

You shake your head even though she can’t see it. “No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself.”

“Okay,” she says gently. “And—take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” you reply, sincere. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

You hang up and close the laptop, letting it rest untouched on your lap. You still want to stay here. In this house. In this quiet. In the ease of mornings that don’t ask anything of you and nights that end with warmth instead of exhaustion. You want more time with Chris, more moments that feel like healing instead of surviving.

However, the truth sits with you just as stubbornly that you can’t keep abandoning your job. Not when people depend on you. Not when the company you built is still something you care deeply about.

You sigh, leaning back against the cushions, torn between two things you love. And for the first time, you realize the hard part isn’t choosing one over the other.

It’s figuring out how to hold both.

-

Since you don’t have anything to do, nowhere to go. You end up doing chores around the house. You vacuum the living room, made lunch, do the laundry. By afternoon, you’re taking out the laundry out of the dryer. You put them into the basket and carry it upstairs to your room.

You’re halfway through hanging clothes back into the closet, when you hear a car pulling out front.  A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. You cross the room and peek through the window just as he turns off the engine, stepping out of the car.

Chris looks up and catches you watching from your bedroom window. His grin comes instantly, dimple and all, like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.

A second later, your phone rings and you don’t even check who’s calling.

“Hey,” you softly say.

“Come down,” he says without preamble, amusement clear in his voice. “I’m taking you on a date.”

You laugh quietly. “You don’t even know if I’m ready.”

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he replies easily.

You glance down at yourself, then back at the closet. “Ten minutes,” you bargain because you need the extra time to put a little bit of color on your face.

“Okay, I’ll wait,” he says, grin audible even through the phone.

You hang up, heart light, and reach for the dress you’d just hung back up, pulling it off the hanger with a quiet laugh at yourself. Because apparently, you do have somewhere to go.

-

The neon lights reflect faintly on the polished floors as you stand shoulder to shoulder with Chris in front of a long wall of movie posters. He crosses his arms, studying them like it’s some kind of life-altering decision.

You tilt your head at him. “You know it’s just a movie, right? Not a contract negotiation.”

He hums thoughtfully, squinting at one of the posters. “Shh. This determines the emotional tone of our evening.”

You scoff softly but let him pretend he’s deliberating something monumental which reminds you to ask him about something. While he’s “analyzing,” you nudge him lightly and ask, “So… how was the meeting?”

He doesn’t look at you right away, still staring at the posters. “It went well.”

“That’s vague.”

Now he glances down at you, one corner of his mouth lifting into an amused half-smirk. “Well, they offered better pay than my previous team. Better facilities too.”

Your eyebrows rise genuinely. “That’s great.”

“It is,” he says calmly but then he inhales air and softly sighs. Then he calmly says, “But I don’t want to rush. I’m taking my time to decide.”

You nod at that. You don’t push or question him further. You believe that Chris knows what he wants for himself. So you just look at him for a second longer and softly say, “I’m sure you’ll make the best decision for yourself.”

His expression shifts into something warm, something appreciative and he pulls you in for a quick kiss on your temple. Then he points at a pastel-colored movie poster with a title ‘Backward Love’.

“Let’s watch that one.”

You immediately wrinkle your nose, not pleased with his choice. “That?”

He shrugs and coyly explains, “It’s romcom. Perfect for date night.”

You dramatically turn and point at the horror poster beside it with the main character is splattered with blood, eyes wide in terror as a masked killer looming behind her. “I want to watch this one.”

Chris looks at you like you’ve just betrayed him. “Are you trying to give me nightmares?”

You shrug him off with an easy smile. “You’re a big guy now. I’m sure you can handle it.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice as he says, “I won’t sleep well tonight if we watch that.”

You step closer too, slipping your arms loosely around his waist, your mouth near his ear and seductively whisper, “I know ways to make you sleep well tonight.”

You add a subtle, flirtatious wink at the end of the sentence and feel the way his body reacts before you even see his face change. He tries—tries—not to grin, not to get flustered. But you can see how his ears slowly reddening.

Chris abruptly steps back, putting space between you like you’re dangerous. He doesn’t say anything but walks fast toward the ticket counter.

You gasp in mock offense and hurry after him, sliding your arm around his waist from the side just as he reaches the front.

“Two tickets for the ‘Backward Love’,” he tells the cashier.

You roll your eyes dramatically, but he just grins, pulling you closer with his arm now around your shoulders. “You’re no fun,” you mutter.

“I’m trying to survive the night,” he replies under his breath.

Before you can protest again, he steers you toward the snack counter, his hand firm at your waist as he orders right away.

“One extra-large butter popcorn, two packs of M&Ms and a sparkling cider, please?”

This time, when he looks at you, you give him a smile that tells him he’s the best thing that’s happening to you.

-

The movie theater is still empty when you enter. But the second you’re both settled on your seats, you and Chris bicker over popcorn, over candy, over who gets the last handful of M&Ms. He steals from your side of the bucket without shame and you retaliate by claiming the armrest as your own. But when the lights finally dim, you lift the armrest between you.

He looks at you, amused. “Wow. Bold move.”

You ignore him, slide closer, link your arm through his, and slip your hand into his. His fingers curl around yours immediately, warm and firm and sure. You settle in, heart calm in a way it hasn’t been in years.

When the romance on screen builds, when the characters finally kiss, you don’t drift into what-ifs this time. You don’t imagine. You don’t wonder. You already know.

You turn your head and find him looking at you, like he’s been waiting for this as well. You smile, lean in, and kiss him softly. He kisses you back just as easily, as sweetly.

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “Focus on the movie.”

You chuckle and stay tucked against him, the movie still playing but you’re barely watching it anymore.

Your attention keeps drifting back to him instead. The way his eyes stay fixed on the screen. The way he keeps shoving popcorn into his mouth like he’s competing with himself. The faint furrow in his brow when the plot gets serious. For a second, you can’t believe this man is yours. Without thinking too much about it, you lean in and press a slow, warm kiss to the side of his neck.

He stiffens immediately. “Hey,” he whispers, half-scolding, half-amused. “I’m trying to watch.”

You only smile against his skin and when he turns his attention back to the screen, you do it again. This time you make a trail of kisses down his sharp jaw. Then you lean closer, lips brushing near his ear.

“Let’s stop by the pharmacy on the way home.”

That gets his full attention as he turns to you, brows knit with concern. “Why? Are you sick?”

You smirk, eyes glinting in the dim light, and lean in again. “We need to buy condoms,” you whisper, followed with a sneaky kiss on the column of his throat.

The way he freezes is almost impressive. He clears his throat, visibly flustered, and tries very hard to pretend it didn’t affect him. In a clearly desperate attempt to regain control, he grabs a handful of popcorn and pops a piece into your mouth.

You scoff a laugh around it, cheeks warm, and settle back against him in triumph. And the movie keeps playing, but your focus stays on him. Only him.

-

The car ride is quiet but charged in that comfortable, buzzing way that makes every little movement feel intentional than it should.

True to his word, Chris pulls into the pharmacy parking lot. The engine clicks off, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then he unbuckles his seatbelt and looks at you.

“Wait here, yeah?” he says.

You nod, eyes staring at him.

“Do you want anything?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

He starts to open the door, then pauses. His gaze lingers on you and you notice the subtle shift in him as he decides to lean in. His plush lips pressed against you for a quick, gentle kiss and as he’s about to pull away, your hand grips the side of his face.

You keep him there as you tilt your head to the side and deepen the kiss. You part your mouth open, just enough to slip your tongue into his mouth, twirling it with his. You can taste a hint of pineapple from the juice he drank earlier. So sweet, so unmistakably him.

When you feel him beginning to crack and kissing you back just as intensely. You move your hand to the nape of his neck, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair there. You keep your mouth open as he takes his turn to taste you, tongue coaxing yours to move together. A moan slipped past your mouth as he gently tugs at your lower lip and you retaliate by playfully biting at him tongue.

By the time you break the kiss, you see Chris’s lips turn swollen and wet, flushing red like all the blood in his body is gathering there. His eyes find yours and his mouth quirks into a lazy grin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, taking your hand from his shoulder and holds it in his lap.

You let out a low chuckle, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

He exhales, already defeated, then leans in and kisses you, this time for a real quick kiss. When he pulls back, his hand stays on your jaw for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing your skin. His eyes hold yours, dark with want and fondness all tangled together. You can practically see him reining himself in.

“I’ll be quick,” he says as he straightens, fixing the denim around his crotch. With that, he steps out of the car, and closes the door before he can be tempted again.

You watch him through the windshield as he walks into the pharmacy, moving easily down the aisles, scanning the shelves to find the one he’s looking for. Just watching him existing like this, so close, so real—makes your heart flutter.

A few minutes later, he comes out of the pharmacy holding something in his hand. He walks across the lot with the kind of confidence that is not arrogant, but with certainty that he knows who he is and how to carry himself. He grins as he gets back into the car, settles into his seat and then promptly rips open the wrapper of a popsicle. He hands it to you.

You awkwardly take it and stare at it, confused. “Uh…?”

He smirks as he turns the keys in the ignition. “Because you need to cool down.”

You break into laughter, shaking your head, and take a small bite of the popsicle.

He starts driving, pulling out of the parking lot with that dimpled grin still firmly in place.

And you sit there, enjoying the sweetness of the popsicle and this moment.

-

The second the lock clicks open, whatever restraint you both had snaps.

Chris doesn’t even give you time to step fully inside before he’s on you. His hands firm at your waist, mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back all night. The kiss is hard, deep, rough enough that it steals your breath, and it takes you a second to catch up, to kiss him back just as desperately.

God—he’s been waiting for this.

You can feel it in the way he presses into you, solid and hot, the way his hands grip like he’s afraid of letting go. He barely breaks the kiss as he steers you inside, toeing the door shut behind you, guiding you toward the living room. You don’t stop until you’re both tumbling onto the sofa.

He’s over you now, kissing you deeper, harder, all heat and hunger and full of want. Your fingers tangle in his sweater, heart pounding, the world narrowing down to this—him, you, breath and warmth and years of longing collapsing into one moment.

You reach under the sweater, feeling the hardness of his abs and—

“Honey? Is that you?”

Your blood runs cold. Impulsively, you shove Chris hard enough that he stumbles sideways, losing his balance and landing on the floor with a startled grunt. You bolt upright on the sofa, smoothing your clothes in pure panic just as footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs.

Your mom appears. She’s here. Home. Very home.

“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Mom,” you blurt out, far too fast.

Chris scrambles to his feet, running a hand through his hair, then offers a polite, slightly sheepish smile. “I’m here too. Hi.”

Her face lights up instantly at the sight of her favorite, charming guy. “Oh, Chris!” she beams, completely bypassing you as she steps closer. “Oh, my goodness. How nice it is to see you!”

You stand there, mortified, heart racing, while she treats him like the long-lost child who’s finally come home. But thankful that your mom is no longer focused on how she caught you and Chris making out in the living room.

A moment later, you and Chris end up standing side by side, stiff and awkward, like two kids caught doing something they definitely shouldn’t have been doing.

Your mom, meanwhile, is completely unfazed. She chats with Chris like nothing happened—asking how he’s been, how life’s treated him. He asks about her cruise trip, genuinely interested, and she launches into it with a fond smile, talking about the food, the views, how relaxing it was… and how she missed her bakery terribly the whole time.

Then she looks at the two of you. She chuckles, shaking her head. “You two don’t need to look so panicked. You’re not teenagers anymore,” she says while still lowly chuckling in amusement.

You close your eyes for half a second, mortified but oddly relieved. And despite what she said, you indeed still feel like a teenager in front of her.

“I’m still exhausted from the trip home,” your mom says as she takes the first couple of steps. “I’m going to bed early tonight.”

“Yeah, Mom. You must be tired,” you manage to say without stammering.

“Yeah, you’d better rest,” Chris adds but it only adds to the awkwardness of this moment.

Your mom smiles as she takes a look at you and Chris again. Her eyes linger on him as she says, “We’ll catch up properly another time, Chris.”

“I’d like that,” he says warmly.

“Goodnight,” your mom says as she begins climbing the stairs.

You both wait until you hear the bedroom door closes upstairs before collapsing onto the sofa with identical sighs. A beat passes in silence and then you both burst out laughing at the exact same time.

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God. That was so embarrassing.”

Chris groans as he looks at you. “You shoved me so hard.”

“I’m sorry!” you say, still laughing. “Did it hurt?”

He rubs his knee dramatically. “I think I need to check my injured knee.”

You gently slap his knee. “Stop being dramatic.”

“You’re making it worse,” he complains, grinning.

You scoot closer, cup his jaw gently. “Let me kiss it better, then.”

You capture his full lips in a soft kiss and he immediately pulls you closer, one arm tightening around you. Before you realize it, he’s lifted you effortlessly so you’re sitting on his lap.

You break the kiss, breathless as you remind him. “Chris—my mom is upstairs.”

He tilts his head, smug. “Didn’t you hear what she says? We’re not teenagers anymore.”

You cave far too easily as he kisses you again. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, lips locking with his in a deep, heated kiss that slowly coaxing you to melt into him. You eventually let yourself get lost in the safety, in the warmth, in the comfort of his arms.

Chris pulls away with a low, sultry groan but he doesn’t let his mouth rest for a second as he buries his mouth on the low neckline of your dress, right there between your breasts. You feel the sharp inhale of air he takes, humming as he rubs his nose against your softness like he can’t get enough of your scent. He pulls back just enough to place a kiss on each of your breast before making a trail of kisses upward, to your chest and neck, and back on your lips.

When you break the kiss to catch a breath, you look down at him and catch the glints in his eyes under the dim light like he sees you as this ethereal being, like you’re a star that somehow lands on his lap. You gently cup his jaw and fondly smile as you stare into the dark brown of his eyes. God, he’s just so beautiful and yours.

He puts his arms around your waist, tightening them to draw you closer against him. He smiles back at you as he lowly mutters in disbelief, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your smile grows wider and the smile doesn’t fade as he pulls you in for another kiss. A hand gently holds the back of your head, tilting it the way he pleases just so he can kiss you deeper, harder, the way he’s desired it to be. Until you feel nothing but the endless softness of his lips brushing against yours.

The two of you stay like that, enveloped in heat and affection, in the dim of the living room. Your shared breath and the occasional low sighs that escaped your lips are the only thing filling the silence.

After a moment, you slowly back away and hurriedly place a hand on his chest, ready to stop him if he goes in for another kiss. You use the chance to catch your breath and to talk about something you’ve been meaning to share

“Chris,” you softly call, brushing his curls out of his forehead. “I need to tell you something.”

He rests his hands on each side of your waist, all attention on you now. “What is it?”

“I have to attend this meeting that I can’t reschedule,” you calmly explain. “And it means… I have to go back to work soon.”

His expression shifts just slightly. A hand moves to the small of your back, fingers splayed on your clothed skin. “When do you plan to leave?”

“This Tuesday.”

He nods, processing, understanding. “Okay.”

You place a hand on his chest, index finger playing with the button on his shirt. “Do you want to come with me?”

He’s clearly not expecting that but he answers without the slightest of hesitation. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

You smile, relief blooming in your chest. You cradle his face in both hands, pressing your forehead against him and then lean, kissing him with such loving.

He pulls back just enough to smirk and jokingly says. “You invite me to come so you can brag about your company, mmh?”

You grin as you nod. “That’s the one and only goal.”

He laughs as he tightens his hold around you again until there’s no gap left between your bodies and kisses you again.

Honestly, you feel nervous about him getting to see another part of you but at the same time, you’re happy you get to share that part with him. And for the first time, it really feels like you’re moving forward together.

-

Tomorrow feels too soon, but it’s coming anyway. You’re in your bedroom, suitcase open on the bed, folding clothes with a care you don’t usually give them.

Your mom wanders in quietly and sits at the edge of the bed without asking. She starts helping immediately by folding your clothes neatly, the way she always has.

“So,” she says lightly, “you’re leaving just as I get back.”

You chuckle softly. “Yeah. Bad timing.”

You feel bad for not having much time to spend with your mom because that’s one of the reasons you came home in the first place. “If it wasn’t urgent, I wouldn’t want to go back so soon,” you explain, hoping she’d understand.

“I know, honey.” She says as she looks up and fondly smiles at you. “And it’s okay.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the zipper of your suitcase. She hands you another folded shirt, and you tuck it away.

A bit later, she scoots closer to you and carefully begins, “So, about you and Chris…”

“Mom…” you say, already expecting all kind of questions that’ll follow.

Your mom subtly shrugs and sweetly coaxes you. “I just want to know. Come on. Tell me all about it.”

You huff a laugh and pause, hands stilling for a moment. “We’re… just starting so I can’t say much except that we’re trying to make it work. He’s in between job offers. I’m tied to the company.”

She intently listens while nodding. She helps you fits the stack of clothes into your suitcase. “The most important thing is that you’re certain about how you feel,” she says.

“I am,” you shortly answer.

She looks at you, turning a little serious now. “And how do you feel?”

The question cracks something open in you. You haven’t had the chance to share what you truly feel about this with anyone or about anything about your love life for that matter. It seems like the right time to just be honest about it and talking to your mother always helps because she knows you the best.

“I’m happy. I really am,” you honestly share with a sincere smile. “I’m happy that Chris and I, we finally found our way back to each other.”

You take a second to organize your thoughts but your heart squeezes before you can even talk it out loud. With a slightly trembling voice, you share. “But I can’t ignore that my past relationship still haunts me.”

Your eyes sting but you manage to hold yourself back from crying. “Chris is the right one for me. I know that. I just—”

Your breath catches. “What if I’m not the right one for him?”

The tears come before you can stop them. You quickly wipe them before they can even fall. “I love him so much but I’m— What if I… messed it up?”

Your Mom gently pushes the suitcase aside and gets to your side, wrapping her arms around you and holding you while you cry. She gives you time to process your emotions, offering her comfort as she lands soothing rubs on your back.

“You have nothing to be afraid of, honey,” she says softly. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Long before you ever realized it yourself.”

You sniffle, listening to her while wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“He loves you very, very much,” she assures you as she puts her hand on the back of your head in fondness. “And you deserve that love.”

It’s nice to finally hear it that yeah, you deserve it just as much as he deserves to be loved by you. You wanted this for so long and now you got it. There’s no wasting it away. You have to hold on tightly to it.

She brushes your hair back tenderly, eyes full of warmth, like you’re still her little girl who needs reassurance. Then she playfully adds, “And if he ever hurts you, I’ll break his other knee.”

You choke out a laugh through your tears. Your body shakes in both laughter and tears now.

She pulls you into another hug and wraps you in that familiar warmth and comfort. “After everything you’ve been through, you deserve this. You really do,” she assures you once more.

In your mom’s embrace, you decide to believe it. and you can almost feel that shift. You feel lighter and steadier, you feel more confident in your choices, in your heart, and in the love you’re finally allowing yourself to keep.

-

When you unlock the door to your apartment and push it open, you step inside like it’s nothing. You open the door wider as he drags along your suitcase in one hand and carrying his duffel bag in the other.

Chris steps in behind you… and stops. He’s immediately in awe of the place you’re living in. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, the city glowing beneath them. The marble kitchen island gleams under the soft recessed lights. The furniture is minimal yet finely curated, expensive without screaming about it.

You drop your bag on the console table casually. “Come on in,” you softly say.

He takes slow steps, slowly pulling your suitcase behind like he’s afraid that the wheels would scrape the shiny surface of the floor. He stops in the living room and then he lets out a low whistle. “Okay.”

You turn, leaning back against the back of the sofa. “Okay what?”

He gestures vaguely at… everything. “You really made it.”

You try not to smile too proudly and take off your jacket. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he says, walking around the living room, looking around like he’s in a showroom. “Maybe… slightly less intimidating?”

You chuckle, folding your jacket in your arm. “Intimidating?”

He turns to you, grin spreading. “I now officially believe you when you say you run a company.”

“Oh, so you didn’t before?”

“I thought you were exaggerating.” He squints at a framed award on the wall. “But this? This is ‘CEO who schedules meetings at 7 a.m.’ energy.”

You laugh, walking past him toward the kitchen. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He wanders a little more before putting the suitcase and bag to your bedroom. He returns a moment later, settling his hands on his hips and turning to you. “So… are you hungry?”

You hold the glass of water you’ve sipped and nod. “Yeah.”

“Do you have anything to cook?” he asks as he approaches you.

Not that you don’t have anything to cook which you’re sure you have. Or not. Your hesitation alone makes him suspicious.

He narrows his eyes slightly and heads straight for the fridge. You trail after him, already preparing your defense. He opens it and just stands there.

There’s almond milk. Half a bottle of sparkling water. A questionable container of something you ordered three days ago. A jar of pickles. One sad lemon.

He slowly closes the fridge and looks at you. “Do you… cook at all?”

You give him a small, sheepish smile. “I mostly order.”

He forces a thin smile as he asks again. “Do you… eat at all?”

“Yes,” you answer a little too fast.

He just stares at you and you sigh under the weight of that stare. “Well… Sometimes I skip a meal or two.”

His jaw tightens in both disbelief and disappointment. “A meal or two?”

“Occasionally,” you mumble.

He rubs his face with one hand, exhaling deeply like he’s re-evaluating your entire lifestyle. “You run a whole company but don’t have any food in your fridge.”

You quickly turn to the cabinet and swing it open triumphantly. You grab a pack of noodles, holding it with both hands with a proud smile. “I have instant noodles.”

He cranes his neck to see that there are at least six packs of them. He sighs heavier this time but reaches in and grabs two anyway.

“This is not a balanced diet.”

“It’s classic and comforting,” you defend weakly.

“It’s sodium.”

You pout slightly and mumble, “But I’m hungry.”

He shakes his head but there’s a fondness in it now. “I know. Which is why I’m saving us from your CEO survival meals.”

He moves around your kitchen like he belongs there, filling a pot with water, turning on the stove.

You lean against the counter, watching him. “Let me help you.”

“You can help me by sit there and look pretty,” he says, placing a hand on the small of your back to steer you toward the stool across the kitchen island.

There’s something gentle in the way he says it. you obey right away and watch him as he cooks something as simple as instant noodles like it’s a five-star meal, adding whatever he can find — an egg from the back of the fridge you forgot existed, some leftover green onions from takeout.

He looks comfortable like he’s already settled into your life without asking for permission and when he hands you a bowl, chopsticks balanced on top, he gives you that little grin.

“We have to grocery shop properly soon.”

You hold the warm bowl between your hands and smile at him. “I’ll put it on my schedule,” you say with a playful smile.

You don’t waste time to hold your chopsticks and when you take the first bite, you close your eyes dramatically. “Oh my God.”

Chris looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “It’s just noodles.”

“These are the best noodles I’ve ever had.”

He snorts as he picks up his chopstick. “I boiled water.”

“You boiled it exceptionally well.”

“And added a seasoning packet.”

“And you did it perfectly.”

He shakes his head, amused, but he’s smiling that warm, dimpled smile that makes your chest ache in the best way.

You take another bite, humming in satisfaction, and he doesn’t eat right away. He just watches you. You notice it after a second.

“What?” you ask, noodles halfway to your mouth.

“Nothing,” he says softly, but his expression says everything.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face before his palm settles gently at the side of your head. Admiring. Loving.

Your movements slow under his gaze. You swallow and smile at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” he says quietly, thumb brushing just slightly against your temple, “you look happy.”

You hadn’t realized it but you are. You’re smiling without you’re telling yourself to. It just… happens.

He finally takes a bite of his own noodles, still smiling faintly. “Next time,” he adds casually, “I’ll cook you something better. Proper dinner. With vegetables. Protein. All that adult stuff.”

Next time.

You like the sound of that more than you expect to. Not because of the food. But because it means there will be more nights like this. More of eating together side by side. More teasing. More him standing at your stove like he belongs there. More of him and you.

This moment is already tender but you tilt your head and decide to tease him anyway. “But all that adult stuff doesn’t sound that appetizing.”

“But it’ll be good for you,” he persists with a gentle smile.

And as you sit there finishing instant noodles in your luxurious apartment with someone you love, you realize something quietly and completely:

This is what feels like making it.

-

Having someone in your bedroom feels… strange.

You’re used to your bedroom being silent, untouched, perfectly arranged. Now Chris is there, pulling back the duvet, fluffing a pillow like he’s done it a hundred times before. But it doesn’t feel intrusive as you thought. It feels natural like he’s always belonged here.

You stand on your side of the bed and point firmly. “This is my side.”

He pauses mid-pillow adjustment. “Noted.”

“The right side. It’s mine. You can’t cross it.”

He sighs dramatically. “Territorial, huh?”

“Very.”

He walks around to the other side without argument, but before climbing in, he pulls his t-shirt over his head.

And obviously, you stare. The soft lamplight stretches across his shoulders, the defined lines of his back, the subtle flex of muscle as he runs a hand through his hair. He stretches his arms overhead, dark sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

Your eyes trace the outline of his abs and lower to where his pelvic bones formed the V shape that narrows down to—

You swallow air and then let it out in a scoff. “Show off,” you mutter under your breath.

He definitely heard you and that’s why he’s smirking. But he asks anyway, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He slides into bed, settling against the pillows like this is his place too while you turn off the lamp and climb in on your side, pulling the blanket up. For a moment, you both just lie there.

The bed feels different. Fuller. Warmer. It’s incredible how a single presence can change the entire atmosphere of a room.

You turn your head to the side and find him lying on his back, eyes closed. Even his facial features look just as beautiful in the dark. The side profile, the slope of his nose, the shape of his plush lips, the sharp jaw.

Oh, you just can’t stand being so far from him when he’s lying next to you like this so you scoot closer and closer until you’re pressed against his side, seeking his warmth instinctively.

He lets out a soft protest and groans with eyes closed. “Hey. This is my side. You declared borders.”

You murmur against his shoulder, “It’s my apartment, my bed. I can do whatever I want.”

He sighs like he’s exhausted by you, but his arm lifts anyway, opening for you. You slip under it immediately, resting your head on his bicep. He adjusts, pulling you closer until you’re tucked against him properly.

The silence that settles after is comfortable and nice. The kind that doesn’t conjure questions and just… there.

After a while, he speaks softly into the dark. “This apartment is… big. For one person.”

You hum, already feeling sleep tug at you.

A beat passes and then, he quietly asks, “Have you ever felt lonely?”

You don’t hesitate when you answer, “All the time.”

You feel the way his arm tightens around you at that like it would help him ward away the thought of you being in this big space and feeling lonely. You lift your head slightly so you can see him in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

“But now, not anymore,” you say, fingers trace lightly over the pale skin on his chest. “Because you’re here with me.”

A smile slowly blooms on his face, slow and bright. He leans in and kisses you on the lips, a kiss so gentle and lingering that your heart shakes in your chest.

When you settle back against him, he clears his throat lightly. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not paying the rent.”

You laugh quietly and press your mouth close to his ear. Then, you seductively whisper, “You can pay the rent another way.”

To tease him further, your hand slips under the duvet, fingers brushing toward the waistband of his sweatpants — but he catches your wrist immediately.

With exaggerated exhaustion, he sighs. “I’m very tired.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

He takes your hand and places it flat against his chest instead, holding it there firmly.

“You must be tired too,” he murmurs.

You nod softly because by some inexplicable reason, you always feel safer when you’re with him. Sleepier. Like your body knows it can finally rest.

He brushes his thumb slowly and tenderly over your cheek. Then he leans down and gives you one more long, lingering kiss.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back.

You close your eyes as you’re wrapped in his warmth. You’re breathing eventually in sync.

And for the first time in a very long time, you fall asleep without heaviness in your chest because you know that when you wake up, it won’t feel like the start of another battle.

It’ll feel like the beginning of something beautiful.

-

You’ve just wrapped up the important meeting with Palindrome and you’re already halfway down the hallway toward your office, heels clicking a little faster than usual because you have someone waiting for you there. You only nod and wave your hand whenever your employee greets you as you walk past their desks.

The second you push through the door of your office, you find Chris sitting on the sofa, relaxed like he belongs there, but the moment he sees you, he’s on his feet.

“Hey,” he says, smiling.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out immediately, making your way toward him. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“It’s okay,” he says easily.

You drop your things on the nearest table and then turn around, throwing yourself at him for a hug. You can feel the way your body relaxed even for the briefest moment as you rest your head against his chest and softly exhale.

You slowly pull away and look up, “Lucy showed you around, right? How was the tour?”

“She did a very good job. I think she bragged about you more than the company.”

You crack an amused laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“You should give her a raise for that,” he adds, completely serious.

You chuckle again, checking the time on your watch and frowning when you see that you don’t have much time left until the next meeting. “We don’t have much time, but we could grab an early lunch before my next meeting—”

“Actually,” he interrupts gently, “I have to go somewhere.”

Your brows knitted in confusion. “Go? Where?”

“Just a meeting,” he vaguely answers.

“Meeting who?” you ask, trying to sound casual but failed.

“It’s for work. You have nothing to be worried about,” he convinces as he runs his hand through your hair.

You put anyway, wanting to spend the little free time you have with him.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” he promises, coaxing you with a quick kiss to the top of your head.

That softens you instantly as you break into a smile. “Okay. I’ll see you later, then.”

“See you later,” he echoes and then slowly, he takes a step away.

You grab his arm and pout. “You’re really leaving without kissing me?”

He glances around the office, visibly flustered. “Is… is that allowed here?”

You lift a brow and coyly shrug. “It’s my company.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He steps closer, hands settling on your waist, eyes flicking to your lips before meeting yours again. Then he leans in and kisses you. The kiss is slow yet deep. The kind of kiss that loosens every knot in your shoulders, that makes the rest of the day fade into background noise.

When he pulls back just slightly, his mouth brushes your ear. “If I bent you over that desk and fucked you there,” he murmurs, low and wicked, “Is that allowed too?”

You feel heat rushing straight to your cheeks. You quickly straighten your posture, daringly stare into his eyes, and answer sweetly, “As long as we put on a good show.”

He smirks, absolutely pleased with himself and kisses you again, quick and devastating. This time, when he pulls away, he actually steps back. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says.

“Later,” you manage, still smiling like a fool.

He leaves with that dimpled grin still on his face.

The second the door clicks shut, your legs give out. You plop onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

Lucy appears not a minute later and stops short when she sees your face.

“Oh my God,” she squeals like a schoolgirl. “He is hot. I approve.”

You laugh, breathless, heart full, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt, “I love him. I love him so much.”

Lucy softens instantly as she smiles with you, eyes brimming with joy. “I’ve never seen you this happy,” she says.

And it’s true.

You’ve never been happier.

-

Work feels so long when you’re looking forward to come home. Well, to someone to be exact.

You’re in the middle of assessing some files when your phone rings. The second you see Chris’s name lights up the screen and your smile comes instantly like your body already knows him before your brain catches up.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm.

“Hey,” you reply, already smiling wider. “You’re home already?”

“Yes,” he answers. “How about you?”

“Almost. I’m wrapping things up as we speak.”

“That’s good,” he says with a soft sigh. “Because I already started preparing dinner.”

You stop moving and lean back on your chair to focus on him. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, like this isn’t the most domestic, heart-melting sentence you’ve heard all day.

Your heart swells, threatening to burst right there in your chest. “Can’t wait to for it.”

“Don’t expect much,” he says with a chuckle.

“Nah, I’ll expect much,” you say, cheeks hurt from the non-stop smiling.

“I didn’t say I cook well. Just… edible.”

You hum skeptically. “It better be. Cause I’m starving.”

“I’ve got you. Just come home soon, okay?”

“I will,” you promise.

“Be safe.”

“I will,” you repeat softly.

Everything after that is a blur—you finish signing off emails, grab your coat, shove the rest of your things into your bag. You press a button on your landline phone to summon Lucy and she appears almost instantly.

“Do I have anything else on my schedule?” you ask.

She checks her tablet, scrolling for a bit. “Nope. You’re clear.”

“I’m heading home, then.”

Lucy lowers her tablet and clutches it to her chest. Her face is of disbelief as she says, “I can’t believe you’re leaving work before me.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder and grin. “I have to. My boyfriend’s cooking dinner.”

Her eyes widen in envy but her smile is of joy. “Wow. I’m jealous.”

You nod smugly. “Well, jealousy looks good on you.”

Laughter spills free from Lucy’s heart-shaped lips. “Go. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight,” she says, smiling.

And for once, you leave the office early not because you’re running from something, but because you’re heading toward someone.

-

Chris is already there when you come home, setting plates on the dining table, the sleeves of his light blue shirts rolled up to the elbows. The smell of food hits you all at once and your stomach betrays you with a soft grumble.

He looks up when he hears your slow footsteps. “Hey, welcome home,” he says, smiling.

You cross the room without thinking, slipping your arms around him. He bends easily into you, one arm around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head as you kiss him.

“How was work?” he asks softly when you pull back.

You softly exhale. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

He smiles at that, thumb brushing your hip. “Go put your things away. Wash up. Dinner’s ready.”

You obey happily and turn toward the bedroom. You hang your coat, set your bag down, wash your hands and when you return, he’s already pouring wine into two glasses, the bottle sitting open between them like a promise of a slow night.

You sit together on the dining table. The food is better than you expected and you tell him so, earning a proud grin. Conversation flows easily. You talk about work, ask about his meeting, about stupid things and small things and memories that resurface naturally, laughter slipping in between bites and sips of wine.

At one point, you pause, looking at him across the table. At the way he leans back in his chair, relaxed. At how at ease you feel, how the tightness you’ve carried for years seems to loosen without effort.

You’ve lived in many places. You’ve succeeded, built things, survived heartbreak. But you’ve never quite felt like this. Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

In that moment, you learn that home isn’t a place—it’s a moment, a shared meal, a soft laugh across the table, and the certainty settling in your chest that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

-

After dinner, you stand and reach for the plates to help with the dishes but Chris immediately shakes his head and tells you to sit and enjoy the wine instead. You open your mouth to argue, then decide you like the sound of that far too much.

You retreat to the sofa instead, curling into the corner with your glass while he moves around the kitchen, rinsing plates, stacking them neatly, soft curls falling over his forehead. You watch him shamelessly, refilling his glass when he passes by. When he finally joins you on the sofa, you hand him the wine.

“I could get used to this,” you say with a playful grin.

He chuckles before taking a sip. “Good. I’ll send you my invoice at the end of the month.”

“That won’t be a problem,” you say confidently.

He nods, amused. “I figured.”

For a moment, there’s only the quiet clink of glass against table, the low hum of the house settling around you. Then Chris sets his wine down and turns toward you, his expression still soft, but serious now.

He takes your hand in his and says, “I need to tell you something.”

You follow his lead, placing your own glass aside to give him your full attention. Your heart giving a small, nervous thud. “Okay. What is it?”

He smiles first and takes a moment to either brace himself or arrange the words he’s going to say in his head. Either way, it makes you wait in anticipation.

“I decide to turn down both offers,” he shares with a steady voice. “The extension from my old team… and the new one.”

It comes as a surprise but you don’t interrupt. You just nod, letting him speak, trusting him that he’ll explain in his own pace.

“When you invited me to come, I reached out to a few teams here,” he continues. “Just to see if there’s any suitable offers. One of them wanted to meet today—that’s where I went earlier.”

“Oh?” You manage to say and feel bad for being suspicious earlier.

“Yeah,” he nods. “They offered me the job.”

He pauses, eyes searching yours as he shares, “And I’m going to take it.”

You couldn’t be happier to know he’s getting a job but the businessman in you can’t help but ask, “Is it… the best offer you could get?”

“No. The other one was better,” he honestly answers.

Your chest tightens but then he takes your other hand too, holding both of them firmly on his lap.

“But they’re willing to provide everything I asked so it’s enough for me,” he says with a reassuring smile. His gaze softening, his hand holds you tighter as he continues, “And I’m choosing it. Because I want to stay close to you. This is what I want.”

Your throat closes in disbelief on what he’s done. Again. How certain he is of this. The trust. The faith.

“Chris…” is all you can manage to say.

He squeezes your hands gently. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it with you. I’m doing this for us.”

Tears sting your eyes anyway and this time, you don’t doubt him or his choices. You don’t doubt this. You inhale slowly and nod.

“It’s your decision. And I respect it,” you say, voice steady despite the emotion.

Then you take a breath of your own. “I have something to tell you too.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“I want you to move in with me.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised for only a brief moment. The grin spreads on his beautiful face, slowly, brightly. “That won’t be a problem for me.”

You laugh softly, relief and joy tangling together. “Good. Because I’m choosing this too. I’m choosing us.”

He brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Let’s stay close to each other,” he murmurs.

You nod, smiling through the warmth blooming in your chest. “And let’s be happy from now on.”

He agrees with a quiet nod and then he leans in and kisses you, sealing it not like a promise made in fear, but one built on choice, trust, and finally, peace.

The kiss lingers for a long moment as a promise made without words. When you pull back, your foreheads rest together, breath mingling, smiles soft and real. There’s no grand declaration, no need to map out the future tonight. Just the steady understanding that whatever comes next, you won’t face it alone.

For so long, love felt like something you had to earn, chase, or protect at the cost of yourself. With Chris, it’s different. It’s chosen again and again in small moments and big ones, in dinners cooked at home, in meetings taken and turned down, in hands held without fear of letting go. This isn’t the kind of love that asks you to shrink or sacrifice your dreams. It grows alongside them. It waits. It stays.

You’ve both lived long enough to know that timing can be cruel, that life can pull people apart even when the feelings are real. But you’ve also learned that the right person doesn’t disappear just because the road gets hard.

This time, you choose each other not out of longing or regret, but with open eyes and steady hearts. And as you kiss him again, smiling into it, you know this isn’t a happy ending.

It’s a beginning.

One you’ll keep choosing, together.

-

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[seospicybin]

Just came back from pilates. Tomorrow's friday. Vacation are closer (I hope. Really really hope.) Life's good, kinda. Not the good Hyunjin sings about but decent, at least.

Hope you're taking care of yourself in this hot weather, eating fruits and drinking water. Don't forget to wear sunscreen!!! love you ⭐️💭💋

At least one of us is doing real workout. I feel like what I've been doing is working and snacking and I think I've gained weight. Not that I mind it though. 😆

I'm getting excited for your vacation tbh. I pray that you survive the days until vacation. Take care. Eat well. Love you ❤️🫶🏻

[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

FOREVER

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (18k words)

Author's note: This is the final part of Eventually. Hope you enjoy the journey (and the angst as well 🫣). Congratulations and thank you for making it this far. ❣️

That night, after Chris leaves, the house feels too still.

You stand by the window longer than you should, staring at the empty space where his car had been just minutes ago. The porch light hums softly above you, and for a second you almost expect him to come back, say he forgot something, say he changed his mind. But he doesn’t.

You lock the door, climb the stairs, and slip into your old bedroom. You sit at the edge of your bed and let the quiet settle in.

Chris is here. Of all the places in the world, of all the cities you could have run into each other, he found you here—at your childhood home, on a random night when you weren’t even supposed to be in town.

You lie back slowly, staring at the ceiling.

He said he’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. To hangout? Or is it a date?

Your heart does something reckless in your chest. You roll onto your side and bury your face into your pillow, groaning softly at yourself. You’re not eighteen anymore. You run a company. You’ve handled billion worth of business deals and meetings. And yet one look from him tonight had you stammering like a teenager again.

You replay the moment he said, “It’s really you.” The way his eyes softened. The way he looked… relieved.

You press your palm over your chest and ask yourself. Is this a good thing?

The last time your lives collided like this, it hurt. It was beautiful and terrifying and full of almosts. You were the one who told him to chase his dream. You were the one who walked away because you thought you were doing the right thing. And years later, you’re still not sure if you were.

You slowly exhale air and close your eyes. You’ve rebuilt yourself carefully since then—brick by brick. After the broken engagement. After the canceled wedding. After the whispers. After convincing yourself that maybe love just wasn’t meant for you.

Chris feels like something that could unravel all of that. Or maybe… something that could make it make sense.

If this is going to happen again, you don’t want it to be half-hearted. You don’t want it to be fueled by nostalgia or loneliness. You want it to be real. You walk to the mirror, studying yourself—the woman you’ve become. Stronger. Smarter. Guarded in ways you weren’t back then.

And still… when he smiled at you tonight, you felt like the girl who waited on the bleachers with a lunchbox in her lap.

Maybe this isn’t about whether crossing paths again is good or bad. Maybe it’s about whether you’re brave enough now to choose differently.

So you climb into bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin, staring at the ceiling in the dark. You fall asleep not thinking about what went wrong, but wondering what might finally go right.

-

The car ride settles into something that feels like nostalgia.

Chris drives slow with music plays low in the background, just enough to fill the space between you. The car gliding through the streets you know a little too well. It feels natural in a way that almost startles you, like slipping into a memory you didn’t realize your body still remembered.

And yet, something is different.

Not just that you’re older now. Not just that time has layered itself onto both of you. Somehow, you’re even more nervous than you were at eighteen. Back then, everything felt possible in a reckless, fearless way. Now, every glance, every pause feels weighted.

The car stops at a red light and Chris rests one hand on the center console, turning his head toward you. “How’s your mom?”

“I guess she’s doing great,” you answer. “She’s on a cruise. The one I got her for her birthday.”

He raises his brows, impressed. “Wow.”

You shrug. “She’s probably enjoying the bottomless margaritas as we speak.”

He laughs and then teasingly says, “Look at you! Being a good daughter and all.”

You turn your head his way, narrowing your eyes at him. “I’ve always been a good daughter.”

“Alright,” he says, amused. “I stand corrected.”

The light is still red, and now that you’ve started talking, it feels easier to keep going. “So… why are you here?”

He exhales softly, eyes back on the road. “It’s still my hometown.”

“Right. But you’re not—” You hesitate for a second and end up letting out a dry, humorless laugh. “I mean, are you not coaching right now?”

“My contract has just ended,” he simply explains. “They offered to extend it, but I’ve also got another offer. Somewhere else.”

You glance at him. “So you’re… taking time off?”

“Yeah. Thinking things through.”

You poke fun without thinking. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d be a hot commodity.”

He grins, unmistakably pleased. “I am hot.”

Somehow, your cheeks heating at his immediate answer. But you manage to let out a scoff. “Oh, please.”

The light turns green. He eases the car forward, smile lingering as he focuses on driving.

You can wait, patiently following the streets he takes to know where he’s taking you. But after a minute, you ask anyway, “So… where are we going?”

He keeps his eyes on the road for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he glances at you, a playful, dimpled grin plastered his face.

“First,” he says, “we need to update our stats.”

A moment later, the car pulls into a bowling alley parking lot. You stare at the glowing sign for a second, then look over at him. “This is what you meant by updating our stats?”

He grins as he parks. “Absolutely.”

You snort. “So you can prove you’re still the same loser who can’t bowl?”

His mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “Excuse you?”

You unbuckle slowly, unfazed. “Historically speaking, your average was… tragic.”

“I have improved,” he insists, already stepping out of the car. “I’m way better now. Possibly the best.”

You follow him inside, shrugging coyly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, competitive fire lighting his eyes. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

You smile to yourself because some things really don’t change at all.

-

The game turns competitive almost immediately. You tighten the shoelaces on your bowling shoes before getting up and picking a ball to throw. Honestly, you feel a little nervous because the last time you played bowling was years ago. You’re not sure if you’re still good but you think you can rely on muscle memory. And luck.

You take the the ball, feeling the weight in your hand as you walk up toward the lane and exhale air to calm yourself. As you figure how hard, how fast you should throw the ball, you feel a presence behind you. Then, a pair of hands on each side of your waist.

“You aim and throw the ball that way,” Chris says, his warm breath brushing your ears as he speaks.

One hand moves to your elbow as he teaches you how to bowl like you’re new to this. “And try to knock down as much pins as you can,” he further explains.

You try not to focus much on the way his body lingering close behind you or the heat of his body slowly seeping into yours. Or the way his thumb lightly rubbing over the skin on your arm. You scoff and surprise him with an elbow to this stomach.  

“Ow!” Chris yelps rather dramatically.

Before he can distract you again, you throw the ball down the lane with practiced ease. You watch as the ball knocks down a few pins. It doesn’t strike, but it’s solid. You turn around and find Chris has his tongue poking his cheek, unimpressed.

“So you’ve been secretly training, huh?” he says as he takes a step back.

You coyly shrug and confidently say, “Maybe I’ve just always been better than you.”

That seems to rile him up in the best way. He scoffs, grabs his ball, and lines up. “Watch and learn.”

The ball veers just slightly off, clipping pins instead of knocking them clean. Not terrible—but not impressive either.

You raise your hands and feigning tremor. “Wow. I’m shaking.”

“Relax,” he says, waving you off. “I’m warming up.”

Between turns, he gets bold. He leans forward as he’s selecting a ball with more focus than when he throws it. His eyes flicking up to yours as he smirks and says, “My form’s gotten really good over the years, you know. Endurance, control—”

You cut in with a snort. “And you think that would help?”

His hand stops on a ball. “Yeah.”

“Help you with what?” you ask while daringly staring into his eyes.

Chris smirks. He looks down at the ball he chooses, slowly slipping his fingers into the holes and lifts it— muscles flexed, veins strained across his arms. “With my bowling performance, of course,” he says innocently.

You look away, facing the lane to not entertain him further.

He positions himself on the lane, ready to take his turn. But before that, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Get your head out of the gutter.”

You roll your eyes but your cheeks warm anyway.

He throws the ball and it glides straight toward the pins but somehow, by some unexplained phenomenon, the ball turns sideway and into the gutter. When he turns around with his hands on his head, wincing.

You get up from your seat and say his words back to him. “I think you’re the one who should get your head out of the gutter.”

Chris only grins as he watches you take your turn. You step up—only for him to suddenly hold up a hand. “Wait.”

You turn, annoyed. “If you’re trying to sabotage me—”

He crouches down instead and reaches for your sneaker. Your protest dies as he ties your open shoelace. When he looks up at you, your eyes meet for a brief moment but enough for you to notice the way his expression softens, playful confidence melting into something deeper. Your heart stumbles but you school your face to keep neutral.

“Can’t have you blaming me when you trip,” he says lightly, standing.

You clear your throat and joke, “I’d still strike even when I tripped.”

Chris huffs an offended sigh. “Yeah, sure.”

You throw the ball in confidence and to your surprise, you bowl a strike. You don’t even look back, but put on a triumphant smile and lift your arms in victory.

By the final frame, the score is undeniable.

Chris studies the screen, then sighs. “Okay. Fine. I lost.”

“Admitting defeat? Wow, maturity looks good on you,” you tease with a grin.

He holds back a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Dinner’s on me.”

-

The diner feels exactly the same.

Same cracked vinyl booths. Same faint smell of grease and coffee. Same low hum of conversation layered with clinking plates. You slide into the booth across from Chris, and before the food even arrives, you’re already bickering.

“I still think the lane was crooked,” he says, stealing a fry from your plate.

“You just can’t accept that I beat you fair and square,” you reply, swatting his hand away.

“You distracted me.”

“You distracted yourself.”

By the time your burgers arrive, the awkwardness has completely dissolved. Bowling did its job—it cracked something open, loosened the years between you. You laugh easier now, tease without second-guessing, talk like the silence never stretched as long as it did.

The bell above the diner door jingles and a group of high schoolers pours in, loud and energetic, a few of them wearing the same blue-and-black varsity jackets from your old school. You lean back in your seat with a soft sigh as the memories rush in all at once.

Chris notices it too. You’re both watching the same thing—the way they crowd into a booth, talking over each other, laughing like time is endless.

“Things were easier back then,” you murmur.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Then he glances at you. “Well, not all things.”

You smirk. “Your math struggles, for one.”

He groans. “That will never get easier.”

You laugh, the sound light and warm.

Chris looks back at the group, expression thoughtful now. “They don’t know it yet,” he says quietly, “but this is probably the best time of their lives.”

You nod, feeling it settles in your chest. Youth. Blissful ignorance. The way everything feels big and small at the same time. Not caring about anything but the present.

There are so many questions hovering on your tongue—about him, about that night on the boulder, about the years in between—but you swallow them down. At least, not here. Not yet.

Instead, you smile at him over your fries. “Want to take a trip down memory lane?”

His grin spreads slowly, knowing exactly what you mean. “I’d love a trip down memory lane.”

-

Chris keeps one hand on the wheel as he drives while you talk about running into Aaron at the tech expo, about how surreal it felt to see someone from high school in a place so far removed from where you all started. You mention Celia’s baby shower and meeting more people you know from school, the reminder that some people grow in entirely new directions—and some stay achingly the same.

He listens quietly, attentive in that way he’s always had. “So,” he says suddenly, glancing over at you, “what’s changed about me?”

You almost laugh. Internally, the answers come too fast—broader shoulders, stronger build, the way age has settled into him in a way that only made him more attractive. The confidence. The steadiness.

But you don’t say any of that. Not when you know it’s going to make him cocky. Instead, you shrug. “You’re less annoying.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You asked,” you say innocently.

Then you turn the question back on him. “What about me?”

He hums, thoughtful, eyes back on the road. For a moment, you think he might dodge it. “I think you’re the same,” he answers.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “The same, huh?”

He smirks, finally looking your way. “I mean—you’re still as beautiful.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. But inside, your heart flutters.

He laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

The car slows, then turns into the parking lot of the elementary school. The building looms ahead, quiet and dark, windows reflecting nothing but night. You get out of the car first, the quiet, slightly eerie atmosphere sending a faint shiver down your spine. You’re still staring at it when you feel hands settle on your shoulders.

Chris drapes his jacket over you carefully, holding it open so you can slip your arms into the sleeves. His hands linger on your shoulders after, then sliding down your arms, smoothing the fabric. Whether it’s practicality or an excuse to touch you, you’re not sure, but you shiver anyway.

“Thanks,” you murmur, turning your head slightly.

He smiles, then turns on the flashlight on his phone and leads the way. Together, you move past the playground, through the fence, into the woods behind the school.

-

The night is quiet. The trees whisper softly overhead. Shadows stretch longer, branches creak softly overhead, and the path you once knew by heart now feels uneven beneath your feet. You squint, stepping carefully, trying to remember where the ground dips and where the rocks hide.

Chris glances back at you, amused. “You know, maybe your eyesight’s getting worse. Old age and all.”

You scowl at him. “I’m not old.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums. “You just sound like it.”

You open your mouth to retort but your foot catches on a rock. You stumble forward, already bracing yourself for the fall, but Chris’s hand is there instantly, reaching back for you. You don’t hesitate to take his hand, fingers curling around his without thinking.

“Careful,” he murmurs, tightening his hold and guiding you forward now, slowing his pace to match yours.

You’re following the pull of his hand through the dark, every step made easier by the warmth grounding you. The woods don’t seem so intimidating anymore. The night feels softer, held at bay by the simple fact that he’s here.

The boulder finally comes into view, just as rough, as big and as stubborn as you remember.

You shine the light over its surface and there, carved into the stone, are two sets of initials. Yours. And his. Uneven, shallow in places, worn by time but it’s there. From the day you graduated. From the day everything felt both ending and just beginning.

You step closer, fingertips brushing over the grooves. The rock is cold beneath your touch, but the memory is warm and immediate. You trace the letters slowly, like recalling a moment from the past.

You smile as you let go and walk around to the other side. The city stretches out below you, lights scattered like constellations fallen to earth. It’s still breathtaking. Still mesmerizing. Still exactly the same in the ways that matter.

You barely have time to take it in before you feel hands grip your waist. “Chris—!”

You softly gasp as he lifts you off the ground, carries you like it’s nothing, and sets you on top of the boulder. You grab onto his shoulders instinctively, laughing breathlessly as you steady yourself.

He exhales dramatically when he lets go. “You’re heavier now.”

You fix the hem of your dress. “…Thanks?”

He grins, completely unapologetic, then hops up after you without any trouble at all, settling beside you and dusting his hands together like he didn’t just manhandle you.

You eye his right leg and carefully ask. “Is your knee okay? You made that look way too easy.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says simply.

You nod, accepting his answer as it is and look ahead, to the view of the city. The quiet feels comfortable as the two of you sit there, feet dangling, city lights glowing below.

After a while, you sigh. “You were right,” you say softly. “Even after all these years, it’s still beautiful.”

You glance at him and his eyes already on you, smiling. “I know I’m right,” he says.

You hesitate, then inhale air to finally ask, “Was it hard?”

He looks at you. “What?”

“The injury,” you clarify and hesitate when you continue the sentence. “And retiring early.”

He nods once and twice, like he’s forming and calculating words in his head first before speaking. “Yeah. At first. Physical therapy sucked. Losing what I thought my future would be sucked more.”

He softly exhales air and then shrugs lightly. “But I realized I was lucky. I can still walk. I can still use my body. I still get to be on the field—even if it’s not the same way.”

He looks at you and offers a faint smile even though he’s the one who’s needing the consolation. “I’m glad I’m still here.”

You can’t imagine yourself in that position, getting forced to give up your dream when you’ve barely begun. But you smile anyway because Chris doesn’t give up on himself. Because that’s who he is. He doesn’t stay broken. He adapts. He finds a way forward.

Then he looks at you and asks gently, “What about you?”

You quietly swallow air. “What about me?”

“I heard about the broken engagement.”

You always knew you’re fooling yourself when you convince yourself that he wouldn’t know. Everyone knows. Why wouldn’t he?

“I think it wasn’t meant to be,” you say quietly and decide not give too much details about it. “I’m… way past it now.”

He studies you, seeing the cracks beneath the words. “That must’ve been hard.”

Your throat tightens. You close your eyes for a second, then nod. “It was. I trusted him with everything.”

It’s just something about Chris that makes you vulnerable without you intend to. Your voice wavers as you honestly share, “At one point, it made me think I don’t deserve love at all.”

His hand comes to the small of your back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. “That’s not true.”

You shake your head, eyes burning and you feel a lump forming in your throat.

“You should’ve come to me,” he says softly.

You lift your head just slightly. Your voice strained as you tell him, “I did. A few times.”

His brows knit together. “You did?”

“I came to your matches,” you whisper as you look at him. “But I just—I just couldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

The lump now feels like a hot coal in your throat. The tears come then, unstoppable. He doesn’t rush you. Just pulls you closer, keeps rubbing your back as you cry.

“Because I was the one who convinced you to take the offer,” you sob.

It hurts to admit the guilt that’s been haunting you for years now. “And you got injured. You had to retire. It’s all my fault.”

“No—”

You cut him off, voice broken and trembling. “I should’ve trusted you. You knew what you wanted. I should’ve let you choose.”

Your chest aches as tears keep streaming down your face, hot and full of sadness. “I can’t forgive myself for it.”

You cry harder that your body starts shaking, and he wraps his arms around you tightly, like he can’t stand the distance between you and him anymore.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” he says firmly, over and over.

“You might had been the one suggested it but I was the one making the decision. I chose it. I lived it. I’m okay. You didn’t ruin anything.”

When you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes swollen and wet, you whisper, “That’s why I couldn’t reach out. I just thought that I… I didn’t deserve you anymore.”

He smiles softly, heartbreakingly gentle, and wipes your tears away with his knuckles. “What makes you think that?”

He gently pushes you away just enough to allow him to look at you and make you look back at him. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you. Look at you, you’re brilliant. You’re smart, you’re successful, you’re doing what you’re passionate about.”

Your heart shakes at his genuine praises and words because you know he meant it. But you shake your head away.

“I’m so afraid of stepping back into your life because I’m just… me,” he says as he’s wiping fresh tears rolling down your cheek. “And it’s hard no to because the truth is… I can’t stop loving you.”

He smiles as he cradles the side of your face, eyes locked in a soft gaze with yours as he continues. “So what I’ve been doing all these times is just waiting.”

You shake your head lightly while swallowing your cries.

“Waiting for you,” he says with warmth and certainty in his eyes. “To run back to me.”

All these years. He waited. For you.When you thought you caused him this great loss. When you thought there’s no second chance for you. When you thought that you don’t deserve love at all.

Your heart cracks open all over again as more tears flowing in both happiness and sadness. And everything in between. You clear your throat to set the record straight.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not really… running back to you,” you say while laughing weakly through tears.

Chris breaks into a grin and then chuckles. “Let’s not ruin the moment, yeah?”

Then he cups your jaw, his thumb warm against your skin. “And just kiss already.”

You laugh in both relief and joy. And you nod. “Okay”

You don’t know who leans in first. You just know that when your lips meet, everything finally makes sense—the years, the distance, the longing. It all collapses into this one earned, full, loving kiss. And it feels like coming home.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, breaths still uneven. Something inside you feels… lighter.

For years, guilt wrapped itself around your ribs, tightening every time you thought of him. It kept you at a distance. Told you to stay away. Convinced you that loving him meant ruining him, that reaching for him meant taking something you didn’t deserve and now… it’s gone.

Cracked open, dismantled by his arms around you, by his voice telling you he’s been here all along—waiting, steady, choosing you every time even when you weren’t brave enough to choose yourself.

You don’t know what beginning looks like. You only know that this time, you’re not walking away.

This time, you’re ready to start again—with him.

-

You unlock the door, step inside and before it can even close behind you, you turn, grab Chris’s hand, and pull him with you.

He laughs softly, surprised but not resisting, letting you drag him through the house and up the stairs, your footsteps hurried, hearts racing. You don’t stop until you’re in your bedroom, don’t bother closing the door.

Then you turn on your feet and meet his eyes. The air shifts almost immediately.

You face each other, standing still now, and your eyes lock in a soft, heated gaze. A smile slowly booms on his face and you feel your chest swell in response. Everything about him feels close. Wanted. Home.

He places his hands on each side of your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left between your bodies. One hand lifts, cupping your cheek, thumb tenderly caressing your skin, and you lean into his touch without thinking.

You don’t speak but quietly savoring the way he tenderly holds you, touches you, looks into your eyes like he’d find every answer to life in them. Then his gaze drops to your lips and it only lasts for a second until he can’t help himself anymore to lean in and kisses you.

He kisses you slowly, gently like you’d break if does too hard. But the restraint doesn’t last. The kiss deepens, heat blooming between you as his arms tighten, as the moment finally gives in to everything you’ve been holding back.

He guides you backward, step by step, until you laugh breathlessly and stop him, pulling away just enough to catch your breath.

“You remember the rules,” you murmur with a faint smirk.

He blinks with mouth still parted open, lips wet and red. “Rules?”

“No outside clothes on the bed.”

He grins the second he catches the real meaning of it. “Then I’ll just take them off.”

Chris’ grin turns wicked as he leans in once more for a rough, open-mouthed kiss like his intention is to steal all of the air out of your lungs.

Without letting go of the kiss, you run your hands down his front. Your movement are frantic and impatient as you’re feeling his body through the layers of fabric. You need more so you’re tugging at the hem of his sweater, breaking the kiss to take it off of him, only to see the white tank he’s wearing underneath. But God, the bulging biceps, the pecs and the way his skin reddening around the neck — have you biting your lips in want. So much want.

It’s obvious that Chris can see it and senses that you need to see more. He removes his white tank, baring his upper body, muscles in all the right places wrapped in soft, pale skin. In confidence, he takes your hands and puts them on the flat of his stomach.

You don’t move at first until a beat later, you can’t resist but trail the outline of abs with your fingers, feel the ridges, the hardness under your fingertips. You sigh in awe and admiration because you just can't comprehend how beautiful he is, it’s almost godly.

An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close until you’re pressed against his body. He leans in, bringing his mouth close to your ear.

“Let me take your dress off for you,” he whispers, voice low and sultry.

Air caught in your throat but you give him the permission with a slow nod. You keep yourself pressed to him as he reaches for the zipper on the back of your dress. You feel the tug and then— the sound of the zipper opening feels so loud against the heavy silence and mounting tension in the room.

Chris hooks his fingers under the fabric and slowly tear the dress off of you, pulling it down to your waist. He lets it fall until it’s pooling around your ankle and when you look up, you find his eyes looking down at you, staring at you with a mix of lust and affection, want and need and everything in between.

He puts both arms around you once more until your bodies pressed tight against each other. He crashes his lips against yours as his hands roaming around your back, one hand tracing down your spine before it goes lower, finding the softness of your ass cheek. He spread his fingers, palm scooping the flesh before gently squeezing on it.

You gasp into the kiss and retaliate by reaching for the waistband of his jeans, working them open without looking, without letting go of the kiss. But you only get as far as opening the fly as he begins to steers you until your back meet the edge of the desk.

Chris slips his hands into your panties, hooking his fingers under the waistband and pulling them down your legs. At the same time, he’s lowering himself until his knees are on the floor. You lift your feet one by one, letting him to finally get rid of it.

Then, you see it. The way his eyes widen and can’t stop staring at what’s in front of him. You notice him swallows air, Adam’s apple bobbing slowly in his throat at the sight of your bare sex merely inches away from his mouth. He tilts his head, looking you through his lashes, a look that seeks permission from you. You look into his eyes and give him the subtlest of nod in response.

However, Chris doesn’t rush. He begins by leaning in, placing light yet searing kisses that trails up your thighs. A hand gently grabs your leg by the calf and lifts it. Then he holds it there as he places more kisses on your inner. Your breath catches as his mouth inching closer to where you want him the most.

The second his mouth finally makes contact with your arousal — you gasp and grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. First, his hot tongue slides in between your folds. His lips on your clit next, softly kissing at it. Then, you feel the tip of his tongue circling, pressing on it — making you grip the desk tighter.

He doesn’t hesitate to dive into your wetness, planting his mouth deeper into you and slowly, he raises your leg and puts it over his shoulder, allowing him more space to please you.

You gasp, one hand flies to his hair, feeling the way he opens his mouth wider to take more of you. You feel everything all at once — the slick tongue, the wet mouth, the full lips wrapped around your bundle of nerves.

“Chris—” you shriek, hand tugging at his hair harder as he sucks too hard.

Soon enough, you begin to follow the rhythm, rolling your hips against his mouth to seek more of him on you. You’re lowly moaning in reaction, feeling so aroused at how good he makes you feel that you start touching yourself. One hand reaches to your back, unclasping your bra until it snaps open.

You recklessly toss the bra aside. You waste not time but cupping your breast in your hand, fingers teasing the hardening nipple that adds to the building pleasure inside you. You glance down — Chris is tirelessly pleasing you with his mouth, eyes closed and mouth humming against your sensitive skin in delight. Your eyes flick lower only to notice that his other hand disappeared into his jeans, moving in up and down motions.

The sight arouses you more, the knot inside you tightens, your body is hot all over. Before you can process everything that is happening at the moment, he decides to surprise you by sucking hard on your clit.

“Oh, my… Chris…” you moan between your whines and whimpers of pain, of pleasure. You don’t know anymore.

He refuses to let go until your legs are shaking around him, your noises no longer coherent and your essence floods his mouth. When he finally does, you let out a whine from the loss of contact. He quickly compensates by kissing your inner thigh and continues the trail of kisses upward, to your abdomen, to the valley between your breasts and sideway, to take your breast into his mouth. His lips wrapped around your nipple, mouth latches on it for quite a moment before finally let go, leaving it wet his saliva.

Slowly, he rises and back on his feet. His body towering over you now, covering you with his heat. An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you until you’re pressed against him, breasts squashed between chest and yet, when he's about to steer you to bed, you stop.

“Wait,” you say, still panting.

His hand stays there on the dip of your waist. “What is it?”

“I don’t think I packed condoms with me,” you mutter, an eyebrow raised in slight panic.

Chris only grins and tenderly brushes your hair away from your face. “I’ve got it,” he says.

He reaches to the back pocket of his jeans, taking out a condom tucked in the compartment of his wallet, holding it between his fingers as he shows it to you.

“Only one?” you ask, eyebrow raised yet again.

He takes a step forward, closing the last few inches between your bodies. “And we're going to make good use of it,” he confidently says.

He hastily kisses your open mouth and grins when he pulls away. He takes a step back to remove his jeans, fingers hooked on the waistband as he tugs them down his legs.

You just stand there, slightly leaning against the desk as you watch him revealing himself until it’s just him — bare, solid, real. He’s got muscles in the right places, abs that looks like it’s sculpted by the finest sculptor, the veins coiled around his arms and legs — all of it wrapped in miles and miles of soft, pale skin. You don’t even try to hide the way your eyes sweep over him in admiration and lust.

But what got you biting your lower lip in want is the thing between his legs, the way it’s erected toward you, inviting you to touch, to feel how stiff it is in your hand.

“Like what you see?” he asks, confidence and amusement entwined in that dimpled grin of his.

“Very,” you shortly answer, not taking your eyes away from his swollen member.

Chris only chuckles and plops onto the edge of the bed, a hand reaches for you. once he gets a hold of your waist, he gently pulls you until you’re standing between his legs. He doesn’t wait to plant his mouth on your abdomen, kissing the skin there.

You giggle when he begins rubbing his nose and lips against your belly. You’re uselessly trying to stop him by gripping his shoulder. “Chris, that tickles. Stop!” you weakly protest, still giggling.

He eventually stops with a chuckle and this time, when he pulls you in, he helps you get onto his lap. Once you’re settled, he wraps his arms around you, drawing you close until your faces are merely inches away. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as if he needs to see your whole face without any distraction.

A beat later, his hand moves to your chin. He turns your head to the side and then to the other. When he turns you back to face him, he solemnly hums and then says, “You’re not that bad.”

You break into laughter and put your arms around his shoulders. You look down at him as you say, “And you think you’re that good, huh?”

He tightens his hold and confidently says, “I know I’m good.”

“Better put on that condom quick,” you say, eyes briefly glancing down at his hardening cock under you. “Cause I need a proof.”

That seems to trigger him as he moves right away, bringing the packet to his mouth to tear the foil. You scoot a little to the back, giving him space to properly roll the rubber down his length. His movement easy, unhurried like he’s done this plenty of times already. And maybe he did.

In that moment, a thought forms in your head, an envy filled thought: You don’t want anyone to feel his lips, his warmth, his body ever again. Except you.

-

Outside, the world stays quiet. Inside, everything finally aligns.

Chris steadily holds you by the waist as he helps you easing yourself down on him. His grip firm, brows knitted in utter focus, eyes centered on the way you’re taking him in little by little.

“Oh, so good…” he breathless says, a vein on his forehead is evident as he concentrates hard.

You grip his shoulders, whimpering as you feel the blunt tip of his cock stretching you, penetrating deeper and deeper into you. You close your eyes like it would help you feel him better and, in a way, it did. He feels good, overwhelmingly so.

He rubs the side of your thigh as he sighs and softly murmurs, “I know you can take more of me, yeah?”

Your brain is too foggy to compute words so you nod instead. And you will take more of him without him needing to ask for it. You want more of him, more of that hot and pulsating hardness inside you.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, looking up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes.

The second he’s fully buried inside you, you melt into him and he’s more than eager to take you, wrapping you in his solid, warm hold. Just the slightest movement is enough to make you feel his whole size inside you. You feel it as you draw yourself closer to him.

“Oh, you feel so perfect,” he whispers as he presses a rough kiss on your neck.

His hand glides to the back of your neck, taking a fistful of your hair and gently tugging at it to tilt your head, making you facing him.

Through your half-lidded eyes, you can see him staring at you in both lust and affection, his other hand frames your face with thumb caressing your heating cheek. Then he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re so perfect for me,” he murmurs, breathy and sultry. His lips curl in a faint smile.

Heat curls low in your stomach and at the same time, your heart flutters hearing those words coming out of his beautiful mouth. It feels wrong to not kiss him for that so you do. It feels even better when he returns the kiss just as eagerly.

For a moment, the two of you stay like that. Lips locked in a kiss, arms around each other, skin rubs against skin, bodies connected as one. None of you move yet but the sparks turn brighter and hotter.

When you’re ready, you begin rolling your hips back and forth at first, alternating it with slow, circular motions. You gasp as you feel more of him inside of you, engorging the more you stimulating it.

You lean back just lightly to chase that right angle, just so his tip can nudge the right spot and continue moving in that position. You set a steady rhythm with one hand holding his shoulder for support.

“So perfect,” Chris murmurs against the skin on your shoulder.

He drags his mouth lower until he finds your soft mounds, tongue darting out to tease your nipple. He doesn’t hesitate to take a mouthful of your flesh in his mouth, sucking hard on it just enough to leave a blooming mark on it.

His hands move to palm both of your breasts, kneading on them before pushing them to the middle. He leans in, sucking both nipples at once with his greedy mouth. At one point, he decides to latch on one breast and sucks on it a little too hard. He ignores your whimper and tugging at it, only letting go as he slowly pulling away.

“Chris—” you breathlessly scold, gripping tightly at his shoulders.

But he only smirks in response. His arms pulling you close until there’s no an inch of gap left between your bodies. He tilts his head, looking up at you, letting you see the searing desire flickering in his eyes.

You rest your forehead against him as you continue moving, bouncing on his lap, his cock slipping in and out of you in a way that makes you aware the fullness he provides with his size.

“I’m surprised you know how to fuck,” he teases, a crooked grin decorated his face.

“Excuse you?” you say in disbelief.

Chris chuckles at that as he glides his hands lower to the curve of your asscheeks, palming and grabbing at the flesh.

 “I know how to fuck,” you continue with a sly smile. “I’ve read books.”

He scoffs an amused laugh and surprises you by landing slaps on your ass. “Do it right then,” he playfully says.

The slaps sting for a brief moment but somehow it encourages you to keep moving, bouncing on him more. You kiss him as you add speed and intensity to your movements. You know you’re doing it right as he starts groaning into your mouth.

However, it’s you who’s tethering on the edge first. You stop thinking about what works and just following what your body wants — chasing that heat that makes the knot inside you tighten and tighten until it snaps.

A high-pitched moan escapes your mouth and Chris catches you as you free fall into the depth of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your head nestled in the crook of his neck as he holds you close and tight. You’re still catching your breath when you hear him softly smiling into your ear.

“So perfect…” he murmurs, followed with a press of kiss to your jaw. “…Coming for me like that.”

-

The bed takes you in gently as he lays you down.

Chirs gives you time for you to relish your high and gather your senses, allowing your body to recalibrate from the intensity of what just happened. He hovers above you, burying his mouth in your neck to kiss you there. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, hand tenderly puts away the strands of hair covering your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he praises with adoring eyes.

Even with your mind still hazy, your heart flutters anyway. You smile and lift your head to give him a quick kiss on the lips.

He continues to admire you by placing little, searing kisses on you. On the collarbone, your sternum, the soft skin under your breast, your left ribcage, your hip, on the navel, on the patch of hair covering your sensitive bit, on your inner thigh, your knee, the side of your calf, your ankle and finishes it with a longer kiss on the sole of your foot.

You breathe a soft giggle at the feel of his soft, plush lips. Soft, warm and a little ticklish. Yet you feel so admired, worshipped by him. And when he rises on the bed to take a look at you, he looks at you like you’re a wonder of the world. You smile, a smile so wide that your cheeks hurt.

When he positions himself on you, you part your legs for him, eagerly welcoming him. He smiles at that, an appreciative kiss placed on your abdomen. You’re still quivering, still wet that he has no problem slipping his cock into you again. You gasp as he hums in delight. This time, groan spills out of his mouth as he pushes himself deep into you.

He glances down and groans again at the sight of your entrance stuck tightly around his delicious girth, wetness lathering his hot, stiff length. His hardness enveloped in your warm, velvety walls.

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re dark and full of want. His hands reaching for yours, slipping his fingers and laces them together, pining them above your head as he settles himself on top of you. He stills for a moment, adjusting himself to the feel of you that overwhelms him.

A moment later, he starts moving. He’s thrusting into you slowly, steadily. Like adding a little speed would have him losing it right away. His forehead pressed against you, warm breath brushing your lips as he lowly groans in pleasure.

You lift your legs, allowing him more depth and hook them around his hips. You don’t hold back from muttering how you feel to him. How good he feels, how beautiful he is, how this whole thing makes you feel. But they turn incoherent the moment he quickens his thrusting.

Eventually, you move together like you already know how—like your bodies remember what your minds spent years trying to forget. There’s no rush. Just hands finding skin, mouths latched, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.

Chris groans and grunts, they turn louder as he tirelessly chasing his high. His hold tightens. You hold onto him just as tightly, fingers curling into his back, into his shoulders, needing something to hold on to as he takes you right to the edge again. It’s passionate but it’s also tender.

At time, he watches you, checks in with you without words, and you realize how deeply you trust him. How easily your body yields because your heart already has. Loving again feels terrifying, standing on the edge of something that once broke you but with him, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels chosen.

As you move together, chasing for that highs together, it’s like falling in love all over again—slow and fast at once, familiar yet new. Years of longing collapse into this shared heat, this understanding that neither of you is leaving this time.

When you come around him and he follows right after, the world softens around you. You stay wrapped in each other, reveling in this tender moment that is belong only to you and him. Then he kisses you, rough and deep and knowing. And you kiss him back just as passionately. When you pull back, you rest against him, safe and open, knowing with a certainty that steadies you to your core:

Chris would never hurt you and loving him doesn’t feel like a risk.

It feels like coming home.

-

The room is quiet in the way only late nights can be.

Chris lies on his back with one arm wrapped around you, holding you close, your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. His other hand drifts idly through the ends of your hair, gentle and grounding. Your eyes fluttering close when he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

He sighs, the sound warm and almost amused. “I can’t believe I’m back in this room.”

You’re too comfortable to open your eyes, too snug against him to form words, so you just hum in response.

“You know this bedroom used to give me PTSD, right?”

That makes you lift your head immediately. You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Because this is where you taught me. Scolded me when I didn’t get it. Smacked me when I got answers wrong.”

“In my defense, you deserved all of that,” you say firmly with a smirk tugging at your lips.

He clicks his tongue. “Nah. You were just violent.”

You don’t think but land a gentle slap on his chest in protest.

He yelps dramatically, clutching the spot like he’s mortally wounded. “See? Still the same.”

Despite his complaining, he pulls you back in tighter when you settle against him again, like he never intended to let you go. Your leg tangles with his, and that’s when you feel the faint indentation around his knee, the scars left behind by surgeries and healing.

Your fingers trace it gently. “Does it hurt?” you ask softly.

He puts his hand over yours. “Not anymore,” he simply answers.

Then he guides your hand upward, bringing it close to his mouth to kiss it before placing it over his heart, holding it there. You feel the steady rhythm beneath your palm and swallow, emotion tightening your throat.

Looking at him like this, you realize the truth with startling clarity. No one has ever come close. No one has ever made you feel this seen, this safe, this certain.

He’s the one you’ve been looking for all along and you don’t know why you’ve wasted years on looking what’s already in front of you.

Slowly, you lift yourself onto one elbow, turning to face him. “You know, before I came home, I had a fight with my ex,” you quietly share.

He listens as he places a hand on the side of your head, eyes never leaving yours.

“He was making all these excuses to justify his wrongdoing,” you continue, letting out a humorless laugh. “And one of the excuses is because he knows I was never certain of him.”

You shake your head as you recall the moment in your head. “And as much as I hate it… he was right. I wasn’t fully in it.”

Chris reaches up, running his fingers through your hair, keeping it from falling into your face.

“I know that for sure,” you admit softly, “that my heart was never really his.”

Your gaze, your voice, your heart — they barely waver when you say it. “It’s always been yours.”

His smile is slow, tender, overwhelming in its affection. He leans up and kisses you in a long and lingering kiss, like he’s trying to capture this moment with a kiss. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“And you know my heart will always be yours too,” he softly mutters with a smile that is just as bright as his eyes.

“And I know it’s too late but I’d like to take that offer,” you say, eyes affectionate and hopeful.

He looks at you, his stare deepens as he frames the side of your face with his hand. His thumb lazily rubbing your cheek. “To stay close to each other?”

You nod, putting your hand on his and lean into his touch. You close your eyes to savor the warmth, the tenderness in his touch. After a while, you open your eyes and add, “If you’ll still have me.”

His hand moves to your jaw, his thumb now swiping across your lips. “You’re the only one I want,” he says so certainly like it’s his purpose in life.

Hearing him saying that made the years of wait insignificant. Hearing him saying that assured you that he long this as much as you. The smile that blooms on your face is immediate and warm. Your heart squeezes in the softest way inside your chest.

He smiles as he lifts his head to give you a quick, gentle kiss on the lips. When he pulls away with his lips still lingering inches away from yours, he says it.

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air for what feels like eternity. No, it’s not because you don’t love him back but because you’ve been waiting years to hear it again with that voice, that gaze, the intensity of his feelings projected through those three words.

You echo those words back to him, breathless and sure. “I love you.”

This time, you lean in first, kissing him with everything you have—love, promise, certainty woven into the press of your lips.

And you know, without doubt, that you won’t waste this chance again.

-

Morning comes softly.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tiles, scrambling eggs in a pan and trying very hard not to burn them when you hear footsteps upstairs.

A moment later, Chris appears at the bottom of the stairs, tugging a sweater on as he comes down. His hair is a mess of soft curls, eyes still heavy with sleep, face bare and bright. He looks… beautiful. The kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you when you’re not trying to look and you smile without even realizing it.

He comes up behind you, wraps an arm around your side, and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

“Morning,” you reply, eyes still on the pan.

“Need help?”

“I’m almost done,” you say and turn off the stove. “But can you grab the orange juice from the fridge?”

“On it,” he says immediately.

Soon enough, the two of you are seated at the dining table with plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon between you. You sip your orange juice, watching him eat. His mouth full of food, a hand holding a toast and the other scraping the scrambled egg with a fork, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t fully woken up yet.

You can’t stop smiling. You have a sip of your coffee and ask, “So, what’s the plan for today?”

He swallows his food first before talking. “I’ve actually got a meeting about a job offer.”

You nod as you take a bite of your toast. “What time will you be done?”

“Not sure,” he says, then he gently places a hand on the small of your back and softly adds, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him easily.

He looks at you, reaches out, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“And you? What are you doing today?” He asks. Then, teasingly he adds, “Beside waiting for me.”

You scoff at that and simply say, “I have a company to run.”

He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “You’re bragging.”

You shrug coyly and return to your breakfast.

He takes another bite of his toast, then sighs. “No offense, but I kind of miss your mom’s bread.”

“None taken,” you say as you lean back and sigh. “I miss her bread too.”

“When will she come home?”

“Not sure,” you honestly answer. “But I hope it’s soon.”

The two of you fall quiet after that, just chewing, looking at each other. No rush. No need to fill the space. When your eyes meet again, Chris is the first to smile. He reaches across the table, lifts your chin gently, and kisses you. When he pulls back, his grin is soft and familiar.

In that moment, you can’t believe that he’s here, with you, together. And that your lives will be forever intertwined from this moment on. You smile back at him, heart full.

Today couldn’t have started better.

-

The house quiets after Chris leaves with a kiss and a dimpled grin that you know a little too well.

You curl up on the sofa with your laptop balanced on your lap, just checking emails to stay updated but once the screen lights up, the weight settles back onto your shoulders. Nothing is on fire. Nothing is urgent.

Still, you call Lucy to make sure that the company is still running smoothly. She answers on the second right and launches right away, talking about important things happened in the company.

“…And since Herman has that meeting with Palindrome, he has to cancel attending that Blue Wings conference.”

“Oh, no,” you say, feeling bad because you know how much Herman has been anticipating to be a part of that conference. “Herman really wants to go to that.”

“Yeah,” Lucy hesitantly says. “But we’d rescheduled that meeting before so we can’t reschedule it again.”

You nod at that. Rescheduling not only means having no respect for the other company but also messing with the company’s timeframe. You think of a solution fast.

“When is the meeting again?” You ask.

“It’s this Thursday,” Lucy says immediately.

This will be not your first time sacrificing your time and rest for your company. So without further consideration, you tell Lucy, “I’ll go. I’ll attend the meeting.”

Lucy exhales softly. “Does that mean you’re coming back to work sooner?”

“Yeah,” you say, even though part of you resists the word. “I can’t let Herman skipped the conference again.”

She doesn’t argue but you hear the clacking sound of her typing onto the keyboard. “Alright. I’ll move things around and let Herman know.”

“Make sure he calls me before he leaves for the conference,” you add.

“Sure, will do,” Lucy responds and then, softly she offers, “Want me to arrange your trip back?”

You shake your head even though she can’t see it. “No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself.”

“Okay,” she says gently. “And—take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” you reply, sincere. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

You hang up and close the laptop, letting it rest untouched on your lap. You still want to stay here. In this house. In this quiet. In the ease of mornings that don’t ask anything of you and nights that end with warmth instead of exhaustion. You want more time with Chris, more moments that feel like healing instead of surviving.

However, the truth sits with you just as stubbornly that you can’t keep abandoning your job. Not when people depend on you. Not when the company you built is still something you care deeply about.

You sigh, leaning back against the cushions, torn between two things you love. And for the first time, you realize the hard part isn’t choosing one over the other.

It’s figuring out how to hold both.

-

Since you don’t have anything to do, nowhere to go. You end up doing chores around the house. You vacuum the living room, made lunch, do the laundry. By afternoon, you’re taking out the laundry out of the dryer. You put them into the basket and carry it upstairs to your room.

You’re halfway through hanging clothes back into the closet, when you hear a car pulling out front.  A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. You cross the room and peek through the window just as he turns off the engine, stepping out of the car.

Chris looks up and catches you watching from your bedroom window. His grin comes instantly, dimple and all, like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.

A second later, your phone rings and you don’t even check who’s calling.

“Hey,” you softly say.

“Come down,” he says without preamble, amusement clear in his voice. “I’m taking you on a date.”

You laugh quietly. “You don’t even know if I’m ready.”

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he replies easily.

You glance down at yourself, then back at the closet. “Ten minutes,” you bargain because you need the extra time to put a little bit of color on your face.

“Okay, I’ll wait,” he says, grin audible even through the phone.

You hang up, heart light, and reach for the dress you’d just hung back up, pulling it off the hanger with a quiet laugh at yourself. Because apparently, you do have somewhere to go.

-

The neon lights reflect faintly on the polished floors as you stand shoulder to shoulder with Chris in front of a long wall of movie posters. He crosses his arms, studying them like it’s some kind of life-altering decision.

You tilt your head at him. “You know it’s just a movie, right? Not a contract negotiation.”

He hums thoughtfully, squinting at one of the posters. “Shh. This determines the emotional tone of our evening.”

You scoff softly but let him pretend he’s deliberating something monumental which reminds you to ask him about something. While he’s “analyzing,” you nudge him lightly and ask, “So… how was the meeting?”

He doesn’t look at you right away, still staring at the posters. “It went well.”

“That’s vague.”

Now he glances down at you, one corner of his mouth lifting into an amused half-smirk. “Well, they offered better pay than my previous team. Better facilities too.”

Your eyebrows rise genuinely. “That’s great.”

“It is,” he says calmly but then he inhales air and softly sighs. Then he calmly says, “But I don’t want to rush. I’m taking my time to decide.”

You nod at that. You don’t push or question him further. You believe that Chris knows what he wants for himself. So you just look at him for a second longer and softly say, “I’m sure you’ll make the best decision for yourself.”

His expression shifts into something warm, something appreciative and he pulls you in for a quick kiss on your temple. Then he points at a pastel-colored movie poster with a title ‘Backward Love’.

“Let’s watch that one.”

You immediately wrinkle your nose, not pleased with his choice. “That?”

He shrugs and coyly explains, “It’s romcom. Perfect for date night.”

You dramatically turn and point at the horror poster beside it with the main character is splattered with blood, eyes wide in terror as a masked killer looming behind her. “I want to watch this one.”

Chris looks at you like you’ve just betrayed him. “Are you trying to give me nightmares?”

You shrug him off with an easy smile. “You’re a big guy now. I’m sure you can handle it.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice as he says, “I won’t sleep well tonight if we watch that.”

You step closer too, slipping your arms loosely around his waist, your mouth near his ear and seductively whisper, “I know ways to make you sleep well tonight.”

You add a subtle, flirtatious wink at the end of the sentence and feel the way his body reacts before you even see his face change. He tries—tries—not to grin, not to get flustered. But you can see how his ears slowly reddening.

Chris abruptly steps back, putting space between you like you’re dangerous. He doesn’t say anything but walks fast toward the ticket counter.

You gasp in mock offense and hurry after him, sliding your arm around his waist from the side just as he reaches the front.

“Two tickets for the ‘Backward Love’,” he tells the cashier.

You roll your eyes dramatically, but he just grins, pulling you closer with his arm now around your shoulders. “You’re no fun,” you mutter.

“I’m trying to survive the night,” he replies under his breath.

Before you can protest again, he steers you toward the snack counter, his hand firm at your waist as he orders right away.

“One extra-large butter popcorn, two packs of M&Ms and a sparkling cider, please?”

This time, when he looks at you, you give him a smile that tells him he’s the best thing that’s happening to you.

-

The movie theater is still empty when you enter. But the second you’re both settled on your seats, you and Chris bicker over popcorn, over candy, over who gets the last handful of M&Ms. He steals from your side of the bucket without shame and you retaliate by claiming the armrest as your own. But when the lights finally dim, you lift the armrest between you.

He looks at you, amused. “Wow. Bold move.”

You ignore him, slide closer, link your arm through his, and slip your hand into his. His fingers curl around yours immediately, warm and firm and sure. You settle in, heart calm in a way it hasn’t been in years.

When the romance on screen builds, when the characters finally kiss, you don’t drift into what-ifs this time. You don’t imagine. You don’t wonder. You already know.

You turn your head and find him looking at you, like he’s been waiting for this as well. You smile, lean in, and kiss him softly. He kisses you back just as easily, as sweetly.

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “Focus on the movie.”

You chuckle and stay tucked against him, the movie still playing but you’re barely watching it anymore.

Your attention keeps drifting back to him instead. The way his eyes stay fixed on the screen. The way he keeps shoving popcorn into his mouth like he’s competing with himself. The faint furrow in his brow when the plot gets serious. For a second, you can’t believe this man is yours. Without thinking too much about it, you lean in and press a slow, warm kiss to the side of his neck.

He stiffens immediately. “Hey,” he whispers, half-scolding, half-amused. “I’m trying to watch.”

You only smile against his skin and when he turns his attention back to the screen, you do it again. This time you make a trail of kisses down his sharp jaw. Then you lean closer, lips brushing near his ear.

“Let’s stop by the pharmacy on the way home.”

That gets his full attention as he turns to you, brows knit with concern. “Why? Are you sick?”

You smirk, eyes glinting in the dim light, and lean in again. “We need to buy condoms,” you whisper, followed with a sneaky kiss on the column of his throat.

The way he freezes is almost impressive. He clears his throat, visibly flustered, and tries very hard to pretend it didn’t affect him. In a clearly desperate attempt to regain control, he grabs a handful of popcorn and pops a piece into your mouth.

You scoff a laugh around it, cheeks warm, and settle back against him in triumph. And the movie keeps playing, but your focus stays on him. Only him.

-

The car ride is quiet but charged in that comfortable, buzzing way that makes every little movement feel intentional than it should.

True to his word, Chris pulls into the pharmacy parking lot. The engine clicks off, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then he unbuckles his seatbelt and looks at you.

“Wait here, yeah?” he says.

You nod, eyes staring at him.

“Do you want anything?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

He starts to open the door, then pauses. His gaze lingers on you and you notice the subtle shift in him as he decides to lean in. His plush lips pressed against you for a quick, gentle kiss and as he’s about to pull away, your hand grips the side of his face.

You keep him there as you tilt your head to the side and deepen the kiss. You part your mouth open, just enough to slip your tongue into his mouth, twirling it with his. You can taste a hint of pineapple from the juice he drank earlier. So sweet, so unmistakably him.

When you feel him beginning to crack and kissing you back just as intensely. You move your hand to the nape of his neck, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair there. You keep your mouth open as he takes his turn to taste you, tongue coaxing yours to move together. A moan slipped past your mouth as he gently tugs at your lower lip and you retaliate by playfully biting at him tongue.

By the time you break the kiss, you see Chris’s lips turn swollen and wet, flushing red like all the blood in his body is gathering there. His eyes find yours and his mouth quirks into a lazy grin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, taking your hand from his shoulder and holds it in his lap.

You let out a low chuckle, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

He exhales, already defeated, then leans in and kisses you, this time for a real quick kiss. When he pulls back, his hand stays on your jaw for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing your skin. His eyes hold yours, dark with want and fondness all tangled together. You can practically see him reining himself in.

“I’ll be quick,” he says as he straightens, fixing the denim around his crotch. With that, he steps out of the car, and closes the door before he can be tempted again.

You watch him through the windshield as he walks into the pharmacy, moving easily down the aisles, scanning the shelves to find the one he’s looking for. Just watching him existing like this, so close, so real—makes your heart flutter.

A few minutes later, he comes out of the pharmacy holding something in his hand. He walks across the lot with the kind of confidence that is not arrogant, but with certainty that he knows who he is and how to carry himself. He grins as he gets back into the car, settles into his seat and then promptly rips open the wrapper of a popsicle. He hands it to you.

You awkwardly take it and stare at it, confused. “Uh…?”

He smirks as he turns the keys in the ignition. “Because you need to cool down.”

You break into laughter, shaking your head, and take a small bite of the popsicle.

He starts driving, pulling out of the parking lot with that dimpled grin still firmly in place.

And you sit there, enjoying the sweetness of the popsicle and this moment.

-

The second the lock clicks open, whatever restraint you both had snaps.

Chris doesn’t even give you time to step fully inside before he’s on you. His hands firm at your waist, mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back all night. The kiss is hard, deep, rough enough that it steals your breath, and it takes you a second to catch up, to kiss him back just as desperately.

God—he’s been waiting for this.

You can feel it in the way he presses into you, solid and hot, the way his hands grip like he’s afraid of letting go. He barely breaks the kiss as he steers you inside, toeing the door shut behind you, guiding you toward the living room. You don’t stop until you’re both tumbling onto the sofa.

He’s over you now, kissing you deeper, harder, all heat and hunger and full of want. Your fingers tangle in his sweater, heart pounding, the world narrowing down to this—him, you, breath and warmth and years of longing collapsing into one moment.

You reach under the sweater, feeling the hardness of his abs and—

“Honey? Is that you?”

Your blood runs cold. Impulsively, you shove Chris hard enough that he stumbles sideways, losing his balance and landing on the floor with a startled grunt. You bolt upright on the sofa, smoothing your clothes in pure panic just as footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs.

Your mom appears. She’s here. Home. Very home.

“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Mom,” you blurt out, far too fast.

Chris scrambles to his feet, running a hand through his hair, then offers a polite, slightly sheepish smile. “I’m here too. Hi.”

Her face lights up instantly at the sight of her favorite, charming guy. “Oh, Chris!” she beams, completely bypassing you as she steps closer. “Oh, my goodness. How nice it is to see you!”

You stand there, mortified, heart racing, while she treats him like the long-lost child who’s finally come home. But thankful that your mom is no longer focused on how she caught you and Chris making out in the living room.

A moment later, you and Chris end up standing side by side, stiff and awkward, like two kids caught doing something they definitely shouldn’t have been doing.

Your mom, meanwhile, is completely unfazed. She chats with Chris like nothing happened—asking how he’s been, how life’s treated him. He asks about her cruise trip, genuinely interested, and she launches into it with a fond smile, talking about the food, the views, how relaxing it was… and how she missed her bakery terribly the whole time.

Then she looks at the two of you. She chuckles, shaking her head. “You two don’t need to look so panicked. You’re not teenagers anymore,” she says while still lowly chuckling in amusement.

You close your eyes for half a second, mortified but oddly relieved. And despite what she said, you indeed still feel like a teenager in front of her.

“I’m still exhausted from the trip home,” your mom says as she takes the first couple of steps. “I’m going to bed early tonight.”

“Yeah, Mom. You must be tired,” you manage to say without stammering.

“Yeah, you’d better rest,” Chris adds but it only adds to the awkwardness of this moment.

Your mom smiles as she takes a look at you and Chris again. Her eyes linger on him as she says, “We’ll catch up properly another time, Chris.”

“I’d like that,” he says warmly.

“Goodnight,” your mom says as she begins climbing the stairs.

You both wait until you hear the bedroom door closes upstairs before collapsing onto the sofa with identical sighs. A beat passes in silence and then you both burst out laughing at the exact same time.

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God. That was so embarrassing.”

Chris groans as he looks at you. “You shoved me so hard.”

“I’m sorry!” you say, still laughing. “Did it hurt?”

He rubs his knee dramatically. “I think I need to check my injured knee.”

You gently slap his knee. “Stop being dramatic.”

“You’re making it worse,” he complains, grinning.

You scoot closer, cup his jaw gently. “Let me kiss it better, then.”

You capture his full lips in a soft kiss and he immediately pulls you closer, one arm tightening around you. Before you realize it, he’s lifted you effortlessly so you’re sitting on his lap.

You break the kiss, breathless as you remind him. “Chris—my mom is upstairs.”

He tilts his head, smug. “Didn’t you hear what she says? We’re not teenagers anymore.”

You cave far too easily as he kisses you again. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, lips locking with his in a deep, heated kiss that slowly coaxing you to melt into him. You eventually let yourself get lost in the safety, in the warmth, in the comfort of his arms.

Chris pulls away with a low, sultry groan but he doesn’t let his mouth rest for a second as he buries his mouth on the low neckline of your dress, right there between your breasts. You feel the sharp inhale of air he takes, humming as he rubs his nose against your softness like he can’t get enough of your scent. He pulls back just enough to place a kiss on each of your breast before making a trail of kisses upward, to your chest and neck, and back on your lips.

When you break the kiss to catch a breath, you look down at him and catch the glints in his eyes under the dim light like he sees you as this ethereal being, like you’re a star that somehow lands on his lap. You gently cup his jaw and fondly smile as you stare into the dark brown of his eyes. God, he’s just so beautiful and yours.

He puts his arms around your waist, tightening them to draw you closer against him. He smiles back at you as he lowly mutters in disbelief, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your smile grows wider and the smile doesn’t fade as he pulls you in for another kiss. A hand gently holds the back of your head, tilting it the way he pleases just so he can kiss you deeper, harder, the way he’s desired it to be. Until you feel nothing but the endless softness of his lips brushing against yours.

The two of you stay like that, enveloped in heat and affection, in the dim of the living room. Your shared breath and the occasional low sighs that escaped your lips are the only thing filling the silence.

After a moment, you slowly back away and hurriedly place a hand on his chest, ready to stop him if he goes in for another kiss. You use the chance to catch your breath and to talk about something you’ve been meaning to share

“Chris,” you softly call, brushing his curls out of his forehead. “I need to tell you something.”

He rests his hands on each side of your waist, all attention on you now. “What is it?”

“I have to attend this meeting that I can’t reschedule,” you calmly explain. “And it means… I have to go back to work soon.”

His expression shifts just slightly. A hand moves to the small of your back, fingers splayed on your clothed skin. “When do you plan to leave?”

“This Tuesday.”

He nods, processing, understanding. “Okay.”

You place a hand on his chest, index finger playing with the button on his shirt. “Do you want to come with me?”

He’s clearly not expecting that but he answers without the slightest of hesitation. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

You smile, relief blooming in your chest. You cradle his face in both hands, pressing your forehead against him and then lean, kissing him with such loving.

He pulls back just enough to smirk and jokingly says. “You invite me to come so you can brag about your company, mmh?”

You grin as you nod. “That’s the one and only goal.”

He laughs as he tightens his hold around you again until there’s no gap left between your bodies and kisses you again.

Honestly, you feel nervous about him getting to see another part of you but at the same time, you’re happy you get to share that part with him. And for the first time, it really feels like you’re moving forward together.

-

Tomorrow feels too soon, but it’s coming anyway. You’re in your bedroom, suitcase open on the bed, folding clothes with a care you don’t usually give them.

Your mom wanders in quietly and sits at the edge of the bed without asking. She starts helping immediately by folding your clothes neatly, the way she always has.

“So,” she says lightly, “you’re leaving just as I get back.”

You chuckle softly. “Yeah. Bad timing.”

You feel bad for not having much time to spend with your mom because that’s one of the reasons you came home in the first place. “If it wasn’t urgent, I wouldn’t want to go back so soon,” you explain, hoping she’d understand.

“I know, honey.” She says as she looks up and fondly smiles at you. “And it’s okay.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the zipper of your suitcase. She hands you another folded shirt, and you tuck it away.

A bit later, she scoots closer to you and carefully begins, “So, about you and Chris…”

“Mom…” you say, already expecting all kind of questions that’ll follow.

Your mom subtly shrugs and sweetly coaxes you. “I just want to know. Come on. Tell me all about it.”

You huff a laugh and pause, hands stilling for a moment. “We’re… just starting so I can’t say much except that we’re trying to make it work. He’s in between job offers. I’m tied to the company.”

She intently listens while nodding. She helps you fits the stack of clothes into your suitcase. “The most important thing is that you’re certain about how you feel,” she says.

“I am,” you shortly answer.

She looks at you, turning a little serious now. “And how do you feel?”

The question cracks something open in you. You haven’t had the chance to share what you truly feel about this with anyone or about anything about your love life for that matter. It seems like the right time to just be honest about it and talking to your mother always helps because she knows you the best.

“I’m happy. I really am,” you honestly share with a sincere smile. “I’m happy that Chris and I, we finally found our way back to each other.”

You take a second to organize your thoughts but your heart squeezes before you can even talk it out loud. With a slightly trembling voice, you share. “But I can’t ignore that my past relationship still haunts me.”

Your eyes sting but you manage to hold yourself back from crying. “Chris is the right one for me. I know that. I just—”

Your breath catches. “What if I’m not the right one for him?”

The tears come before you can stop them. You quickly wipe them before they can even fall. “I love him so much but I’m— What if I… messed it up?”

Your Mom gently pushes the suitcase aside and gets to your side, wrapping her arms around you and holding you while you cry. She gives you time to process your emotions, offering her comfort as she lands soothing rubs on your back.

“You have nothing to be afraid of, honey,” she says softly. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Long before you ever realized it yourself.”

You sniffle, listening to her while wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“He loves you very, very much,” she assures you as she puts her hand on the back of your head in fondness. “And you deserve that love.”

It’s nice to finally hear it that yeah, you deserve it just as much as he deserves to be loved by you. You wanted this for so long and now you got it. There’s no wasting it away. You have to hold on tightly to it.

She brushes your hair back tenderly, eyes full of warmth, like you’re still her little girl who needs reassurance. Then she playfully adds, “And if he ever hurts you, I’ll break his other knee.”

You choke out a laugh through your tears. Your body shakes in both laughter and tears now.

She pulls you into another hug and wraps you in that familiar warmth and comfort. “After everything you’ve been through, you deserve this. You really do,” she assures you once more.

In your mom’s embrace, you decide to believe it. and you can almost feel that shift. You feel lighter and steadier, you feel more confident in your choices, in your heart, and in the love you’re finally allowing yourself to keep.

-

When you unlock the door to your apartment and push it open, you step inside like it’s nothing. You open the door wider as he drags along your suitcase in one hand and carrying his duffel bag in the other.

Chris steps in behind you… and stops. He’s immediately in awe of the place you’re living in. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, the city glowing beneath them. The marble kitchen island gleams under the soft recessed lights. The furniture is minimal yet finely curated, expensive without screaming about it.

You drop your bag on the console table casually. “Come on in,” you softly say.

He takes slow steps, slowly pulling your suitcase behind like he’s afraid that the wheels would scrape the shiny surface of the floor. He stops in the living room and then he lets out a low whistle. “Okay.”

You turn, leaning back against the back of the sofa. “Okay what?”

He gestures vaguely at… everything. “You really made it.”

You try not to smile too proudly and take off your jacket. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he says, walking around the living room, looking around like he’s in a showroom. “Maybe… slightly less intimidating?”

You chuckle, folding your jacket in your arm. “Intimidating?”

He turns to you, grin spreading. “I now officially believe you when you say you run a company.”

“Oh, so you didn’t before?”

“I thought you were exaggerating.” He squints at a framed award on the wall. “But this? This is ‘CEO who schedules meetings at 7 a.m.’ energy.”

You laugh, walking past him toward the kitchen. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He wanders a little more before putting the suitcase and bag to your bedroom. He returns a moment later, settling his hands on his hips and turning to you. “So… are you hungry?”

You hold the glass of water you’ve sipped and nod. “Yeah.”

“Do you have anything to cook?” he asks as he approaches you.

Not that you don’t have anything to cook which you’re sure you have. Or not. Your hesitation alone makes him suspicious.

He narrows his eyes slightly and heads straight for the fridge. You trail after him, already preparing your defense. He opens it and just stands there.

There’s almond milk. Half a bottle of sparkling water. A questionable container of something you ordered three days ago. A jar of pickles. One sad lemon.

He slowly closes the fridge and looks at you. “Do you… cook at all?”

You give him a small, sheepish smile. “I mostly order.”

He forces a thin smile as he asks again. “Do you… eat at all?”

“Yes,” you answer a little too fast.

He just stares at you and you sigh under the weight of that stare. “Well… Sometimes I skip a meal or two.”

His jaw tightens in both disbelief and disappointment. “A meal or two?”

“Occasionally,” you mumble.

He rubs his face with one hand, exhaling deeply like he’s re-evaluating your entire lifestyle. “You run a whole company but don’t have any food in your fridge.”

You quickly turn to the cabinet and swing it open triumphantly. You grab a pack of noodles, holding it with both hands with a proud smile. “I have instant noodles.”

He cranes his neck to see that there are at least six packs of them. He sighs heavier this time but reaches in and grabs two anyway.

“This is not a balanced diet.”

“It’s classic and comforting,” you defend weakly.

“It’s sodium.”

You pout slightly and mumble, “But I’m hungry.”

He shakes his head but there’s a fondness in it now. “I know. Which is why I’m saving us from your CEO survival meals.”

He moves around your kitchen like he belongs there, filling a pot with water, turning on the stove.

You lean against the counter, watching him. “Let me help you.”

“You can help me by sit there and look pretty,” he says, placing a hand on the small of your back to steer you toward the stool across the kitchen island.

There’s something gentle in the way he says it. you obey right away and watch him as he cooks something as simple as instant noodles like it’s a five-star meal, adding whatever he can find — an egg from the back of the fridge you forgot existed, some leftover green onions from takeout.

He looks comfortable like he’s already settled into your life without asking for permission and when he hands you a bowl, chopsticks balanced on top, he gives you that little grin.

“We have to grocery shop properly soon.”

You hold the warm bowl between your hands and smile at him. “I’ll put it on my schedule,” you say with a playful smile.

You don’t waste time to hold your chopsticks and when you take the first bite, you close your eyes dramatically. “Oh my God.”

Chris looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “It’s just noodles.”

“These are the best noodles I’ve ever had.”

He snorts as he picks up his chopstick. “I boiled water.”

“You boiled it exceptionally well.”

“And added a seasoning packet.”

“And you did it perfectly.”

He shakes his head, amused, but he’s smiling that warm, dimpled smile that makes your chest ache in the best way.

You take another bite, humming in satisfaction, and he doesn’t eat right away. He just watches you. You notice it after a second.

“What?” you ask, noodles halfway to your mouth.

“Nothing,” he says softly, but his expression says everything.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face before his palm settles gently at the side of your head. Admiring. Loving.

Your movements slow under his gaze. You swallow and smile at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” he says quietly, thumb brushing just slightly against your temple, “you look happy.”

You hadn’t realized it but you are. You’re smiling without you’re telling yourself to. It just… happens.

He finally takes a bite of his own noodles, still smiling faintly. “Next time,” he adds casually, “I’ll cook you something better. Proper dinner. With vegetables. Protein. All that adult stuff.”

Next time.

You like the sound of that more than you expect to. Not because of the food. But because it means there will be more nights like this. More of eating together side by side. More teasing. More him standing at your stove like he belongs there. More of him and you.

This moment is already tender but you tilt your head and decide to tease him anyway. “But all that adult stuff doesn’t sound that appetizing.”

“But it’ll be good for you,” he persists with a gentle smile.

And as you sit there finishing instant noodles in your luxurious apartment with someone you love, you realize something quietly and completely:

This is what feels like making it.

-

Having someone in your bedroom feels… strange.

You’re used to your bedroom being silent, untouched, perfectly arranged. Now Chris is there, pulling back the duvet, fluffing a pillow like he’s done it a hundred times before. But it doesn’t feel intrusive as you thought. It feels natural like he’s always belonged here.

You stand on your side of the bed and point firmly. “This is my side.”

He pauses mid-pillow adjustment. “Noted.”

“The right side. It’s mine. You can’t cross it.”

He sighs dramatically. “Territorial, huh?”

“Very.”

He walks around to the other side without argument, but before climbing in, he pulls his t-shirt over his head.

And obviously, you stare. The soft lamplight stretches across his shoulders, the defined lines of his back, the subtle flex of muscle as he runs a hand through his hair. He stretches his arms overhead, dark sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

Your eyes trace the outline of his abs and lower to where his pelvic bones formed the V shape that narrows down to—

You swallow air and then let it out in a scoff. “Show off,” you mutter under your breath.

He definitely heard you and that’s why he’s smirking. But he asks anyway, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He slides into bed, settling against the pillows like this is his place too while you turn off the lamp and climb in on your side, pulling the blanket up. For a moment, you both just lie there.

The bed feels different. Fuller. Warmer. It’s incredible how a single presence can change the entire atmosphere of a room.

You turn your head to the side and find him lying on his back, eyes closed. Even his facial features look just as beautiful in the dark. The side profile, the slope of his nose, the shape of his plush lips, the sharp jaw.

Oh, you just can’t stand being so far from him when he’s lying next to you like this so you scoot closer and closer until you’re pressed against his side, seeking his warmth instinctively.

He lets out a soft protest and groans with eyes closed. “Hey. This is my side. You declared borders.”

You murmur against his shoulder, “It’s my apartment, my bed. I can do whatever I want.”

He sighs like he’s exhausted by you, but his arm lifts anyway, opening for you. You slip under it immediately, resting your head on his bicep. He adjusts, pulling you closer until you’re tucked against him properly.

The silence that settles after is comfortable and nice. The kind that doesn’t conjure questions and just… there.

After a while, he speaks softly into the dark. “This apartment is… big. For one person.”

You hum, already feeling sleep tug at you.

A beat passes and then, he quietly asks, “Have you ever felt lonely?”

You don’t hesitate when you answer, “All the time.”

You feel the way his arm tightens around you at that like it would help him ward away the thought of you being in this big space and feeling lonely. You lift your head slightly so you can see him in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

“But now, not anymore,” you say, fingers trace lightly over the pale skin on his chest. “Because you’re here with me.”

A smile slowly blooms on his face, slow and bright. He leans in and kisses you on the lips, a kiss so gentle and lingering that your heart shakes in your chest.

When you settle back against him, he clears his throat lightly. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not paying the rent.”

You laugh quietly and press your mouth close to his ear. Then, you seductively whisper, “You can pay the rent another way.”

To tease him further, your hand slips under the duvet, fingers brushing toward the waistband of his sweatpants — but he catches your wrist immediately.

With exaggerated exhaustion, he sighs. “I’m very tired.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

He takes your hand and places it flat against his chest instead, holding it there firmly.

“You must be tired too,” he murmurs.

You nod softly because by some inexplicable reason, you always feel safer when you’re with him. Sleepier. Like your body knows it can finally rest.

He brushes his thumb slowly and tenderly over your cheek. Then he leans down and gives you one more long, lingering kiss.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back.

You close your eyes as you’re wrapped in his warmth. You’re breathing eventually in sync.

And for the first time in a very long time, you fall asleep without heaviness in your chest because you know that when you wake up, it won’t feel like the start of another battle.

It’ll feel like the beginning of something beautiful.

-

You’ve just wrapped up the important meeting with Palindrome and you’re already halfway down the hallway toward your office, heels clicking a little faster than usual because you have someone waiting for you there. You only nod and wave your hand whenever your employee greets you as you walk past their desks.

The second you push through the door of your office, you find Chris sitting on the sofa, relaxed like he belongs there, but the moment he sees you, he’s on his feet.

“Hey,” he says, smiling.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out immediately, making your way toward him. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“It’s okay,” he says easily.

You drop your things on the nearest table and then turn around, throwing yourself at him for a hug. You can feel the way your body relaxed even for the briefest moment as you rest your head against his chest and softly exhale.

You slowly pull away and look up, “Lucy showed you around, right? How was the tour?”

“She did a very good job. I think she bragged about you more than the company.”

You crack an amused laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“You should give her a raise for that,” he adds, completely serious.

You chuckle again, checking the time on your watch and frowning when you see that you don’t have much time left until the next meeting. “We don’t have much time, but we could grab an early lunch before my next meeting—”

“Actually,” he interrupts gently, “I have to go somewhere.”

Your brows knitted in confusion. “Go? Where?”

“Just a meeting,” he vaguely answers.

“Meeting who?” you ask, trying to sound casual but failed.

“It’s for work. You have nothing to be worried about,” he convinces as he runs his hand through your hair.

You put anyway, wanting to spend the little free time you have with him.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” he promises, coaxing you with a quick kiss to the top of your head.

That softens you instantly as you break into a smile. “Okay. I’ll see you later, then.”

“See you later,” he echoes and then slowly, he takes a step away.

You grab his arm and pout. “You’re really leaving without kissing me?”

He glances around the office, visibly flustered. “Is… is that allowed here?”

You lift a brow and coyly shrug. “It’s my company.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He steps closer, hands settling on your waist, eyes flicking to your lips before meeting yours again. Then he leans in and kisses you. The kiss is slow yet deep. The kind of kiss that loosens every knot in your shoulders, that makes the rest of the day fade into background noise.

When he pulls back just slightly, his mouth brushes your ear. “If I bent you over that desk and fucked you there,” he murmurs, low and wicked, “Is that allowed too?”

You feel heat rushing straight to your cheeks. You quickly straighten your posture, daringly stare into his eyes, and answer sweetly, “As long as we put on a good show.”

He smirks, absolutely pleased with himself and kisses you again, quick and devastating. This time, when he pulls away, he actually steps back. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says.

“Later,” you manage, still smiling like a fool.

He leaves with that dimpled grin still on his face.

The second the door clicks shut, your legs give out. You plop onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

Lucy appears not a minute later and stops short when she sees your face.

“Oh my God,” she squeals like a schoolgirl. “He is hot. I approve.”

You laugh, breathless, heart full, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt, “I love him. I love him so much.”

Lucy softens instantly as she smiles with you, eyes brimming with joy. “I’ve never seen you this happy,” she says.

And it’s true.

You’ve never been happier.

-

Work feels so long when you’re looking forward to come home. Well, to someone to be exact.

You’re in the middle of assessing some files when your phone rings. The second you see Chris’s name lights up the screen and your smile comes instantly like your body already knows him before your brain catches up.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm.

“Hey,” you reply, already smiling wider. “You’re home already?”

“Yes,” he answers. “How about you?”

“Almost. I’m wrapping things up as we speak.”

“That’s good,” he says with a soft sigh. “Because I already started preparing dinner.”

You stop moving and lean back on your chair to focus on him. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, like this isn’t the most domestic, heart-melting sentence you’ve heard all day.

Your heart swells, threatening to burst right there in your chest. “Can’t wait to for it.”

“Don’t expect much,” he says with a chuckle.

“Nah, I’ll expect much,” you say, cheeks hurt from the non-stop smiling.

“I didn’t say I cook well. Just… edible.”

You hum skeptically. “It better be. Cause I’m starving.”

“I’ve got you. Just come home soon, okay?”

“I will,” you promise.

“Be safe.”

“I will,” you repeat softly.

Everything after that is a blur—you finish signing off emails, grab your coat, shove the rest of your things into your bag. You press a button on your landline phone to summon Lucy and she appears almost instantly.

“Do I have anything else on my schedule?” you ask.

She checks her tablet, scrolling for a bit. “Nope. You’re clear.”

“I’m heading home, then.”

Lucy lowers her tablet and clutches it to her chest. Her face is of disbelief as she says, “I can’t believe you’re leaving work before me.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder and grin. “I have to. My boyfriend’s cooking dinner.”

Her eyes widen in envy but her smile is of joy. “Wow. I’m jealous.”

You nod smugly. “Well, jealousy looks good on you.”

Laughter spills free from Lucy’s heart-shaped lips. “Go. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight,” she says, smiling.

And for once, you leave the office early not because you’re running from something, but because you’re heading toward someone.

-

Chris is already there when you come home, setting plates on the dining table, the sleeves of his light blue shirts rolled up to the elbows. The smell of food hits you all at once and your stomach betrays you with a soft grumble.

He looks up when he hears your slow footsteps. “Hey, welcome home,” he says, smiling.

You cross the room without thinking, slipping your arms around him. He bends easily into you, one arm around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head as you kiss him.

“How was work?” he asks softly when you pull back.

You softly exhale. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

He smiles at that, thumb brushing your hip. “Go put your things away. Wash up. Dinner’s ready.”

You obey happily and turn toward the bedroom. You hang your coat, set your bag down, wash your hands and when you return, he’s already pouring wine into two glasses, the bottle sitting open between them like a promise of a slow night.

You sit together on the dining table. The food is better than you expected and you tell him so, earning a proud grin. Conversation flows easily. You talk about work, ask about his meeting, about stupid things and small things and memories that resurface naturally, laughter slipping in between bites and sips of wine.

At one point, you pause, looking at him across the table. At the way he leans back in his chair, relaxed. At how at ease you feel, how the tightness you’ve carried for years seems to loosen without effort.

You’ve lived in many places. You’ve succeeded, built things, survived heartbreak. But you’ve never quite felt like this. Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

In that moment, you learn that home isn’t a place—it’s a moment, a shared meal, a soft laugh across the table, and the certainty settling in your chest that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

-

After dinner, you stand and reach for the plates to help with the dishes but Chris immediately shakes his head and tells you to sit and enjoy the wine instead. You open your mouth to argue, then decide you like the sound of that far too much.

You retreat to the sofa instead, curling into the corner with your glass while he moves around the kitchen, rinsing plates, stacking them neatly, soft curls falling over his forehead. You watch him shamelessly, refilling his glass when he passes by. When he finally joins you on the sofa, you hand him the wine.

“I could get used to this,” you say with a playful grin.

He chuckles before taking a sip. “Good. I’ll send you my invoice at the end of the month.”

“That won’t be a problem,” you say confidently.

He nods, amused. “I figured.”

For a moment, there’s only the quiet clink of glass against table, the low hum of the house settling around you. Then Chris sets his wine down and turns toward you, his expression still soft, but serious now.

He takes your hand in his and says, “I need to tell you something.”

You follow his lead, placing your own glass aside to give him your full attention. Your heart giving a small, nervous thud. “Okay. What is it?”

He smiles first and takes a moment to either brace himself or arrange the words he’s going to say in his head. Either way, it makes you wait in anticipation.

“I decide to turn down both offers,” he shares with a steady voice. “The extension from my old team… and the new one.”

It comes as a surprise but you don’t interrupt. You just nod, letting him speak, trusting him that he’ll explain in his own pace.

“When you invited me to come, I reached out to a few teams here,” he continues. “Just to see if there’s any suitable offers. One of them wanted to meet today—that’s where I went earlier.”

“Oh?” You manage to say and feel bad for being suspicious earlier.

“Yeah,” he nods. “They offered me the job.”

He pauses, eyes searching yours as he shares, “And I’m going to take it.”

You couldn’t be happier to know he’s getting a job but the businessman in you can’t help but ask, “Is it… the best offer you could get?”

“No. The other one was better,” he honestly answers.

Your chest tightens but then he takes your other hand too, holding both of them firmly on his lap.

“But they’re willing to provide everything I asked so it’s enough for me,” he says with a reassuring smile. His gaze softening, his hand holds you tighter as he continues, “And I’m choosing it. Because I want to stay close to you. This is what I want.”

Your throat closes in disbelief on what he’s done. Again. How certain he is of this. The trust. The faith.

“Chris…” is all you can manage to say.

He squeezes your hands gently. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it with you. I’m doing this for us.”

Tears sting your eyes anyway and this time, you don’t doubt him or his choices. You don’t doubt this. You inhale slowly and nod.

“It’s your decision. And I respect it,” you say, voice steady despite the emotion.

Then you take a breath of your own. “I have something to tell you too.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“I want you to move in with me.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised for only a brief moment. The grin spreads on his beautiful face, slowly, brightly. “That won’t be a problem for me.”

You laugh softly, relief and joy tangling together. “Good. Because I’m choosing this too. I’m choosing us.”

He brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Let’s stay close to each other,” he murmurs.

You nod, smiling through the warmth blooming in your chest. “And let’s be happy from now on.”

He agrees with a quiet nod and then he leans in and kisses you, sealing it not like a promise made in fear, but one built on choice, trust, and finally, peace.

The kiss lingers for a long moment as a promise made without words. When you pull back, your foreheads rest together, breath mingling, smiles soft and real. There’s no grand declaration, no need to map out the future tonight. Just the steady understanding that whatever comes next, you won’t face it alone.

For so long, love felt like something you had to earn, chase, or protect at the cost of yourself. With Chris, it’s different. It’s chosen again and again in small moments and big ones, in dinners cooked at home, in meetings taken and turned down, in hands held without fear of letting go. This isn’t the kind of love that asks you to shrink or sacrifice your dreams. It grows alongside them. It waits. It stays.

You’ve both lived long enough to know that timing can be cruel, that life can pull people apart even when the feelings are real. But you’ve also learned that the right person doesn’t disappear just because the road gets hard.

This time, you choose each other not out of longing or regret, but with open eyes and steady hearts. And as you kiss him again, smiling into it, you know this isn’t a happy ending.

It’s a beginning.

One you’ll keep choosing, together.

-

✨ Check out Seospicybin Patreon for more unreleased works ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[seospicybin]

Story idea. Maybe stripper member? 👀

I've done reader as the stripper but never member. I did have an idea for this. It's like Magic Mike reimagined 👀

[seospicybin]

Hi, I hope your ok 💕

I’m a big fan of your storytelling, and if your open to reguests that would be so cool!

Have you seen the new truck concept photos?

What if it’s a magic truck that appears at night for the lonely hearts : D

Hi there, I'm doing well. Thank you for asking! Hope you're doing better than I do 🥰

I'm not taking any request and yes, I've seen the truck concept and how each member have their own designated room and I'm curious though why Chris has a coffee machine in it cause man doesn't even drink coffee 🫣

And oooooooooh my goodness! That is such a great idea for a fic. But I think it'd be fit for angsty/fluff fic rather than spicy. Maybe I should develop the idea more. But thank you for the input. Really appreciate it 😊❣️

[seospicybin]

girlll more domestic bangchan things PLEASE like im talking husband 😩😩😛😛

Got you, babe. It's coming 🔜

[seospicybin]

I am so sorry to disappoint you babe but Non ce l'ho fatta. Friday I woke with a pounding headache (I'm taking prescribed med from a neurologist that diagnosed me with migraine) and I hadn't experienced one in a while and I ended up throwing up, calling in sick at work and slept all day. Yesterday went a little bit better, took it easy, spent the day at the beach and finished reading a book and ate pizza so all well that ends well (kinda).

Hope tu ce l'abbia fatta (you made it!) and your week was smooth and your weekend smoother.

Love you girl (No I didn't forget about Inheritance. I promise.)

PS: I'm so glad everyone can now enjoy the beauty of Eventually. ♥️

Oh no. Migraine is the worst. You did great for taking some time off and just rest. Pls make sure you eat well too.

Well, I've been taking time too. Resting and not rushing anything so I don't burnout easily. this week wasn't that eventful but lately, the weather got a little crazy so I paid attention to what I ate and took medicine the second I got cold symptoms. In other words, I survived. Thank goodness.

Hope you keep taking yourself well. Love you 🥰❤️

ps. saw your comment on Inheritance and yep, agree with you. Olivia better get paid in stacks and retired as a billionaire for all the works she's done 😆

[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

NOW

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (10,8k words)

Author's note: Everyone, pls take care on this very extreme weather cause I'm getting a bit not well here. Stay safe and pls enjoy this one 💕

On paper, your life makes sense.

Your startup is thriving—your name attached to headlines as the founder and CEO of Gatherly. An app that went viral for its aesthetic at first and then as an app that turns studying into something communal, intentional, almost romantic. Eventually, the app is dubbed “Tinder for academia” as it connects people online to gather and meet — to study together. Academia loves it. Students swear by it. Investors call it visionary.

In reality, you’ve just called off your wedding.

It’s supposed to be a private decision. An ending to something that no longer fits. You announce it simply to avoid drama, no explanation beyond what’s necessary. Overnight, your name stops being attached to Gatherly first. Instead, it’s followed by words like engagement, business power couple, wedding canceled. Articles dissect the timeline like it’s a case study. Comment sections bloom with speculation. People who’ve never used your app suddenly have opinions about your life decision.

They don’t ask about the sleepless nights you spent building Gatherly. They don’t ask about the students who write to you saying your app kept them from dropping out. They don’t ask about the systems you designed to make learning feel human again.

They ask what went wrong.

They ask if you’re okay.

They ask if you’ll ever love again like that’s public property now.

Still, you smile, you stay professional, you stand at the head of glass-walled conference rooms and talk about growth, projections, and futures like your life didn’t just fall apart. Your life still works. The company is thriving. Your calendar is full. You’re successful in every way that matters to everyone else.

And yet, when the lights go out, you’re left with the realization that the thing people are most interested in is the one thing you wish they’d let you keep to yourself.

On paper, everything adds up.

In reality, something essential has been reduced to a headline and no one seems to care how much it cost you to survive it.

-

The office feels quieter after hours but it’s exactly what you need to focus on work.

You’re curled up on the sofa in your office, laptop balanced on your lap, glasses perched low on your nose. One heel has been kicked off, the other dangling uselessly from your toes. Code scrolls past your screen as you work, fingers moving non-stop, comforted by the logic of it all.

There’s a soft knock and once you give the permission, your assistant, Lucy steps in. She takes one look at you—half-curled into the cushions, hair pulled back too loosely, still working and something flickers across her face. Concern, maybe. But she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she reports a few things about deadlines, a rescheduled meeting, a finalized contract.

“Thank you, Luce,” you say without looking away from your laptop screen. “And you can go home.”

She nods but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she drifts to your desk, quietly straightening the clutter you’ve let pile up over the week. You let her and shift your focus back on your work.

After a moment, she clears her throat. “You’re staying late at work.”

“Yep,” you simply answer.

“So it means you’ve decided not to attend the school reunion?”

“Nope,” you answer immediately, eyes still fixed on your screen.

You hate that she brought it up. You hate that you feel the need to share the reason why. You sigh and close your laptop partway, rubbing at your temple. “I’m not going because I’m not in the mood to answer questions about my canceled wedding.”

Lucy tilts her head and then shrugs. “It’s been weeks. People probably forgot.”

You shake your head. “No, they didn’t.”

She looks unconvinced, so you turn the laptop toward her and pull up the article. The headline is still there, far too interested in something that was never supposed to be public.

Lucy’s mouth tightens. “That’s… invasive.”

“It’s upsetting,” you say, irritation creeping in. “I built an app that helps people, employs people. I worked hard on it but all anyone wants to talk about is who I didn’t marry.”

You turn the laptop back, swing your feet up onto the sofa again, and resume working like the conversation never happened.

Lucy hesitates but after a while, she carefully says, “Well, at some point… you should get out there again. Date. You know.”

You don’t even look up and give a strong head shake. “No.”

She tries anyway by coyly says, “I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.”

You shake your head for the last time. “I’m done with dating. And men.”

Lucy exhales slowly, conceding defeat. “Alright.”

Done with organizing your desk, Lucy walks away and then pause at the door. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“I’m okay. You can go home,” you assure her with a subtle nod.

She nods, knowing that there’s no way to insist you to go home so instead, she says, “Don’t stay too late.”

You give her a thumbs-up instead.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind her and you’re alone again. The glow of your laptop fills the room as you keep working, convincing yourself that this success is enough.

-

Silence greets you as you enter your apartment.

You kick off your shoes by the door, drop your bag on the sofa, and head straight to the kitchen. You pick up the half-finished bottle of red wine and a glass, bring them with you as you sink into the sofa like your bones are finally allowed to loosen. You open your laptop again out of habit and yes, you come home only to continue working, not because you want to but because stopping feels worse.

This time, you pour yourself a glass of wine before you start and then take a sip, let the bitterness bloom on your tongue, and scroll through emails that blur together.

Lucy’s voice somehow echoes in your head.

I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.

You almost laugh at that because the man you were going to marry had looked you in the eye and promised you a future. He’d talked about homes and children and forever like they were facts, not bait. And all the while, he was lying. Cheating. Breaking something inside you so that you’re not sure it ever grew back the same way, breaking you to the point that made you think.

That’s it. That’s the only chance you had with love.

He ruined it. He ruined everything. Your gaze drifts, unbidden, through the crack of your bedroom door, to the vanity table where the engagement ring sits there exactly where you left it, the diamond catches the light like it still has the right to be beautiful. Once, it meant trust. Commitment. Promise. Now it’s just proof of how easily those things can be destroyed. So no—you don’t believe there’s still a decent man out there for you. Not anymore.

You take another sip of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Lucy’s words echo anyway and they tangle with everything else you’ve been trying to outrun. People asking how you’re doing with that careful tone that pretends to be concern but is really curiosity. People reading articles like your heartbreak is a business update, like it’s something neat and consumable.

You trusted him with your heart. You almost gave him your forever. And now strangers get to talk about it like it’s trivia.

They don’t know how it hurt. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning and realize something inside you is permanently altered. That trust doesn’t come back the same way. That love doesn’t feel safe anymore.

You close the laptop too hard, the sound cracking through the quiet apartment.

You curl into yourself on the sofa, wine glass abandoned on the table, shoulders shaking before you can stop them. The tears come fast, chest tight, breath uneven.

This is the part no one sees.

Just you, alone at night, breaking apart with the terrifying certainty that maybe this is it. That whatever part of you believed in love was shattered beyond repair. That you’ll never love again. And no matter how impressive your life looks from the outside, no matter how many things you’ve built and led and survived—

It feels unbearably empty right now.

-

The tech expo is a welcome change.

You stand backstage with a wireless mic clipped to your blazer, listening to the low hum of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. It’s loud, but not in the suffocating way boardrooms are. This noise is anticipation. Curiosity.

You like this better than meetings.

Out there, people aren’t waiting to circle numbers in red and talks about strategies that brings the company most money. They want to know you. How you did it. How you built something from nothing and kept it alive. They want to take notes, to borrow pieces of your story and see if they fit into their own lives.

When your name is announced, the applause hits warm and immediate. You’re introduced as the founder and CEO of Gatherly with the kind of reverence that still feels unreal.

You step onto the stage and smile and this one comes easily.

You talk about the story behind Gatherly, how the app goes viral quietly at first because of clean interfaces, warm neutrals and serif fonts that feel borrowed from old books. People start calling it ‘the academia app’.

Students post their “study with me” videos on Gatherly. Aesthetic accounts post their study sessions—coffee cups, annotated notes, rain sounds. And it sticks.

But the aesthetic isn’t the point—it’s the invitation.

Gatherly works like a dating app reimagined for learning. You don’t swipe on faces; you swipe on compatibility. Subjects. Study styles. Time zones. Energy levels. Goals. The app asks who you are when you’re trying, not when you’re posing.

Users find study sessions instead of profiles. They choose where they belong. The design slows people down. It makes studying feel intentional again—like pulling an all-nighter in a library that smells faintly of paper and coffee instead of doomscrolling in isolation.

Academia loves it because it respects the process. It doesn’t gamify learning. It doesn’t shame productivity. It romanticizes effort, patience, showing up—even when you’re tired, even when you’re unsure. And somehow, that’s what makes it powerful.

Gatherly doesn’t promise success. It promises belonging. Because it was never about going viral. It was about making space for people who are trying their best and reminding them they don’t have to do it alone.

Then you talk about failure, about missteps and sleepless nights and how success rarely looks the way people expect it to. You talk about resilience, about learning when to pivot and when to stay stubborn. You talk about sharing knowledge because hoarding it never made anyone powerful—only lonely.

You see people nodding, writing things down and asks questions they’re curious about. But no one asks about your personal life. No one mentions the canceled wedding or your personal life for that matter. They ask about strategy, vision, grit. They ask how to survive doubt without letting it hollow you out and you answer honestly, passionately.

You leave the stage energized, reminded why you love this part of your life so much. Here, your story is something that helps instead of something people consume.

For a moment, you forget how heavy everything else feels and you carry that feeling with you as you step offstage.

Lucy comes up to you with a bottle of water. You have a long sip of it with a straw while staying still as a staff carefully taking off the mic and wire wrapped around you.

“Do I have anything else scheduled?” you ask Lucy as you hand her the bottle of water back.

She shakes her head. “You’re clear for the next hour.”

“Okay, good.”

The expo floor is alive with screens glowing with information on the new technologies presented in each booth, conversations overlapping in every direction. You move from booth to booth, leaning in to listen, asking questions, impressed by what people are building with nothing but curiosity and persistence.

You chat with young engineers, developers with bright eyes and nervous smiles. You find yourself especially proud when you notice how many women are here—confident, brilliant, unapologetically taking up space in a field that once tried to shut them out. It feels like progress you can see.

You’re moving toward the next booth when you think you hear your name but you keep walking because the hall is loud and you probably misheard it.

Three steps later, you hear it again. A voice you haven’t heard in years, pulling itself out of memory and into the present.  You slowly turn around and for a second, you don’t understand what you’re seeing.

There’s a man standing a few steps away from you, tall, familiar in a way that doesn’t immediately land. Your brain scrambles, flipping through faces that almost fit but don’t quite click. He looks older. Broader. Different. Then he starts walking toward you.

And when he puts on a toothy grin, it finally hits.

“Aaron?” you breathe.

He laughs, eyes lighting up like no time has passed at all. “Wow. You still recognize me?”

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Of all places. Of all people. High school feels impossibly far away and suddenly right in front of you.

-

In a different building, in a much quieter space at a café, you sit across from Aaron with a cup of coffee warming your hands, still trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the boy from your memory. He’s older now with facial hair neatly trimmed, shoulders broader, dressed in a fitted shirt and a tie. Someone who grew into himself.

“So,” you say, half-laughing, half-in disbelief, “I really didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. That hurts.”

“No—wait,” you rush to explain. “I just thought you’d still be on a field. Juggling a ball with your feet to dazzle some girls.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I charm people into buying cars now.”

You nod. “So you’re handling the family business now?”

“It’s legacy,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “Also, because soccer was never really my thing. I wasn’t as talented as Chris.”

Your heart tightens at the mention of his name. You keep your face neutral, lift your cup, take a careful sip of coffee that suddenly feels too hot going down.

Aaron watches you for a second longer than necessary. “You still in contact with him?”

You swallow hard. Nod once. Then shake your head. “No,” you say.

Thankfully, he doesn’t push. He only nods, lifting his own cup. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

A beat passes before he adds casually, “He’s coming to the city this weekend.”

“Oh,” you say lightly. “Yeah?”

“The team he’s coaching has a match here.”

You nod, eyes on your coffee. Pretend you’re uninterested. Pretend this is just trivia.

Aaron smirks as he teases, “You’re probably too busy anyway, huh?”

You scoff. “I’m not that busy.”

As if summoned by the universe, Lucy appears beside you, leaning down to whisper, “You have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

You nod. “Got it.”

When you look back up, Aaron is barely holding in his laugh. “Not that busy, huh?”

You shake your head, conceding the loss.

He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a name card, sliding it across the table. “Call me if you ever need to buy a car.”

You smile, taking it, eyes skimming his name and number. “Do I get a discount?”

He looks offended. “I’ll double the price first. Then discount it.”

You glare at him as he laughs, and the sound of it pulls you backward to lunch breaks, noisy hallways, the humiliating walks to class with his arm around your shoulders.

And then—

Chris.

Your smile fades before you can stop it. You quickly glance at the time and stand. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

“It’s fine,” Aaron says easily. “I should get back to my booth anyway.”

“Next time,” you say, “I’ll treat you something better than coffee.”

He points at you. “Hey. You promised.”

You laugh, step in for a quick hug, then pull away. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Aaron says back with a smile.

You wave once before turning and walking off, leaving him behind, leaving the memories with him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you walk away.

-

It’s been a long day but even exhaustion can’t quiet your mind.

Meeting Aaron keeps looping you back to high school bleachers. Lunch breaks in the school yard. Names you haven’t said in years. You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia but it clings to you anyway, stubborn and unresolved.

“Do I have anything this weekend?” you absentmindedly ask, leaning your head back against the seat.

“I think there’s an event. A banquet.” She pauses to reaches for her tablet. “Let me check.”

“Can I see?” You reach over and take it from her hands before she can scroll too far. There it is, a banquet, neatly slotted, labeled with polite importance.

“It’s just a social thing, right?” you murmur.

“Well, yeah,” Lucy says, unsure.

You hand the tablet back. “Can we cancel it? I want to rest this weekend.”

Lucy nods, already typing, flagging the change and alerting the organizer without a question.

“Okay,” she says.

You turn back toward the window as the car slows at a red light, the city glowing back at you. You can’t quite name what you’re feeling but there’s a pull there, undeniable, tangled with hesitation.

You know what you’re going to do this weekend. You just don’t know if you should. And the uncertainty sits with you all the way home.

-

The car has been parked for a while now.

You sit there with your hands resting uselessly on the steering wheel, Sunday afternoon light spilling through the windshield, the stadium looming ahead of you like it’s waiting to be decided on. You could still leave. You could turn the engine on, drive back home, pretend this was just another bad idea you almost followed through with. But you don’t.

What brought you here isn’t courage. It isn’t hope. It’s quiet yet persistent curiosity. The need to know that he’s okay. That despite everything, he landed on his feet.

You inhale air, steady yourself, and step out of the car. The crowd swells around you immediately as you join the queue to enter the stadium. You blend in easily, ticket clutched in your hand, heart beating a little too fast for someone who keeps telling herself this means nothing.

When your ticket is stubbed, you head for the upper rows—high enough to see the whole field, close enough to recognize faces. You sit and you patiently wait until the game starts.

When both teams are being called to the field, you raise from your feet, neck craning to find a face. After a moment, he finally appears and your heart sinks.

Chris stands near the sideline, older now—his face more defined, time etched into sharper lines around his eyes and jaw. But his smile is the same. Full. Warm. Those dimples still sink deep into his cheeks just the way you remember it.

He leans in to talk to one of his players, whispers something you can’t hear, then taps the younger man’s shoulder encouragingly. The player laughs, nods, straightening like he’s been given permission to believe in himself.

Your mouth parts before you realize it and for half a second, you almost call his name. However, the roar of the crowd swallows the impulse whole so you sink back into your seat, hands clenched together as the match begins. You really try to follow the ball, the flow of the game, but all you see is him.

Chris watches the field with total focus, shouting directions and encouragements, clapping enthusiastically, pacing the sideline. He tugs at the tie around his collar now and then, loosening it as the game intensifies with each passing second. He looks at home there. Certain. Alive.

You have to fight the urge to stand up, to run down the steps, to close the distance that ten years have stretched thin but never erased. You tell yourself to sit still, to let this be what it is. A proof that he is here, still doing what he loves — only differently.

Eventually, you manage to focus on the second half of the match. You follow the passes, the rhythm of the game, the tension that builds and releases in waves. You catch yourself leaning forward, breath held, reacting without thinking. For a while, it’s just a match again. Just soccer. Just noise and movement and hope shifting back and forth across the field. Then, the whistle blows for the final time.

Everything stills and then Chris breaks into a wide, brilliant grin. The kind that lights up his whole face. He runs straight into the nearest player and pulls him into a hug, laughing as the rest of the team swarms in. Arms tangle around shoulders. Someone shouts. Someone else jumps. They gather around him like he’s the center of gravity, like he belongs there.

You don’t think about it but rise from your seat and clap, cheering with the rest of the stadium, voice swallowed by the crowd but heart loud enough for you to hear it.

You’re happy. Genuinely, achingly happy. Because good things happened to him. Because he looks proud and fulfilled and surrounded by people who believe in him. Because whatever paths you took, whatever distance grew between you, this is something he earned.

You clap until your hands sting, smiling through the tightness in your chest and for a moment, the ache softens.

For a moment, happiness is enough.

-

The stadium has mostly emptied now and you’re back inside your parked car. Across the lot, the team bus idles near the other exit, red and black paint catching the glow of the floodlights.

You wait because you want to see him—just once, just briefly. Proof that this wasn’t only for you and that he’s real and fine and right there.

Eventually, the players spill out in small groups, freshly showered, hair damp, dressed down but still wearing their varsity jackets like a shared identity. They laugh, shove each other lightly, carry duffel bags over their shoulders.

You step out of your car before you can overthink it, you start walking. Your heart beating too loudly in your ears as you move toward the bus. You already know how this goes as Chris is always the last to come out. Always lingering, talking to someone, making sure everyone else is settled.

As expected, there he is. He stands near the exit, his stance is relaxed and confident, head tilted as he listens to someone out of frame. The sight of him draws a smile from you before you can stop it— it’s automatic, reflexive, dangerous.

You take another step and then another. Your mouth opens, breath pulled in, his name right there on the tip of your tongue—

“Chris!”

It’s not your voice and you stop short.

He turns immediately, expression softening into a smile that isn’t meant for you. A girl jogs up to him, her ponytail bouncing, laughter already on her lips.

He grins wider as he warmly says, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She giggles, cheeks pink from the cold or something warmer. When she reaches him, he slips an arm around her shoulders without hesitation. They turn together toward the bus, talking over each other, laughing as they climb the steps.

Their voices echo briefly in the emptying parking lot and you take a step back. Then another. Your smile gone now, replaced by something hollow. You watch him disappear into the bus and the door folding shut behind them.

With one last look—just long enough to hurt—you turn away and you walk back to your car, carrying the weight of what you came here to see, and what you didn’t expect to lose all over again.

-

Another day passes, and you tell yourself that work will help you forget what you saw and heard yesterday.

You sit at your desk with your laptop open, office washed in late-morning light, Gatherly dashboards and reports waiting patiently for your attention. You should be focused. You are usually focused.

Somehow your screen shows a search result for Chris. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for anymore. Proof, maybe. Reassurance. Or punishment. You hesitate only a second before clicking the link at the top.

His social media loads and it’s mostly soccer—practice sessions, candid shots from the sidelines, photos of him standing shoulder to shoulder with his team. There’s one from last weekend, all of them grinning, arms slung around each other.

He looks good and happy. At ease. You continue scrolling and there she is. The girl who walked with Chris yesterday, you click on her profile to find out that she’s assistant coach. Still, there’s no clear sign on whether he’s married or dating someone. Nothing to confirm or deny it.

You close the page and return to the search results when you spot an older article. The one about the injury he sustained in his second year defending his university’s soccer team. A severe one to the knee and the surgeries done to it, the one that eventually forced him into early retirement.

Guilt coils tight, making you feel sick from the inside out. Your chest aches, heart shrinking as if it’s trying to fold in on itself. You stare at the words too long, each sentence a reminder of how much he lost. Of how much he gave up.

You close the tab abruptly and lean back in your chair. Maybe this is the universe reminding you of something. A boundary. A warning. That whatever this pull is, whatever thread still ties you to him, crossing paths again would only reopen wounds that never fully healed.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself.

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together as the sting builds behind them. You breathe through it, steadying yourself, forcing the tears back down.

A knock sounds at your door.

You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into something calm and slip back into professionalism. “Come in,” you say.

Lucy steps inside with a folder tucked against her chest. She hands you documents to sign, waits patiently as you do. She lists things to approve, questions to answer, confirmations to give.

You respond but only halfway. Your voice is distant, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Lucy pauses, studying you. “Are you okay?”

There’s no point pretending, no point on hiding it so you admit quietly, “I don’t feel well. Is it possible for me to leave early today?”

She checks your schedule quickly. “You don’t have anything critical.”

You nod. “But let me know if something comes up.”

She smiles, gentle and understanding. “Of course.”

Lucy cradles her tablet close to her chest and offers you a soft smile, “I’ll get the car ready for you,” she says before leaving your office.

You sit there for a moment longer, alone in your office, wondering when exactly doing the right thing started to feel so heavy.

-

The elevator ride is quiet in the way that makes your thoughts louder. You lean back against the mirrored wall, watching your reflection blur past floors you barely register. You didn’t do much at work today but you feel wrung out anyway. Tired. Restless. Like your body is moving forward while something inside you keeps snagging on something.

When the doors open to your floor, you step out and walk toward your apartment on autopilot. You unlock the door and stop when you notice someone is in your apartment.

An open suitcase sits on your sofa, clothes folded inside with a care that feels almost insulting and standing beside is the last person you want to see today, of all days — Cole, your ex-fiancé.

Your eyes meet, and the air goes cold. He sighs before quickly explaining. “You told me to get my things while you were at work. I didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

You don’t answer, don’t even acknowledge him but walk past him without a word and head straight into your bedroom. You don’t want to talk to him. You don’t want to hear his voice. You especially don’t want to see that.

The engagement ring. It sits on your vanity, exactly where you left it. Small. Gleaming. A reminder why you don’t want to see him. You grab the box and turn back around.

Cole is zipping up his suitcase when you reappear. He looks surprised when you hold the box out to him.

“Take it,” you say flatly. “Take the ring too.”

He frowns and pushes it back toward you. “I gave that to you. It’s yours.”

“No,” you insist, shoving it into his chest. “Take it back.”

“I’m not taking it,” he snaps. “I meant it when I gave it to you.”

“And I meant it when I said I don’t want it.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re really going to do this right now?”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You’re packing up our life in my living room. When exactly would you prefer?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’re acting like I’m the only one at fault here.”

“Oh, don’t,” you say, anger flaring hot and sudden. “Do not do that.”

“You weren’t there,” he fires back. “You were always working. Always choosing your company over us.”

You scoff. “Right. So you cheated.”

“I cheated because of you.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Oh, yeah, right, blame my career, blame my success.”

“That’s not what this is about,” he snaps. “I always knew you weren’t sure. You never fully committed to marrying me.”

You shake your head. “Those are excuses. You’re trying to justify what you did.”

He laughs bitterly. “Fine. Yeah. I cheated. But it was because I knew you never believed I was the right one for you.”

You don’t hesitate when you retort. “And turns out I was right.”

The words land hard. Cole drops the suitcase with a thud and steps toward you, voice low and tight. “At least I’m not a hypocrite. You just don’t want to admit that I’m right. That you never been and never will be sure about me.”

Your eyes burn, your hand shoots out, pointing the front door. “Get out.”

He turns toward the door without waiting.

“Never speak to me again,” you shout, tears spilling over now. “Do you hear me?”

“That won’t be hard,” he says without turning back.

“I never want to see you again,” you shout, your voice strained in anger.

His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back but he doesn’t say it. He just opens the door, drags the suitcase behind him, and leaves.

The door clicks shut and, in that moment, you break. You sink where you stand, sobbing into the quiet apartment, grief and anger and humiliation crashing over you all at once. The life you thought you were building collapses in on itself, leaving you alone with the echo of slammed doors and promises that never stood a chance.

You cry until it hurts.

Until you’re empty.

Until the silence is all that’s left.

-

You had a hard time sleeping but you wake to the sound of the door opening.

For a moment, you don’t move. You stare at the ceiling, eyes still burn, body sore in a way sleep didn’t fix. You already know who it is since Lucy is the only other person with the spare code.

You consider staying there anyway but lying still leaves too much room for thinking, and thinking feels dangerous today. So you push yourself up, drag yourself out of bed, and tell yourself it’s better to stay busy. Work is easier than sitting alone with everything you don’t want to feel.

When you step into the living room, Lucy is already setting things down on the coffee table—your breakfast, a cup of coffee exactly the way you like it. In her other hand, she’s holding a garment bag wrapped neatly in white.

“Good morning,” she says gently, smiling like she’s trying not to startle you.

You sink onto the sofa as she hands you your schedule for the day. You lift your coffee and glance at it without really reading. She disappears into your bedroom to hang the clothes, moving around your space as it is routine to her at this point.

When she comes back, she exhales dramatically. “I almost had a heart attack when the tailor forgot where he put your altered suits.”

You hum in response, sipping your coffee. It tastes right. You barely notice.

Lucy watches you for a beat too long. “Is something wrong?” she asks in genuine concern.

“Nothing,” you say automatically, lifting the cup again. “I’m just tired.”

Lucy has been working for you for two years, long enough to notice when you’re just tired or something truly bothers you. But she doesn’t ask but looks at you, patiently waiting for you to decide whether you’re going to tell her or not.

You decide on the former, shoulders slumping just a little. “Cole came by last night and we… we had a fight.”

Lucy’s expression softens immediately as she comes to sit beside you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t look fine. You shouldn’t be working today.”

“I can’t not work,” you reply, sharper than you mean to. “I don’t want people thinking I can’t handle this. That I’m not professional.”

Lucy meets your gaze, steady. “At the end of the day, you’re just human. You don’t have to carry everything at once.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Do you?” she asks quietly. “Can you even work properly like this?”

You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out. The silence answers for you.

Lucy reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Take a few days off,” she says. “Go somewhere. Get out of here.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “You mean… A vacation?”

“Yes,” she answers without a beat.

“What about the company?”

“Herman can handle it,” she says without hesitation. “That’s literally his job.”

She’s right. You know she’s right. Herman is the COO and you’re sure he can handle the company for a few days. And still, the idea of stepping away feels terrifying and yet, oddly relieving.

You look down at your coffee, at your hands, at how tired you feel all the way through. “I don’t think I can get through today,” you honestly admit.

Lucy nods. “Then don’t.”

You exhale slowly. “Maybe I’ll go home. See my mom.”

Her smile is immediate. “That’s a good idea.”

For the first time in a while, it feels like the right decision. You haven’t taken time for yourself, not since you called off the wedding. Not since everything started unraveling.

Lucy squeezes your hand again. “Take your time. Rest. Come back when you’re ready.”

You nod.

And this time, you let yourself believe that stepping away might not be failure but survival.

-

Lucy stayed for another hour before leaving to arrange things for your absent in the company.

You pack a bag with essentials only—clothes folded without care, toiletries tossed in last, phone charger, laptop you debate leaving behind but don’t. The apartment feels strangely quiet as you move through it, like it’s watching you go. You lock the door and don’t look back.

The train station is bustling with people. You buy a ticket, board when they call your line, and sink into a window seat like you’ve been holding yourself upright for too long. When the train finally lurches forward, something in your chest loosens.

The city slowly gives way. Buildings thin out. Noise softens. The view outside the window turns into stretches of green, houses tucked into quiet corners, sky opening wider than you remember. You rest your forehead lightly against the glass and let yourself watch.

You can’t remember the last time you did this. Really watched, really sat still without checking emails, without thinking five steps ahead, without measuring time in productivity. Somewhere along the way, you stopped allowing yourself moments like this and only now do you realize how much you’ve missed.

The way sunlight hits trees at this hour. The way the world moves when you’re not trying to control it. The comfort of going somewhere familiar without needing a reason. It suddenly makes sense why you’ve been craving familiarity, why your chest aches for places and people that existed before everything became so complicated. You miss home. You miss warmth. You miss the version of yourself who wasn’t always bracing for impact.

The memories come gently, uninvited but not unwelcome. And as the train carries you farther away from the life you built and closer to the one that shaped you, you close your eyes and let the motion lull you into something that feels almost like peace.

-

By the time you reach your hometown, the day has thinned into evening.

The train, the taxi ride after, they all blur together until you’re standing on the familiar porch, suitcase at your side, heart oddly hopeful. You knock, already imagining your mom’s surprised gasp, the way she’ll scold you for not calling first and then pull you into a hug anyway. But there’s no answer.

You knock again and still nothing. The house is too quiet. You peer through the window, expecting to see a light on, some movement inside but there’s nothing. She can’t be at the bakery because it’s closed at night. A knot forms in your chest as you pull out your phone and call her. It rings and rings.

On the second try, she finally picks up. “Hello?”

“Mom,” you say, relief flooding you. “Are you home?”

There’s a pause. Then a small laugh. “Oh, honey. I’m on the cruise.”

The words take a moment to land because you don’t remember hearing your mom going on a cruise trip. “The cruise?” you repeat.

“The one you got me for my birthday,” she reminds you gently. “A day before I left, I told you on our phone call.”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You must have missed it. Or heard it and forgotten. Either way, it’s your fault.

She doesn’t dwell on it. “What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m just taking a few days off work,” you say quickly. “I wanted to come home for a bit.”

“Are you alright?” she presses because she knows. Mothers always know.

“I’m okay,” you assure her. “I’m just needing some time alone but don’t worry about me. Enjoy your vacation.”

She sounds unconvinced, but she lets it go. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be home soon,” she says softly.

“Okay,” you reply. “Oh—do you still have the spare key somewhere?”

“Yes. Under one of the potted plants.”

You smile faintly. “Enjoy your trip, Mom.”

“I will. Bye, sweetheart.”

With that, the call ends and you crouch down by the pots, fingers brushing against cool ceramic until you find the spare key. You unlock the door and step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you.

The house wraps around you immediately. Warm. Familiar. Lived-in. Changing but also the same — in a way. You stand there for a moment, taking it all in—the faint scent of home, the quiet that isn’t lonely. Then you head upstairs, each step echoing with memory, until you reach your room.

It’s just as you left it. Your books are still lining the shelf, your desk still organized the way you like it, the bedsheets are the same but you catch the smell of detergent, your mom must have washed it like she knows that you’ll come home.

You drop your bag and collapse onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up to you. The mattress welcomes you like it always has, and before you can think too much, you drift into an easy, dreamless sleep.

-

You wake up late the next day, sunlight spilling lazily across your room.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are and a second later, it settles. You’re home. You’re in the bedroom where you grew up with the quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. You stretch beneath the blankets and realize, with mild surprise, that you feel… good.

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in a long time. Deep and uninterrupted, without dreams tugging you awake or your mind racing ahead to the next obligation. You lie there a little longer, staring at nothing, and it feels strange not having to immediately decide what to do next.

Your phone is silent because Lucy has always been good at shielding you when you need it most. No emails. No calls. No emergencies sneaking their way through. Eventually, you get up and wander downstairs, padding into the kitchen for a late breakfast.

You eat slowly, realizing halfway through that the fridge is mostly empty. You should probably do some grocery shopping. The thought doesn’t stress you out. It almost feels… normal.

In the afternoon, you take your mom’s car and drive with the windows down, letting the town guide you. Streets curve into familiarity, muscle memory taking over as if you never left. You pull over across from your old high school without really meaning to.

The soccer field is alive with players running drills, voices carrying faintly through the air. You watch from the car, smiling softly as memories surface. Sitting on the bleachers. Lunch breaks spent laughing. Watching Chris practice while pretending you weren’t. Aaron and Walcott being loud and impossible.

It feels distant, but not gone.

You start the car again and keep driving. You stop for a quick lunch and coffee, savoring both without rushing, then head to the supermarket, listless but content. You push the trolley down the aisles without much thought, tossing things in as they catch your eye.

Snacks you haven’t had in years. Drinks your mom always said were too sweet. Something frozen, something indulgent, something you’ll probably regret later. You don’t stop yourself. You’re not meal-planning. You’re just… choosing.

Only when the trolley starts to look a little ridiculous do you pause and squint at it. You’re grocery shopping like a kid with adult money.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Maybe some fruits.”

Balance. As someone would say.

You steer toward the fresh produce aisle, grab a thin plastic bag and start filling it with tangerines, testing their weight in your palm, choosing out of instinct instead of skill.

That’s when you think you hear your name and you ignore it because this town is full of echoes and old memories. You focus on twisting the bag closed when a trolley skids to a stop just a little too close to yours.

You slowly turn to the side and find someone smiling at you like she’s been sure all along.

“I knew it was you,” Celia says.

Your face breaks open immediately. “Oh my God—Celia!”

You step forward without thinking and pull her into a hug, the kind that’s easy and warm and unguarded, like no time has passed at all. You linger there with Celia between the rows of fruit, trolleys forgotten, talking like no time ever slipped through your fingers.

She asks about your work first and you give her the light version because you don’t want to give the impression that you’re bragging about your success, and she listens with genuine interest, nodding along like she always did.

Then she tells you about her life. About settling down. About how different things feel now, quieter but fuller. She laughs as she talks, eyes bright, and at some point she reaches out and holds both of your hands.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says softly. “I was so surprised when I saw you.”

“I’m taking some time off work,” you explain. “Just… breathing for a bit.”

Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Carefully, gently, she says, “I heard about the news.”

You don’t have to asks to know what she means. You nod once. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry,” she adds, squeezing your hands.

“It’s okay,” you say, and you mean it enough.

Thankfully, she doesn’t linger there. Instead, her face lights up like she’s been holding onto something exciting. “Oh! I’m having a baby shower tomorrow afternoon.”

It’s only then that you really look at her and notice the curve beneath her sweater.

“Oh my god,” you coo, instinctive and soft. “Celia. Congratulations.”

She laughs, cheeks pink, squeezing your hands tighter. “Please come tomorrow. I really want you there.”

“I’d love to,” you say, then hesitate. “But are you sure it’s okay?”

“Of course it is,” she says immediately. “It’ll be fun. Please?”

You can’t bring yourself to say no when she looks at you like that. And maybe—maybe you do need this. Time with someone who knows you, who remembers you from before everything got complicated.

For old time’s sake, you smile and nod. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Her smile blooms on the heart-shaped face, the same as it was back in high school. It strikes you then how some people don’t change much at all.

You help her load her grocery bags into the back of her car, chatting about nothing and everything. Before she gets in, she reminds you once more about tomorrow, pointing playfully at you like she doesn’t trust you not to forget.

You promise you won’t and with that, she waves as she drives off, leaving you standing there with your trolley and a warmth in your chest you didn’t expect.

Maybe coming home was the right idea after all.

-

Later that night, you eat dinner at the small kitchen table—something you cooked yourself, thrown together without a recipe or much thought. It’s probably not the healthiest thing you’ve ever made, but it’s warm and filling and yours. You actually enjoy it, which surprises you.

Afterward, you open a bottle of wine. You pour yourself a glass and carry it to the sofa, settling in with your legs tucked beneath you. It’s funny that you almost forgot how to spend your free time.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, you call Lucy and she picks up immediately. “Just so you know, the company is doing just fine without you.”

You chuckle. “I figured.”

She gives you a quick rundown anyway. Just enough to reassure you that the world hasn’t ended because you stepped away for a few days.

“So,” she says at last, “how’s your vacation?”

You swirl the wine in your glass. “I forgot I sent my mom on a cruise for her birthday, so I’m alone.”

She laughs softly. “That tracks.”

You hesitate, then add, “The bad news is… everyone knows about the canceled wedding.”

“That means you’re famous,” Lucy simply comments. “So what’s the other good news?”

You smile faintly. “I ran into a friend from high school. She invited me to her baby shower tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Lucy says easily.

“I think so too.” You pause to put away your glass of wine. “Can you help me figure out what to get her? I’m terrible at baby gifts.”

“I’ll make you a list,” she promises. “Send you options.”

“Thank you.”

“And,” Lucy adds gently, “enjoy your time there.”

You nod even though she can’t see it. “I will. Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends, and the quiet settles back in. You sip your wine slowly, alone again and then the thought slips in, uninvited.

If Celia knows about your canceled wedding… does Chris know too?

-

The bell above the door chimes softly when you step into the flower shop, the air thick with the scent of fresh blooms. You wander between buckets of flowers, fingers brushing over petals, eventually settling on something bright and gentle that feels right for Celia.

The florist wraps the bouquet carefully. You thank them, step back outside, and unlock your car.

That’s when you see him or think you do.

Across the street, between rows of small shops, there’s a familiar shape. Broad shoulders. An easy stride. For half a second, your breath catches. Your eyes follow instinctively as the man turns, the profile almost right, almost unmistakable—

But then he steps into a café and the glass door swinging shut before you can take a good look at the person. You stand there, bouquet cradled in your arms, heart thudding far too fast for something that’s probably nothing. But then, this town is full of people who resemble memories if you stare long enough. So you tell yourself it’s not him. It can’t be. It’s just coincidence. You shake your head lightly, dismiss the thought, and slide into your car.

Fifteen minutes later, you pull up in front of Celia’s house and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. A few cars are already parked along the curb. Laughter spills faintly from inside. You exhale, feeling suddenly out of place. Crowds like this still make you uneasy—you’d rather be in a room full of businessmen where motives are clear and conversations are transactional. This kind of gathering comes with expectations you’re never quite sure how to meet.

Still, you step inside, scanning the room instinctively for Celia first. You find her near a growing pile of gifts, glowing in a floral dress that hugs her baby bump beautifully. She’s mid-conversation when you call her name softly, trying to be mindful as to not interrupt.

Her face lights up instantly and pulls you into a quick hug, presses her cheek to yours, and laughs softly. You hand her the bouquet you picked up on the way over.

“Your baby shower gift is still on the way so I bought this,” you say apologetically.

“Thank you for even coming,” she waves it off. “And this is perfect.”

She looks around to find someone and when she finally does, she calls someone over—a tall man with kind eyes and neatly kept facial hair. She pulls him to her side before introducing you, and he smiles warmly, shaking your hand.

Celia steers you toward the refreshment table and pours you a drink. You lean closer to her, lowering your voice. “It’s funny—I ran into Aaron a couple of weeks ago.”

Her brows lift in surprise but her smile never wavers for a second.

You hesitate, then add, “I always thought you two were endgame.”

She chuckles softly. “We did pretty good. We made it through college but then broke up not long after because he got busy with his family business.”

You nod because you understand too well what distance can do. So are time and space.

Then, gently, she asks, “What about you and Chris?”

You blink, feigning innocence. “What about us?”

She scoffs playfully. “Please. There was always something about you two.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Well, you know, nothing happened. We went our separate ways.”

Her smile softens in understanding. Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t linger. She places a comforting hand at the small of your back and guides you toward the living room where the other guests are gathering.

You recognize a few faces from high school who mostly came here with their spouses, children, or both. But the ones gathered in this room are women as the men takes over the back yard with the children.

You softly greet the people you know and offer a polite smile to the ones you’ve just met. Your smile drops just slightly when you see her. Cheryl. Older now, but the smugness hasn’t faded.

You sit on the far end of the sofa with Celia beside you, as far from Cheryl as possible. You decide to not acknowledge her presence and take a sip of your drink, briefly wishing it contained alcohol.

Conversation drifts easily but they’re mostly about children, marriages, routines. You lean toward Celia and whisper, “I didn’t know you were friends with Cheryl.”

Celia murmurs back, “She’s married to the mayor’s son so I kind of invited her out of courtesy.”

You nod, understanding.

Cheryl soon launches into a story about her family—how her son is a spitting image of his father, how accomplished her husband is, how impressive his family’s influence has become. The others nod politely, murmuring praise. And then, she turns to you.

“And you? Do you have anything to share?” she asks.

“Not much,” you reply calmly. “Work keeps me busy.”

She tilts her head, feigning sympathy. “I heard about your canceled wedding. That must’ve been… sad.”

You kind of expected that to happen because some people only change shape but they’re the same inside. And apparently, Cheryl still has a bully mentality. Instead of stooping to her level, you remain calm and unfazed.

“I appreciate your concern,” you say evenly. “But it’s behind me now. I’m focusing on my career.”

You think that’s the end of it and that everyone in this room is grown and mature enough not to cause drama.

“I think it’s just sad,” Cheryl continues, “that you don’t get to experience being a wife. Or a mother.”

Celia stiffens beside you, about to speak but you gently place a hand on her arm. Giving her a look that says I’ve got this. You meet Cheryl’s gaze and smile before speaking.

“Yeah. I’m single. Not married. No kids.” You honestly admit because there’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. “But I’ve built something I’m proud of. I created an app that helps people, employs people. My company is thriving. And most importantly, I’m no longer insecure enough to tear someone else down just to feel better about myself.”

Silence.

A few women shift uncomfortably. Someone clears their throat. Others sip their drinks, faint smiles tugging at their lips. Cheryl doesn’t say another word but you notice the way she purses her lips together like she’s holding herself back from exploding.

Celia squeezes your hand gratefully and stands, clapping her hands together. “Alright, ladies. Let’s start opening gifts!”

The room softens once the gifts are opened. You watch Celia glow as she unwraps tiny clothes and thoughtful presents, her smile full in a way that makes you happy for her without the ache you expected.

You stay for another hour after that, enjoying the food and drinks, talking with people you know from school. When the afternoon begins to wind down, you step aside with Celia.

“I had a really nice time,” you tell her honestly.

She exhales, then leans in a little closer. “I’m sorry about Cheryl.”

You smile softly. “It’s okay.”

She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “Just so you know, most of the guests don’t like her either.”

That makes you laugh and you hold her hand as you remind her once again. “My gift is still on the way.”

She squeezes your hands back as she talks. “Thank you. Really. For even showing up and let me brag about having a successful friend like you.”

Right on cue, her husband joins you, slipping an arm around her waist. You take the chance to thank them properly—for the invitation, for the warmth, for making you feel welcome.

“Thank you for having me,” you say.

They both smile, sincere and kind. In that moment, you can see why they’re married and very certain about it.

“Thank you for coming,” Celia’s husband says with a kind smile.

You wish them a goodnight, one last congratulations, and then you’re back outside, the evening air cool against your skin. You get into your car and sit there for a moment before starting the engine, feeling lighter than you did when you arrived.

And you honestly enjoyed the baby shower. More than that—you enjoyed standing your ground. Not because you’ve been holding onto resentment, but because Cheryl pushed, and for once, you didn’t fold. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t swallow it down and pretend it didn’t hurt. Looking back at it, you don’t know why you were so afraid to stand up for yourself but now, you’re glad you did.

You smile to yourself as the road stretches ahead, then realize there’s no one to share that small, quiet victory with. So you call Lucy and put her on speaker, the phone resting in the cup holder.

The second she picks up, you don’t even say hello. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.”

She laughs. “The baby shower?”

“It was actually… really nice,” you admit. “Celia and her husband were so welcoming. They’re genuinely happy, Lucy. It was—nice to see.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums knowingly. “… And?”

You scoff. “Cheryl the bully was there.”

“Of course she was.”

“She’s still the same bitter girl,” you continue, turning onto your block. “But I didn’t let her get away with it this time. I didn’t even raise my voice. I just—”

Your words trail off as you notice a car parked outside the house. It’s one that you know for sure doesn’t belong to one of your neighbors. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel, alarmed.

“Lucy,” you say quickly, eyes narrowing. “I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, what—”

You hang up to focus on pulling into the driveway slowly, heart starting to beat a little faster now. You turn the engine off, gather your bag, and step out of the car.

You sprint to your porch so if anything happens, you’ll make it safely into your house. As you unlock the door, you’re squinting through the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the unfamiliar car. Then—

You see movements from inside the car and then a soft click. The car door swings open and someone steps out from the driver’s side.

You can’t see this person. Just a silhouette shifting, coming closer. You have your hand on the doorknob, ready to slip into the house. But then the person takes a few more steps forward, into the spill of light from your front porch.

Your heart skips a beat the second you recognize him. Chris. And your heart starts beating even faster.

You stand there on the porch as Chris climbs the steps slowly, like he’s not entirely sure that it’s really you. The porch light catches his face properly now—older, sharper around the edges, but unmistakably him. His brows knit together, eyes searching yours like he needs confirmation.

He exhales, almost to himself. “It’s really you.”

You don’t think he means for you to hear it, but you do. A smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Hi,” you manage, the word catching awkwardly in your throat.

“Hey.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the door behind you. “I was downtown earlier and saw your mom’s bakery was closed, so I thought I’d stop by. Didn’t expect to—” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. “—see you.”

Oh, God, you were right. It was him you were seeing earlier downtown. You hold back from smiling and calm yourself down. “I’m taking a few days off work,” you simply explain. “I’m home for a bit.”

He nods, and something softens in his expression—surprise, yes, but also relief. “I’m… glad you’re here.”

You swallow and mindlessly answer, “Me too.”

The awkwardness settles between you, thick but not unpleasant. It makes sense. Years don’t disappear just because you’re standing on the same porch again. He seems to feel it too, letting out a quiet chuckle.

“I should probably go.”

“Do you want to come in?”

You and Chris say at the same time and a second later, you both burst into soft laughter.

“You first,” he says with a soft, almost shy smile.

“Do you want to come in?”

He looks at you, then grins. God. You missed that grin. “I think this has been sufficiently awkward for one night and I parked too long outside your house so I should probably go.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah. Fair.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. If you don’t have plans. We could… try this again.” He pauses. “Or if you do have plans—”

“I don’t,” you say too quickly. “I don’t have anything planned.”

His smile widens. “Cool. Tomorrow afternoon works for you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’ll pick you up then,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” you echo.

He looks like he wants to say more from the way his mouth opens, then closes. Instead, he steps down one stair, turns back, and says quietly, sincerely, “I’m really happy to see you.”

Your voice trembles just a little. “I’m really happy to see you too.”

Your eyes meet, and the moment stretches—full of everything you don’t say, everything you’re afraid to name. Then he smiles, softer now.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He walks down the rest of the steps. You stay where you are, watching as he reaches his car. Before getting in, he turns back and lifts a hand in a small wave.

You wave back and don’t move until his car pulls away and disappears down the street, leaving you alone on the porch with a racing heart, a promise for tomorrow, and the unmistakable feeling that something long buried has just begun to breathe again.

-

The next day, afternoon slips by in a blur of indecision.

You change outfits more times than you’d ever admit to anyone, muttering under your breath as you stare at the limited selection hanging in your childhood closet. You curse yourself for not packing more or better clothes. And you don’t even know what this is. A hangout. A reunion. Something in between. Is it casual or…

Anyway, you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. But you also don’t want to look like you didn’t try at all.

Eventually, you settle on something simple—a floral dress and white sneakers. Casual but also cute. For the first time in a long while, you actually do your hair, blow-drying it carefully, watching yourself in the mirror with a focus you haven’t given your reflection in months.

You’re not sure what time Chris will come by, but you want to be ready anyway.

So you wait downstairs. You snack on grapes straight from the bowl, pacing between the kitchen and the window, glancing outside far too often. You repeatedly tell yourself that this is probably nothing. Just two old friends catching up. Dinner, maybe. Conversation.

That shouldn’t make you this nervous but when a car finally pulls into the driveway, your heart lurches violently. You nearly choke on a grape, coughing as you scramble for a glass of water to wash it down. You smooth your dress, wipe your hands on your jeans, and school your expression into something calm like you absolutely did not just wait for him for the last hour.

The knock comes and you wait a beat to seem normal before opening the door with a smile. “Oh,” you say lightly, feigning surprise, “you’re here.”

Chris grins. “Hi.”

“Please, come in,” you say as you step aside, opening the door wider. And it feels strange to say it since Chris used to come in like he owns the house.

He walks in, and for a second, the air is thick with things that you can’t name.

Before it can turn awkward, you offer quickly, “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” he kindly refuses with a soft smile.

“Well, uh… I just need to grab my bag upstairs,” you tell him.

“I’ll be waiting.”

With that, you head up the stairs. In your room, you pause at the vanity, applying a fresh layer of lipstick, spritzing a little more perfume than necessary. You grab your bag and take a breath before heading back down. Your heart starts to race again when you see him waiting at the base of the stairs.

He looks good—effortlessly so—in a dark sweater and blue jeans. You stop for a moment, just long enough to take him in, before continuing down. He looks up and smiles when he sees you.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, pulse fluttering in your chest. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

-

✨ EVENTUALLY: FOREVER is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

@abiaswreck @yubinism @iknow-uknow-leeknow @biribarabiribbaem @leewayout @fancypeacepersona @just-here4funsies @piwonchi @godyongbok @strywme @ihateetoadmit @enchantedlov3r2 @superboywife @foxinnie8 @ilovebooksandstories @gwinamlvr @lenfilms @niku0704 @taekwondoe @staytinyluva @velvetmoonlght @myminlee @cassie264 @tboboee

[yubinism]

excuse meee for the upcoming blabber but IVE GOT SO MUCH TO SAY!!

i am actually staring at my wall right now because what did you just do to me 😭

the way you write timing and regret is genuinely insane. this isn’t just a story about two people who broke up—it feels like a story about mourning the version of yourself that only ever existed with one person. that’s what completely got me. it isn’t just losing them, it’s realizing that in choosing the life you thought you wanted, you also left behind a version of yourself you’ll never be able to return to.

the contrast between who chris and the fmc were versus who they became because of their choices was so quietly heartbreaking. neither of them made the “wrong” decision, and i think that’s what hurts the most. there isn’t really anyone to blame, which somehow makes the grief feel even heavier. every conversation between them felt like they were carrying years of things they never let themselves say, and you could feel all that history sitting between them in every pause.

what really stuck with me was this underlying idea of trying to grieve something you willingly walked away from. how do you mourn a life you chose not to have? how do you move on when you’re the reason you had to? i don’t think enough stories explore that kind of loss, and you handled it so beautifully. they both moved forward, they built the lives they thought they were supposed to, but emotionally they never really left that moment behind. it felt like they’d been surviving instead of living.

and your dialogue… my god. it’s so grounded, but everything they’re not saying somehow says even more. i love writers who trust their readers enough to sit with the silence instead of filling every emotional gap, and you do that so incredibly well. the restraint in your writing is honestly one of its biggest strengths.

also your prose?? it’s beautiful without ever trying too hard to be beautiful. it never feels like it’s reaching for a big emotional moment, but somehow it sneaks up on you anyway, and then suddenly i’m sitting here questioning every life decision i’ve ever made.

your mind is genuinely huge for this. effie my dear, please take care of yourself and get some rest because wow… this is one of those stories that’s going to linger in the back of my mind for a very long time 😟

[seospicybin]

Yubin always pulling up with the sweetest feedback and I am swooned all over again. Like always. ily appreciate you so much, my boo 🥰🫶🏻

[seospicybin]

Hello! I hope you’re doing well!

I have read all of the Cocky series including bangchan and hyunjin and I was wondering if you could do an I.N’s version of it? Since he’s my bias I would love if you could willingly do something that includes him? Of course there’s no pressure and you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to or not accepting requests but maybe this could be an idea 💡?

I also have read all of I.N’s fics from your page and I absolutely love them!! You’re an Amazing writer and I just love your writing and how you come up with these fantastic stories/fics.

I hope my rambling finds you well 😂 but I hope my idea could one day be used or to help create an inspiration for your next cocky member series!!

Much love your fan!!! Keep up the great work!! 🩷🫶🏽😍

Hi, sorry for only replying to this now. It's buried somewhere in the inbox. 🙏🏻

I did think of expanding Cocky series. I'm thinking each one existing in the same universe, but I want the story to be differ from each other and have their own kind of "cocky". And it's not easy to come up with the idea and at the same time, I don't want to bore you guys and be like "oh no, it's cocky again". I really try my best to release another Cocky and these days, I really take things slowly so I don't burnout easily.

But hey, thank you for the feedback and the support. I really, really appreciate it. And I hope I'll come up with another Jeongin fics. Pls look forward to my next works. Lastly, have a lovely day 🫶🏻🥰

[seospicybin]

Heyyy babyyyy

"It feels unbearably empty right now. "

Stop, I died. Infidelity is THE WORST to read for me, I'm ready to cry just from the tiniest bit omfg.

And older Chris? Yk what I'm ready too, let's go ;]

Dear, babysitting?? Honestly, look at you being such a good auntie!

Reminds me of the different volunteering/paid jobs I've done/do with kids, i love them. (Just for a while though, not the whole day.) Mhmm, got me wondering, how many kids do you want, love? Or is a cat super duper? I hope you are taking care of yourself <3

-💟 💖💖💖💖

I babysat them for like five days and I got so tired that I'm starting to feel not well. Man, I'm not build for this (respect to all the moms out there 💕)

I want three children. I think three is just the right number. One of them can be cat or a puppy. We can negotiate. I don't want you to end up taking care of four children (me included 😆)

Love you. Take care ❤️

[seospicybin]

hihi!! I am absolutely in love with all ur fics especially the reality TV shows omg

im sure u have lots of stuff cooking up rn so this isnt really a request as such bc I dont wanna overload u lol but I had an interesting thought to share with u

now I might just be exposing myself as an old ass 2000s baby but there used to be a show called ex on the beach that I used to watch when I was a kid (which I absolutely shouldn't have been watching at that age lmao but oh well I had unsupervised access to the Internet so it was bound to happen) but anyway it was a really good show im not sure if u have seen or heard of it but its kind of like a combination of EXchange and love island kind of vibe? and i think it would really compliment ur writing style as well as maybe appeal to the same audience as the THTH series

obviously i know nothing about writing fics or anything so I may be wrong and people might only like stuff they are familiar with but it could be something to look into and if not then is at the very least a recommendation for some good old fashion trash tv lol

<3 x

First of all, thank you. That's very kind of you to say so! 🥰

And I mean, what's so bad about being 00s baby? It's like the best era ever. The music, the movies, the fashion... just the best of things. It was only yesterday I watched Charlie's Angels and adore how the movie was so vibrant back then. In contrast to movies these days that make me squint just so I can see everything clearly. Like bring back those kind of color-grading! (Sorry for the rant! 🙏🏻)

Anyway, won't blame you from watching something out of your age-range. I think we all had our fair share of it (or just me 🫣) and I think I ever heard of the show but never watched it. I looked it up and it sounds very interesting. It has drama and tension and those reality tv spices. I have to watch it to learn the concept and the main points of the show. It also happens that I'm running out of shows to watch.

Thank you so much for the input & have the loveliest day 😊🫶🏻

[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

NOW

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (10,8k words)

Author's note: Everyone, pls take care on this very extreme weather cause I'm getting a bit not well here. Stay safe and pls enjoy this one 💕

On paper, your life makes sense.

Your startup is thriving—your name attached to headlines as the founder and CEO of Gatherly. An app that went viral for its aesthetic at first and then as an app that turns studying into something communal, intentional, almost romantic. Eventually, the app is dubbed “Tinder for academia” as it connects people online to gather and meet — to study together. Academia loves it. Students swear by it. Investors call it visionary.

In reality, you’ve just called off your wedding.

It’s supposed to be a private decision. An ending to something that no longer fits. You announce it simply to avoid drama, no explanation beyond what’s necessary. Overnight, your name stops being attached to Gatherly first. Instead, it’s followed by words like engagement, business power couple, wedding canceled. Articles dissect the timeline like it’s a case study. Comment sections bloom with speculation. People who’ve never used your app suddenly have opinions about your life decision.

They don’t ask about the sleepless nights you spent building Gatherly. They don’t ask about the students who write to you saying your app kept them from dropping out. They don’t ask about the systems you designed to make learning feel human again.

They ask what went wrong.

They ask if you’re okay.

They ask if you’ll ever love again like that’s public property now.

Still, you smile, you stay professional, you stand at the head of glass-walled conference rooms and talk about growth, projections, and futures like your life didn’t just fall apart. Your life still works. The company is thriving. Your calendar is full. You’re successful in every way that matters to everyone else.

And yet, when the lights go out, you’re left with the realization that the thing people are most interested in is the one thing you wish they’d let you keep to yourself.

On paper, everything adds up.

In reality, something essential has been reduced to a headline and no one seems to care how much it cost you to survive it.

-

The office feels quieter after hours but it’s exactly what you need to focus on work.

You’re curled up on the sofa in your office, laptop balanced on your lap, glasses perched low on your nose. One heel has been kicked off, the other dangling uselessly from your toes. Code scrolls past your screen as you work, fingers moving non-stop, comforted by the logic of it all.

There’s a soft knock and once you give the permission, your assistant, Lucy steps in. She takes one look at you—half-curled into the cushions, hair pulled back too loosely, still working and something flickers across her face. Concern, maybe. But she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she reports a few things about deadlines, a rescheduled meeting, a finalized contract.

“Thank you, Luce,” you say without looking away from your laptop screen. “And you can go home.”

She nods but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she drifts to your desk, quietly straightening the clutter you’ve let pile up over the week. You let her and shift your focus back on your work.

After a moment, she clears her throat. “You’re staying late at work.”

“Yep,” you simply answer.

“So it means you’ve decided not to attend the school reunion?”

“Nope,” you answer immediately, eyes still fixed on your screen.

You hate that she brought it up. You hate that you feel the need to share the reason why. You sigh and close your laptop partway, rubbing at your temple. “I’m not going because I’m not in the mood to answer questions about my canceled wedding.”

Lucy tilts her head and then shrugs. “It’s been weeks. People probably forgot.”

You shake your head. “No, they didn’t.”

She looks unconvinced, so you turn the laptop toward her and pull up the article. The headline is still there, far too interested in something that was never supposed to be public.

Lucy’s mouth tightens. “That’s… invasive.”

“It’s upsetting,” you say, irritation creeping in. “I built an app that helps people, employs people. I worked hard on it but all anyone wants to talk about is who I didn’t marry.”

You turn the laptop back, swing your feet up onto the sofa again, and resume working like the conversation never happened.

Lucy hesitates but after a while, she carefully says, “Well, at some point… you should get out there again. Date. You know.”

You don’t even look up and give a strong head shake. “No.”

She tries anyway by coyly says, “I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.”

You shake your head for the last time. “I’m done with dating. And men.”

Lucy exhales slowly, conceding defeat. “Alright.”

Done with organizing your desk, Lucy walks away and then pause at the door. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“I’m okay. You can go home,” you assure her with a subtle nod.

She nods, knowing that there’s no way to insist you to go home so instead, she says, “Don’t stay too late.”

You give her a thumbs-up instead.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind her and you’re alone again. The glow of your laptop fills the room as you keep working, convincing yourself that this success is enough.

-

Silence greets you as you enter your apartment.

You kick off your shoes by the door, drop your bag on the sofa, and head straight to the kitchen. You pick up the half-finished bottle of red wine and a glass, bring them with you as you sink into the sofa like your bones are finally allowed to loosen. You open your laptop again out of habit and yes, you come home only to continue working, not because you want to but because stopping feels worse.

This time, you pour yourself a glass of wine before you start and then take a sip, let the bitterness bloom on your tongue, and scroll through emails that blur together.

Lucy’s voice somehow echoes in your head.

I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.

You almost laugh at that because the man you were going to marry had looked you in the eye and promised you a future. He’d talked about homes and children and forever like they were facts, not bait. And all the while, he was lying. Cheating. Breaking something inside you so that you’re not sure it ever grew back the same way, breaking you to the point that made you think.

That’s it. That’s the only chance you had with love.

He ruined it. He ruined everything. Your gaze drifts, unbidden, through the crack of your bedroom door, to the vanity table where the engagement ring sits there exactly where you left it, the diamond catches the light like it still has the right to be beautiful. Once, it meant trust. Commitment. Promise. Now it’s just proof of how easily those things can be destroyed. So no—you don’t believe there’s still a decent man out there for you. Not anymore.

You take another sip of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Lucy’s words echo anyway and they tangle with everything else you’ve been trying to outrun. People asking how you’re doing with that careful tone that pretends to be concern but is really curiosity. People reading articles like your heartbreak is a business update, like it’s something neat and consumable.

You trusted him with your heart. You almost gave him your forever. And now strangers get to talk about it like it’s trivia.

They don’t know how it hurt. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning and realize something inside you is permanently altered. That trust doesn’t come back the same way. That love doesn’t feel safe anymore.

You close the laptop too hard, the sound cracking through the quiet apartment.

You curl into yourself on the sofa, wine glass abandoned on the table, shoulders shaking before you can stop them. The tears come fast, chest tight, breath uneven.

This is the part no one sees.

Just you, alone at night, breaking apart with the terrifying certainty that maybe this is it. That whatever part of you believed in love was shattered beyond repair. That you’ll never love again. And no matter how impressive your life looks from the outside, no matter how many things you’ve built and led and survived—

It feels unbearably empty right now.

-

The tech expo is a welcome change.

You stand backstage with a wireless mic clipped to your blazer, listening to the low hum of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. It’s loud, but not in the suffocating way boardrooms are. This noise is anticipation. Curiosity.

You like this better than meetings.

Out there, people aren’t waiting to circle numbers in red and talks about strategies that brings the company most money. They want to know you. How you did it. How you built something from nothing and kept it alive. They want to take notes, to borrow pieces of your story and see if they fit into their own lives.

When your name is announced, the applause hits warm and immediate. You’re introduced as the founder and CEO of Gatherly with the kind of reverence that still feels unreal.

You step onto the stage and smile and this one comes easily.

You talk about the story behind Gatherly, how the app goes viral quietly at first because of clean interfaces, warm neutrals and serif fonts that feel borrowed from old books. People start calling it ‘the academia app’.

Students post their “study with me” videos on Gatherly. Aesthetic accounts post their study sessions—coffee cups, annotated notes, rain sounds. And it sticks.

But the aesthetic isn’t the point—it’s the invitation.

Gatherly works like a dating app reimagined for learning. You don’t swipe on faces; you swipe on compatibility. Subjects. Study styles. Time zones. Energy levels. Goals. The app asks who you are when you’re trying, not when you’re posing.

Users find study sessions instead of profiles. They choose where they belong. The design slows people down. It makes studying feel intentional again—like pulling an all-nighter in a library that smells faintly of paper and coffee instead of doomscrolling in isolation.

Academia loves it because it respects the process. It doesn’t gamify learning. It doesn’t shame productivity. It romanticizes effort, patience, showing up—even when you’re tired, even when you’re unsure. And somehow, that’s what makes it powerful.

Gatherly doesn’t promise success. It promises belonging. Because it was never about going viral. It was about making space for people who are trying their best and reminding them they don’t have to do it alone.

Then you talk about failure, about missteps and sleepless nights and how success rarely looks the way people expect it to. You talk about resilience, about learning when to pivot and when to stay stubborn. You talk about sharing knowledge because hoarding it never made anyone powerful—only lonely.

You see people nodding, writing things down and asks questions they’re curious about. But no one asks about your personal life. No one mentions the canceled wedding or your personal life for that matter. They ask about strategy, vision, grit. They ask how to survive doubt without letting it hollow you out and you answer honestly, passionately.

You leave the stage energized, reminded why you love this part of your life so much. Here, your story is something that helps instead of something people consume.

For a moment, you forget how heavy everything else feels and you carry that feeling with you as you step offstage.

Lucy comes up to you with a bottle of water. You have a long sip of it with a straw while staying still as a staff carefully taking off the mic and wire wrapped around you.

“Do I have anything else scheduled?” you ask Lucy as you hand her the bottle of water back.

She shakes her head. “You’re clear for the next hour.”

“Okay, good.”

The expo floor is alive with screens glowing with information on the new technologies presented in each booth, conversations overlapping in every direction. You move from booth to booth, leaning in to listen, asking questions, impressed by what people are building with nothing but curiosity and persistence.

You chat with young engineers, developers with bright eyes and nervous smiles. You find yourself especially proud when you notice how many women are here—confident, brilliant, unapologetically taking up space in a field that once tried to shut them out. It feels like progress you can see.

You’re moving toward the next booth when you think you hear your name but you keep walking because the hall is loud and you probably misheard it.

Three steps later, you hear it again. A voice you haven’t heard in years, pulling itself out of memory and into the present.  You slowly turn around and for a second, you don’t understand what you’re seeing.

There’s a man standing a few steps away from you, tall, familiar in a way that doesn’t immediately land. Your brain scrambles, flipping through faces that almost fit but don’t quite click. He looks older. Broader. Different. Then he starts walking toward you.

And when he puts on a toothy grin, it finally hits.

“Aaron?” you breathe.

He laughs, eyes lighting up like no time has passed at all. “Wow. You still recognize me?”

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Of all places. Of all people. High school feels impossibly far away and suddenly right in front of you.

-

In a different building, in a much quieter space at a café, you sit across from Aaron with a cup of coffee warming your hands, still trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the boy from your memory. He’s older now with facial hair neatly trimmed, shoulders broader, dressed in a fitted shirt and a tie. Someone who grew into himself.

“So,” you say, half-laughing, half-in disbelief, “I really didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. That hurts.”

“No—wait,” you rush to explain. “I just thought you’d still be on a field. Juggling a ball with your feet to dazzle some girls.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I charm people into buying cars now.”

You nod. “So you’re handling the family business now?”

“It’s legacy,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “Also, because soccer was never really my thing. I wasn’t as talented as Chris.”

Your heart tightens at the mention of his name. You keep your face neutral, lift your cup, take a careful sip of coffee that suddenly feels too hot going down.

Aaron watches you for a second longer than necessary. “You still in contact with him?”

You swallow hard. Nod once. Then shake your head. “No,” you say.

Thankfully, he doesn’t push. He only nods, lifting his own cup. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

A beat passes before he adds casually, “He’s coming to the city this weekend.”

“Oh,” you say lightly. “Yeah?”

“The team he’s coaching has a match here.”

You nod, eyes on your coffee. Pretend you’re uninterested. Pretend this is just trivia.

Aaron smirks as he teases, “You’re probably too busy anyway, huh?”

You scoff. “I’m not that busy.”

As if summoned by the universe, Lucy appears beside you, leaning down to whisper, “You have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

You nod. “Got it.”

When you look back up, Aaron is barely holding in his laugh. “Not that busy, huh?”

You shake your head, conceding the loss.

He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a name card, sliding it across the table. “Call me if you ever need to buy a car.”

You smile, taking it, eyes skimming his name and number. “Do I get a discount?”

He looks offended. “I’ll double the price first. Then discount it.”

You glare at him as he laughs, and the sound of it pulls you backward to lunch breaks, noisy hallways, the humiliating walks to class with his arm around your shoulders.

And then—

Chris.

Your smile fades before you can stop it. You quickly glance at the time and stand. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

“It’s fine,” Aaron says easily. “I should get back to my booth anyway.”

“Next time,” you say, “I’ll treat you something better than coffee.”

He points at you. “Hey. You promised.”

You laugh, step in for a quick hug, then pull away. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Aaron says back with a smile.

You wave once before turning and walking off, leaving him behind, leaving the memories with him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you walk away.

-

It’s been a long day but even exhaustion can’t quiet your mind.

Meeting Aaron keeps looping you back to high school bleachers. Lunch breaks in the school yard. Names you haven’t said in years. You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia but it clings to you anyway, stubborn and unresolved.

“Do I have anything this weekend?” you absentmindedly ask, leaning your head back against the seat.

“I think there’s an event. A banquet.” She pauses to reaches for her tablet. “Let me check.”

“Can I see?” You reach over and take it from her hands before she can scroll too far. There it is, a banquet, neatly slotted, labeled with polite importance.

“It’s just a social thing, right?” you murmur.

“Well, yeah,” Lucy says, unsure.

You hand the tablet back. “Can we cancel it? I want to rest this weekend.”

Lucy nods, already typing, flagging the change and alerting the organizer without a question.

“Okay,” she says.

You turn back toward the window as the car slows at a red light, the city glowing back at you. You can’t quite name what you’re feeling but there’s a pull there, undeniable, tangled with hesitation.

You know what you’re going to do this weekend. You just don’t know if you should. And the uncertainty sits with you all the way home.

-

The car has been parked for a while now.

You sit there with your hands resting uselessly on the steering wheel, Sunday afternoon light spilling through the windshield, the stadium looming ahead of you like it’s waiting to be decided on. You could still leave. You could turn the engine on, drive back home, pretend this was just another bad idea you almost followed through with. But you don’t.

What brought you here isn’t courage. It isn’t hope. It’s quiet yet persistent curiosity. The need to know that he’s okay. That despite everything, he landed on his feet.

You inhale air, steady yourself, and step out of the car. The crowd swells around you immediately as you join the queue to enter the stadium. You blend in easily, ticket clutched in your hand, heart beating a little too fast for someone who keeps telling herself this means nothing.

When your ticket is stubbed, you head for the upper rows—high enough to see the whole field, close enough to recognize faces. You sit and you patiently wait until the game starts.

When both teams are being called to the field, you raise from your feet, neck craning to find a face. After a moment, he finally appears and your heart sinks.

Chris stands near the sideline, older now—his face more defined, time etched into sharper lines around his eyes and jaw. But his smile is the same. Full. Warm. Those dimples still sink deep into his cheeks just the way you remember it.

He leans in to talk to one of his players, whispers something you can’t hear, then taps the younger man’s shoulder encouragingly. The player laughs, nods, straightening like he’s been given permission to believe in himself.

Your mouth parts before you realize it and for half a second, you almost call his name. However, the roar of the crowd swallows the impulse whole so you sink back into your seat, hands clenched together as the match begins. You really try to follow the ball, the flow of the game, but all you see is him.

Chris watches the field with total focus, shouting directions and encouragements, clapping enthusiastically, pacing the sideline. He tugs at the tie around his collar now and then, loosening it as the game intensifies with each passing second. He looks at home there. Certain. Alive.

You have to fight the urge to stand up, to run down the steps, to close the distance that ten years have stretched thin but never erased. You tell yourself to sit still, to let this be what it is. A proof that he is here, still doing what he loves — only differently.

Eventually, you manage to focus on the second half of the match. You follow the passes, the rhythm of the game, the tension that builds and releases in waves. You catch yourself leaning forward, breath held, reacting without thinking. For a while, it’s just a match again. Just soccer. Just noise and movement and hope shifting back and forth across the field. Then, the whistle blows for the final time.

Everything stills and then Chris breaks into a wide, brilliant grin. The kind that lights up his whole face. He runs straight into the nearest player and pulls him into a hug, laughing as the rest of the team swarms in. Arms tangle around shoulders. Someone shouts. Someone else jumps. They gather around him like he’s the center of gravity, like he belongs there.

You don’t think about it but rise from your seat and clap, cheering with the rest of the stadium, voice swallowed by the crowd but heart loud enough for you to hear it.

You’re happy. Genuinely, achingly happy. Because good things happened to him. Because he looks proud and fulfilled and surrounded by people who believe in him. Because whatever paths you took, whatever distance grew between you, this is something he earned.

You clap until your hands sting, smiling through the tightness in your chest and for a moment, the ache softens.

For a moment, happiness is enough.

-

The stadium has mostly emptied now and you’re back inside your parked car. Across the lot, the team bus idles near the other exit, red and black paint catching the glow of the floodlights.

You wait because you want to see him—just once, just briefly. Proof that this wasn’t only for you and that he’s real and fine and right there.

Eventually, the players spill out in small groups, freshly showered, hair damp, dressed down but still wearing their varsity jackets like a shared identity. They laugh, shove each other lightly, carry duffel bags over their shoulders.

You step out of your car before you can overthink it, you start walking. Your heart beating too loudly in your ears as you move toward the bus. You already know how this goes as Chris is always the last to come out. Always lingering, talking to someone, making sure everyone else is settled.

As expected, there he is. He stands near the exit, his stance is relaxed and confident, head tilted as he listens to someone out of frame. The sight of him draws a smile from you before you can stop it— it’s automatic, reflexive, dangerous.

You take another step and then another. Your mouth opens, breath pulled in, his name right there on the tip of your tongue—

“Chris!”

It’s not your voice and you stop short.

He turns immediately, expression softening into a smile that isn’t meant for you. A girl jogs up to him, her ponytail bouncing, laughter already on her lips.

He grins wider as he warmly says, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She giggles, cheeks pink from the cold or something warmer. When she reaches him, he slips an arm around her shoulders without hesitation. They turn together toward the bus, talking over each other, laughing as they climb the steps.

Their voices echo briefly in the emptying parking lot and you take a step back. Then another. Your smile gone now, replaced by something hollow. You watch him disappear into the bus and the door folding shut behind them.

With one last look—just long enough to hurt—you turn away and you walk back to your car, carrying the weight of what you came here to see, and what you didn’t expect to lose all over again.

-

Another day passes, and you tell yourself that work will help you forget what you saw and heard yesterday.

You sit at your desk with your laptop open, office washed in late-morning light, Gatherly dashboards and reports waiting patiently for your attention. You should be focused. You are usually focused.

Somehow your screen shows a search result for Chris. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for anymore. Proof, maybe. Reassurance. Or punishment. You hesitate only a second before clicking the link at the top.

His social media loads and it’s mostly soccer—practice sessions, candid shots from the sidelines, photos of him standing shoulder to shoulder with his team. There’s one from last weekend, all of them grinning, arms slung around each other.

He looks good and happy. At ease. You continue scrolling and there she is. The girl who walked with Chris yesterday, you click on her profile to find out that she’s assistant coach. Still, there’s no clear sign on whether he’s married or dating someone. Nothing to confirm or deny it.

You close the page and return to the search results when you spot an older article. The one about the injury he sustained in his second year defending his university’s soccer team. A severe one to the knee and the surgeries done to it, the one that eventually forced him into early retirement.

Guilt coils tight, making you feel sick from the inside out. Your chest aches, heart shrinking as if it’s trying to fold in on itself. You stare at the words too long, each sentence a reminder of how much he lost. Of how much he gave up.

You close the tab abruptly and lean back in your chair. Maybe this is the universe reminding you of something. A boundary. A warning. That whatever this pull is, whatever thread still ties you to him, crossing paths again would only reopen wounds that never fully healed.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself.

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together as the sting builds behind them. You breathe through it, steadying yourself, forcing the tears back down.

A knock sounds at your door.

You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into something calm and slip back into professionalism. “Come in,” you say.

Lucy steps inside with a folder tucked against her chest. She hands you documents to sign, waits patiently as you do. She lists things to approve, questions to answer, confirmations to give.

You respond but only halfway. Your voice is distant, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Lucy pauses, studying you. “Are you okay?”

There’s no point pretending, no point on hiding it so you admit quietly, “I don’t feel well. Is it possible for me to leave early today?”

She checks your schedule quickly. “You don’t have anything critical.”

You nod. “But let me know if something comes up.”

She smiles, gentle and understanding. “Of course.”

Lucy cradles her tablet close to her chest and offers you a soft smile, “I’ll get the car ready for you,” she says before leaving your office.

You sit there for a moment longer, alone in your office, wondering when exactly doing the right thing started to feel so heavy.

-

The elevator ride is quiet in the way that makes your thoughts louder. You lean back against the mirrored wall, watching your reflection blur past floors you barely register. You didn’t do much at work today but you feel wrung out anyway. Tired. Restless. Like your body is moving forward while something inside you keeps snagging on something.

When the doors open to your floor, you step out and walk toward your apartment on autopilot. You unlock the door and stop when you notice someone is in your apartment.

An open suitcase sits on your sofa, clothes folded inside with a care that feels almost insulting and standing beside is the last person you want to see today, of all days — Cole, your ex-fiancé.

Your eyes meet, and the air goes cold. He sighs before quickly explaining. “You told me to get my things while you were at work. I didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

You don’t answer, don’t even acknowledge him but walk past him without a word and head straight into your bedroom. You don’t want to talk to him. You don’t want to hear his voice. You especially don’t want to see that.

The engagement ring. It sits on your vanity, exactly where you left it. Small. Gleaming. A reminder why you don’t want to see him. You grab the box and turn back around.

Cole is zipping up his suitcase when you reappear. He looks surprised when you hold the box out to him.

“Take it,” you say flatly. “Take the ring too.”

He frowns and pushes it back toward you. “I gave that to you. It’s yours.”

“No,” you insist, shoving it into his chest. “Take it back.”

“I’m not taking it,” he snaps. “I meant it when I gave it to you.”

“And I meant it when I said I don’t want it.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re really going to do this right now?”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You’re packing up our life in my living room. When exactly would you prefer?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’re acting like I’m the only one at fault here.”

“Oh, don’t,” you say, anger flaring hot and sudden. “Do not do that.”

“You weren’t there,” he fires back. “You were always working. Always choosing your company over us.”

You scoff. “Right. So you cheated.”

“I cheated because of you.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Oh, yeah, right, blame my career, blame my success.”

“That’s not what this is about,” he snaps. “I always knew you weren’t sure. You never fully committed to marrying me.”

You shake your head. “Those are excuses. You’re trying to justify what you did.”

He laughs bitterly. “Fine. Yeah. I cheated. But it was because I knew you never believed I was the right one for you.”

You don’t hesitate when you retort. “And turns out I was right.”

The words land hard. Cole drops the suitcase with a thud and steps toward you, voice low and tight. “At least I’m not a hypocrite. You just don’t want to admit that I’m right. That you never been and never will be sure about me.”

Your eyes burn, your hand shoots out, pointing the front door. “Get out.”

He turns toward the door without waiting.

“Never speak to me again,” you shout, tears spilling over now. “Do you hear me?”

“That won’t be hard,” he says without turning back.

“I never want to see you again,” you shout, your voice strained in anger.

His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back but he doesn’t say it. He just opens the door, drags the suitcase behind him, and leaves.

The door clicks shut and, in that moment, you break. You sink where you stand, sobbing into the quiet apartment, grief and anger and humiliation crashing over you all at once. The life you thought you were building collapses in on itself, leaving you alone with the echo of slammed doors and promises that never stood a chance.

You cry until it hurts.

Until you’re empty.

Until the silence is all that’s left.

-

You had a hard time sleeping but you wake to the sound of the door opening.

For a moment, you don’t move. You stare at the ceiling, eyes still burn, body sore in a way sleep didn’t fix. You already know who it is since Lucy is the only other person with the spare code.

You consider staying there anyway but lying still leaves too much room for thinking, and thinking feels dangerous today. So you push yourself up, drag yourself out of bed, and tell yourself it’s better to stay busy. Work is easier than sitting alone with everything you don’t want to feel.

When you step into the living room, Lucy is already setting things down on the coffee table—your breakfast, a cup of coffee exactly the way you like it. In her other hand, she’s holding a garment bag wrapped neatly in white.

“Good morning,” she says gently, smiling like she’s trying not to startle you.

You sink onto the sofa as she hands you your schedule for the day. You lift your coffee and glance at it without really reading. She disappears into your bedroom to hang the clothes, moving around your space as it is routine to her at this point.

When she comes back, she exhales dramatically. “I almost had a heart attack when the tailor forgot where he put your altered suits.”

You hum in response, sipping your coffee. It tastes right. You barely notice.

Lucy watches you for a beat too long. “Is something wrong?” she asks in genuine concern.

“Nothing,” you say automatically, lifting the cup again. “I’m just tired.”

Lucy has been working for you for two years, long enough to notice when you’re just tired or something truly bothers you. But she doesn’t ask but looks at you, patiently waiting for you to decide whether you’re going to tell her or not.

You decide on the former, shoulders slumping just a little. “Cole came by last night and we… we had a fight.”

Lucy’s expression softens immediately as she comes to sit beside you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t look fine. You shouldn’t be working today.”

“I can’t not work,” you reply, sharper than you mean to. “I don’t want people thinking I can’t handle this. That I’m not professional.”

Lucy meets your gaze, steady. “At the end of the day, you’re just human. You don’t have to carry everything at once.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Do you?” she asks quietly. “Can you even work properly like this?”

You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out. The silence answers for you.

Lucy reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Take a few days off,” she says. “Go somewhere. Get out of here.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “You mean… A vacation?”

“Yes,” she answers without a beat.

“What about the company?”

“Herman can handle it,” she says without hesitation. “That’s literally his job.”

She’s right. You know she’s right. Herman is the COO and you’re sure he can handle the company for a few days. And still, the idea of stepping away feels terrifying and yet, oddly relieving.

You look down at your coffee, at your hands, at how tired you feel all the way through. “I don’t think I can get through today,” you honestly admit.

Lucy nods. “Then don’t.”

You exhale slowly. “Maybe I’ll go home. See my mom.”

Her smile is immediate. “That’s a good idea.”

For the first time in a while, it feels like the right decision. You haven’t taken time for yourself, not since you called off the wedding. Not since everything started unraveling.

Lucy squeezes your hand again. “Take your time. Rest. Come back when you’re ready.”

You nod.

And this time, you let yourself believe that stepping away might not be failure but survival.

-

Lucy stayed for another hour before leaving to arrange things for your absent in the company.

You pack a bag with essentials only—clothes folded without care, toiletries tossed in last, phone charger, laptop you debate leaving behind but don’t. The apartment feels strangely quiet as you move through it, like it’s watching you go. You lock the door and don’t look back.

The train station is bustling with people. You buy a ticket, board when they call your line, and sink into a window seat like you’ve been holding yourself upright for too long. When the train finally lurches forward, something in your chest loosens.

The city slowly gives way. Buildings thin out. Noise softens. The view outside the window turns into stretches of green, houses tucked into quiet corners, sky opening wider than you remember. You rest your forehead lightly against the glass and let yourself watch.

You can’t remember the last time you did this. Really watched, really sat still without checking emails, without thinking five steps ahead, without measuring time in productivity. Somewhere along the way, you stopped allowing yourself moments like this and only now do you realize how much you’ve missed.

The way sunlight hits trees at this hour. The way the world moves when you’re not trying to control it. The comfort of going somewhere familiar without needing a reason. It suddenly makes sense why you’ve been craving familiarity, why your chest aches for places and people that existed before everything became so complicated. You miss home. You miss warmth. You miss the version of yourself who wasn’t always bracing for impact.

The memories come gently, uninvited but not unwelcome. And as the train carries you farther away from the life you built and closer to the one that shaped you, you close your eyes and let the motion lull you into something that feels almost like peace.

-

By the time you reach your hometown, the day has thinned into evening.

The train, the taxi ride after, they all blur together until you’re standing on the familiar porch, suitcase at your side, heart oddly hopeful. You knock, already imagining your mom’s surprised gasp, the way she’ll scold you for not calling first and then pull you into a hug anyway. But there’s no answer.

You knock again and still nothing. The house is too quiet. You peer through the window, expecting to see a light on, some movement inside but there’s nothing. She can’t be at the bakery because it’s closed at night. A knot forms in your chest as you pull out your phone and call her. It rings and rings.

On the second try, she finally picks up. “Hello?”

“Mom,” you say, relief flooding you. “Are you home?”

There’s a pause. Then a small laugh. “Oh, honey. I’m on the cruise.”

The words take a moment to land because you don’t remember hearing your mom going on a cruise trip. “The cruise?” you repeat.

“The one you got me for my birthday,” she reminds you gently. “A day before I left, I told you on our phone call.”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You must have missed it. Or heard it and forgotten. Either way, it’s your fault.

She doesn’t dwell on it. “What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m just taking a few days off work,” you say quickly. “I wanted to come home for a bit.”

“Are you alright?” she presses because she knows. Mothers always know.

“I’m okay,” you assure her. “I’m just needing some time alone but don’t worry about me. Enjoy your vacation.”

She sounds unconvinced, but she lets it go. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be home soon,” she says softly.

“Okay,” you reply. “Oh—do you still have the spare key somewhere?”

“Yes. Under one of the potted plants.”

You smile faintly. “Enjoy your trip, Mom.”

“I will. Bye, sweetheart.”

With that, the call ends and you crouch down by the pots, fingers brushing against cool ceramic until you find the spare key. You unlock the door and step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you.

The house wraps around you immediately. Warm. Familiar. Lived-in. Changing but also the same — in a way. You stand there for a moment, taking it all in—the faint scent of home, the quiet that isn’t lonely. Then you head upstairs, each step echoing with memory, until you reach your room.

It’s just as you left it. Your books are still lining the shelf, your desk still organized the way you like it, the bedsheets are the same but you catch the smell of detergent, your mom must have washed it like she knows that you’ll come home.

You drop your bag and collapse onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up to you. The mattress welcomes you like it always has, and before you can think too much, you drift into an easy, dreamless sleep.

-

You wake up late the next day, sunlight spilling lazily across your room.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are and a second later, it settles. You’re home. You’re in the bedroom where you grew up with the quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. You stretch beneath the blankets and realize, with mild surprise, that you feel… good.

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in a long time. Deep and uninterrupted, without dreams tugging you awake or your mind racing ahead to the next obligation. You lie there a little longer, staring at nothing, and it feels strange not having to immediately decide what to do next.

Your phone is silent because Lucy has always been good at shielding you when you need it most. No emails. No calls. No emergencies sneaking their way through. Eventually, you get up and wander downstairs, padding into the kitchen for a late breakfast.

You eat slowly, realizing halfway through that the fridge is mostly empty. You should probably do some grocery shopping. The thought doesn’t stress you out. It almost feels… normal.

In the afternoon, you take your mom’s car and drive with the windows down, letting the town guide you. Streets curve into familiarity, muscle memory taking over as if you never left. You pull over across from your old high school without really meaning to.

The soccer field is alive with players running drills, voices carrying faintly through the air. You watch from the car, smiling softly as memories surface. Sitting on the bleachers. Lunch breaks spent laughing. Watching Chris practice while pretending you weren’t. Aaron and Walcott being loud and impossible.

It feels distant, but not gone.

You start the car again and keep driving. You stop for a quick lunch and coffee, savoring both without rushing, then head to the supermarket, listless but content. You push the trolley down the aisles without much thought, tossing things in as they catch your eye.

Snacks you haven’t had in years. Drinks your mom always said were too sweet. Something frozen, something indulgent, something you’ll probably regret later. You don’t stop yourself. You’re not meal-planning. You’re just… choosing.

Only when the trolley starts to look a little ridiculous do you pause and squint at it. You’re grocery shopping like a kid with adult money.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Maybe some fruits.”

Balance. As someone would say.

You steer toward the fresh produce aisle, grab a thin plastic bag and start filling it with tangerines, testing their weight in your palm, choosing out of instinct instead of skill.

That’s when you think you hear your name and you ignore it because this town is full of echoes and old memories. You focus on twisting the bag closed when a trolley skids to a stop just a little too close to yours.

You slowly turn to the side and find someone smiling at you like she’s been sure all along.

“I knew it was you,” Celia says.

Your face breaks open immediately. “Oh my God—Celia!”

You step forward without thinking and pull her into a hug, the kind that’s easy and warm and unguarded, like no time has passed at all. You linger there with Celia between the rows of fruit, trolleys forgotten, talking like no time ever slipped through your fingers.

She asks about your work first and you give her the light version because you don’t want to give the impression that you’re bragging about your success, and she listens with genuine interest, nodding along like she always did.

Then she tells you about her life. About settling down. About how different things feel now, quieter but fuller. She laughs as she talks, eyes bright, and at some point she reaches out and holds both of your hands.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says softly. “I was so surprised when I saw you.”

“I’m taking some time off work,” you explain. “Just… breathing for a bit.”

Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Carefully, gently, she says, “I heard about the news.”

You don’t have to asks to know what she means. You nod once. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry,” she adds, squeezing your hands.

“It’s okay,” you say, and you mean it enough.

Thankfully, she doesn’t linger there. Instead, her face lights up like she’s been holding onto something exciting. “Oh! I’m having a baby shower tomorrow afternoon.”

It’s only then that you really look at her and notice the curve beneath her sweater.

“Oh my god,” you coo, instinctive and soft. “Celia. Congratulations.”

She laughs, cheeks pink, squeezing your hands tighter. “Please come tomorrow. I really want you there.”

“I’d love to,” you say, then hesitate. “But are you sure it’s okay?”

“Of course it is,” she says immediately. “It’ll be fun. Please?”

You can’t bring yourself to say no when she looks at you like that. And maybe—maybe you do need this. Time with someone who knows you, who remembers you from before everything got complicated.

For old time’s sake, you smile and nod. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Her smile blooms on the heart-shaped face, the same as it was back in high school. It strikes you then how some people don’t change much at all.

You help her load her grocery bags into the back of her car, chatting about nothing and everything. Before she gets in, she reminds you once more about tomorrow, pointing playfully at you like she doesn’t trust you not to forget.

You promise you won’t and with that, she waves as she drives off, leaving you standing there with your trolley and a warmth in your chest you didn’t expect.

Maybe coming home was the right idea after all.

-

Later that night, you eat dinner at the small kitchen table—something you cooked yourself, thrown together without a recipe or much thought. It’s probably not the healthiest thing you’ve ever made, but it’s warm and filling and yours. You actually enjoy it, which surprises you.

Afterward, you open a bottle of wine. You pour yourself a glass and carry it to the sofa, settling in with your legs tucked beneath you. It’s funny that you almost forgot how to spend your free time.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, you call Lucy and she picks up immediately. “Just so you know, the company is doing just fine without you.”

You chuckle. “I figured.”

She gives you a quick rundown anyway. Just enough to reassure you that the world hasn’t ended because you stepped away for a few days.

“So,” she says at last, “how’s your vacation?”

You swirl the wine in your glass. “I forgot I sent my mom on a cruise for her birthday, so I’m alone.”

She laughs softly. “That tracks.”

You hesitate, then add, “The bad news is… everyone knows about the canceled wedding.”

“That means you’re famous,” Lucy simply comments. “So what’s the other good news?”

You smile faintly. “I ran into a friend from high school. She invited me to her baby shower tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Lucy says easily.

“I think so too.” You pause to put away your glass of wine. “Can you help me figure out what to get her? I’m terrible at baby gifts.”

“I’ll make you a list,” she promises. “Send you options.”

“Thank you.”

“And,” Lucy adds gently, “enjoy your time there.”

You nod even though she can’t see it. “I will. Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends, and the quiet settles back in. You sip your wine slowly, alone again and then the thought slips in, uninvited.

If Celia knows about your canceled wedding… does Chris know too?

-

The bell above the door chimes softly when you step into the flower shop, the air thick with the scent of fresh blooms. You wander between buckets of flowers, fingers brushing over petals, eventually settling on something bright and gentle that feels right for Celia.

The florist wraps the bouquet carefully. You thank them, step back outside, and unlock your car.

That’s when you see him or think you do.

Across the street, between rows of small shops, there’s a familiar shape. Broad shoulders. An easy stride. For half a second, your breath catches. Your eyes follow instinctively as the man turns, the profile almost right, almost unmistakable—

But then he steps into a café and the glass door swinging shut before you can take a good look at the person. You stand there, bouquet cradled in your arms, heart thudding far too fast for something that’s probably nothing. But then, this town is full of people who resemble memories if you stare long enough. So you tell yourself it’s not him. It can’t be. It’s just coincidence. You shake your head lightly, dismiss the thought, and slide into your car.

Fifteen minutes later, you pull up in front of Celia’s house and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. A few cars are already parked along the curb. Laughter spills faintly from inside. You exhale, feeling suddenly out of place. Crowds like this still make you uneasy—you’d rather be in a room full of businessmen where motives are clear and conversations are transactional. This kind of gathering comes with expectations you’re never quite sure how to meet.

Still, you step inside, scanning the room instinctively for Celia first. You find her near a growing pile of gifts, glowing in a floral dress that hugs her baby bump beautifully. She’s mid-conversation when you call her name softly, trying to be mindful as to not interrupt.

Her face lights up instantly and pulls you into a quick hug, presses her cheek to yours, and laughs softly. You hand her the bouquet you picked up on the way over.

“Your baby shower gift is still on the way so I bought this,” you say apologetically.

“Thank you for even coming,” she waves it off. “And this is perfect.”

She looks around to find someone and when she finally does, she calls someone over—a tall man with kind eyes and neatly kept facial hair. She pulls him to her side before introducing you, and he smiles warmly, shaking your hand.

Celia steers you toward the refreshment table and pours you a drink. You lean closer to her, lowering your voice. “It’s funny—I ran into Aaron a couple of weeks ago.”

Her brows lift in surprise but her smile never wavers for a second.

You hesitate, then add, “I always thought you two were endgame.”

She chuckles softly. “We did pretty good. We made it through college but then broke up not long after because he got busy with his family business.”

You nod because you understand too well what distance can do. So are time and space.

Then, gently, she asks, “What about you and Chris?”

You blink, feigning innocence. “What about us?”

She scoffs playfully. “Please. There was always something about you two.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Well, you know, nothing happened. We went our separate ways.”

Her smile softens in understanding. Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t linger. She places a comforting hand at the small of your back and guides you toward the living room where the other guests are gathering.

You recognize a few faces from high school who mostly came here with their spouses, children, or both. But the ones gathered in this room are women as the men takes over the back yard with the children.

You softly greet the people you know and offer a polite smile to the ones you’ve just met. Your smile drops just slightly when you see her. Cheryl. Older now, but the smugness hasn’t faded.

You sit on the far end of the sofa with Celia beside you, as far from Cheryl as possible. You decide to not acknowledge her presence and take a sip of your drink, briefly wishing it contained alcohol.

Conversation drifts easily but they’re mostly about children, marriages, routines. You lean toward Celia and whisper, “I didn’t know you were friends with Cheryl.”

Celia murmurs back, “She’s married to the mayor’s son so I kind of invited her out of courtesy.”

You nod, understanding.

Cheryl soon launches into a story about her family—how her son is a spitting image of his father, how accomplished her husband is, how impressive his family’s influence has become. The others nod politely, murmuring praise. And then, she turns to you.

“And you? Do you have anything to share?” she asks.

“Not much,” you reply calmly. “Work keeps me busy.”

She tilts her head, feigning sympathy. “I heard about your canceled wedding. That must’ve been… sad.”

You kind of expected that to happen because some people only change shape but they’re the same inside. And apparently, Cheryl still has a bully mentality. Instead of stooping to her level, you remain calm and unfazed.

“I appreciate your concern,” you say evenly. “But it’s behind me now. I’m focusing on my career.”

You think that’s the end of it and that everyone in this room is grown and mature enough not to cause drama.

“I think it’s just sad,” Cheryl continues, “that you don’t get to experience being a wife. Or a mother.”

Celia stiffens beside you, about to speak but you gently place a hand on her arm. Giving her a look that says I’ve got this. You meet Cheryl’s gaze and smile before speaking.

“Yeah. I’m single. Not married. No kids.” You honestly admit because there’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. “But I’ve built something I’m proud of. I created an app that helps people, employs people. My company is thriving. And most importantly, I’m no longer insecure enough to tear someone else down just to feel better about myself.”

Silence.

A few women shift uncomfortably. Someone clears their throat. Others sip their drinks, faint smiles tugging at their lips. Cheryl doesn’t say another word but you notice the way she purses her lips together like she’s holding herself back from exploding.

Celia squeezes your hand gratefully and stands, clapping her hands together. “Alright, ladies. Let’s start opening gifts!”

The room softens once the gifts are opened. You watch Celia glow as she unwraps tiny clothes and thoughtful presents, her smile full in a way that makes you happy for her without the ache you expected.

You stay for another hour after that, enjoying the food and drinks, talking with people you know from school. When the afternoon begins to wind down, you step aside with Celia.

“I had a really nice time,” you tell her honestly.

She exhales, then leans in a little closer. “I’m sorry about Cheryl.”

You smile softly. “It’s okay.”

She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “Just so you know, most of the guests don’t like her either.”

That makes you laugh and you hold her hand as you remind her once again. “My gift is still on the way.”

She squeezes your hands back as she talks. “Thank you. Really. For even showing up and let me brag about having a successful friend like you.”

Right on cue, her husband joins you, slipping an arm around her waist. You take the chance to thank them properly—for the invitation, for the warmth, for making you feel welcome.

“Thank you for having me,” you say.

They both smile, sincere and kind. In that moment, you can see why they’re married and very certain about it.

“Thank you for coming,” Celia’s husband says with a kind smile.

You wish them a goodnight, one last congratulations, and then you’re back outside, the evening air cool against your skin. You get into your car and sit there for a moment before starting the engine, feeling lighter than you did when you arrived.

And you honestly enjoyed the baby shower. More than that—you enjoyed standing your ground. Not because you’ve been holding onto resentment, but because Cheryl pushed, and for once, you didn’t fold. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t swallow it down and pretend it didn’t hurt. Looking back at it, you don’t know why you were so afraid to stand up for yourself but now, you’re glad you did.

You smile to yourself as the road stretches ahead, then realize there’s no one to share that small, quiet victory with. So you call Lucy and put her on speaker, the phone resting in the cup holder.

The second she picks up, you don’t even say hello. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.”

She laughs. “The baby shower?”

“It was actually… really nice,” you admit. “Celia and her husband were so welcoming. They’re genuinely happy, Lucy. It was—nice to see.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums knowingly. “… And?”

You scoff. “Cheryl the bully was there.”

“Of course she was.”

“She’s still the same bitter girl,” you continue, turning onto your block. “But I didn’t let her get away with it this time. I didn’t even raise my voice. I just—”

Your words trail off as you notice a car parked outside the house. It’s one that you know for sure doesn’t belong to one of your neighbors. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel, alarmed.

“Lucy,” you say quickly, eyes narrowing. “I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, what—”

You hang up to focus on pulling into the driveway slowly, heart starting to beat a little faster now. You turn the engine off, gather your bag, and step out of the car.

You sprint to your porch so if anything happens, you’ll make it safely into your house. As you unlock the door, you’re squinting through the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the unfamiliar car. Then—

You see movements from inside the car and then a soft click. The car door swings open and someone steps out from the driver’s side.

You can’t see this person. Just a silhouette shifting, coming closer. You have your hand on the doorknob, ready to slip into the house. But then the person takes a few more steps forward, into the spill of light from your front porch.

Your heart skips a beat the second you recognize him. Chris. And your heart starts beating even faster.

You stand there on the porch as Chris climbs the steps slowly, like he’s not entirely sure that it’s really you. The porch light catches his face properly now—older, sharper around the edges, but unmistakably him. His brows knit together, eyes searching yours like he needs confirmation.

He exhales, almost to himself. “It’s really you.”

You don’t think he means for you to hear it, but you do. A smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Hi,” you manage, the word catching awkwardly in your throat.

“Hey.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the door behind you. “I was downtown earlier and saw your mom’s bakery was closed, so I thought I’d stop by. Didn’t expect to—” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. “—see you.”

Oh, God, you were right. It was him you were seeing earlier downtown. You hold back from smiling and calm yourself down. “I’m taking a few days off work,” you simply explain. “I’m home for a bit.”

He nods, and something softens in his expression—surprise, yes, but also relief. “I’m… glad you’re here.”

You swallow and mindlessly answer, “Me too.”

The awkwardness settles between you, thick but not unpleasant. It makes sense. Years don’t disappear just because you’re standing on the same porch again. He seems to feel it too, letting out a quiet chuckle.

“I should probably go.”

“Do you want to come in?”

You and Chris say at the same time and a second later, you both burst into soft laughter.

“You first,” he says with a soft, almost shy smile.

“Do you want to come in?”

He looks at you, then grins. God. You missed that grin. “I think this has been sufficiently awkward for one night and I parked too long outside your house so I should probably go.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah. Fair.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. If you don’t have plans. We could… try this again.” He pauses. “Or if you do have plans—”

“I don’t,” you say too quickly. “I don’t have anything planned.”

His smile widens. “Cool. Tomorrow afternoon works for you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’ll pick you up then,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” you echo.

He looks like he wants to say more from the way his mouth opens, then closes. Instead, he steps down one stair, turns back, and says quietly, sincerely, “I’m really happy to see you.”

Your voice trembles just a little. “I’m really happy to see you too.”

Your eyes meet, and the moment stretches—full of everything you don’t say, everything you’re afraid to name. Then he smiles, softer now.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He walks down the rest of the steps. You stay where you are, watching as he reaches his car. Before getting in, he turns back and lifts a hand in a small wave.

You wave back and don’t move until his car pulls away and disappears down the street, leaving you alone on the porch with a racing heart, a promise for tomorrow, and the unmistakable feeling that something long buried has just begun to breathe again.

-

The next day, afternoon slips by in a blur of indecision.

You change outfits more times than you’d ever admit to anyone, muttering under your breath as you stare at the limited selection hanging in your childhood closet. You curse yourself for not packing more or better clothes. And you don’t even know what this is. A hangout. A reunion. Something in between. Is it casual or…

Anyway, you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. But you also don’t want to look like you didn’t try at all.

Eventually, you settle on something simple—a floral dress and white sneakers. Casual but also cute. For the first time in a long while, you actually do your hair, blow-drying it carefully, watching yourself in the mirror with a focus you haven’t given your reflection in months.

You’re not sure what time Chris will come by, but you want to be ready anyway.

So you wait downstairs. You snack on grapes straight from the bowl, pacing between the kitchen and the window, glancing outside far too often. You repeatedly tell yourself that this is probably nothing. Just two old friends catching up. Dinner, maybe. Conversation.

That shouldn’t make you this nervous but when a car finally pulls into the driveway, your heart lurches violently. You nearly choke on a grape, coughing as you scramble for a glass of water to wash it down. You smooth your dress, wipe your hands on your jeans, and school your expression into something calm like you absolutely did not just wait for him for the last hour.

The knock comes and you wait a beat to seem normal before opening the door with a smile. “Oh,” you say lightly, feigning surprise, “you’re here.”

Chris grins. “Hi.”

“Please, come in,” you say as you step aside, opening the door wider. And it feels strange to say it since Chris used to come in like he owns the house.

He walks in, and for a second, the air is thick with things that you can’t name.

Before it can turn awkward, you offer quickly, “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” he kindly refuses with a soft smile.

“Well, uh… I just need to grab my bag upstairs,” you tell him.

“I’ll be waiting.”

With that, you head up the stairs. In your room, you pause at the vanity, applying a fresh layer of lipstick, spritzing a little more perfume than necessary. You grab your bag and take a breath before heading back down. Your heart starts to race again when you see him waiting at the base of the stairs.

He looks good—effortlessly so—in a dark sweater and blue jeans. You stop for a moment, just long enough to take him in, before continuing down. He looks up and smiles when he sees you.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, pulse fluttering in your chest. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

-

✨ EVENTUALLY: FOREVER is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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[seospicybin]

The last anon with the feedback on love is blind versus THTH and love island made such a great point i never even consider that as someone that enjoys reality tv even from a sociology studying point and now got me thinking damm am i old as a 2000 baby lol

Btw I recently subscribed to your patreon to see the bonus content (love it never disappoints) and i start the minho cook series and I'm addicted I feel like I will be re-reading it often! So... I'm here once again being annoyed and asking for a all members as chef series please 🙏 Even though imagining some of the members that seem not to be so good at cooking as chef's is kinda hilarious

Honey Anon

Hi, honey. It's nice to hear from you again.

And no, you're not alone. It never crossed my mind either and I had time researching what dating show readers would like to read as fanfics and still missed. 😣

skz members as chefs? well, we have Minho already. And we have Felix in that too. We already had Changbin in that This & That trailer, he'd be good at being cruel chef but I'm afraid he'd rant about the heat, the rush, the stress. I did think of Chef Hyunjin but he specializes in pastries or more like a chocolate connoisseur. Also thought of Chef Chris with tattoos and exceptional knife skill (yummm...) Seungmin has a good work ethic so he would be good as a chef (As long as Felix is not in the room with him) Han and I.N are just too clumsy, they won't survive the kitchen environment but they'd be good at handling desserts/garnish.

I did plan on writing another fic like Taste, but it needs a very long and very thorough research and that means it's possible that there'll be one in the future, but it'll take me time to make that happen.

Thank you for the input by the way. I received it well and will store it in my idea bank. 🥰

[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

NOW

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (10,8k words)

Author's note: Everyone, pls take care on this very extreme weather cause I'm getting a bit not well here. Stay safe and pls enjoy this one 💕

On paper, your life makes sense.

Your startup is thriving—your name attached to headlines as the founder and CEO of Gatherly. An app that went viral for its aesthetic at first and then as an app that turns studying into something communal, intentional, almost romantic. Eventually, the app is dubbed “Tinder for academia” as it connects people online to gather and meet — to study together. Academia loves it. Students swear by it. Investors call it visionary.

In reality, you’ve just called off your wedding.

It’s supposed to be a private decision. An ending to something that no longer fits. You announce it simply to avoid drama, no explanation beyond what’s necessary. Overnight, your name stops being attached to Gatherly first. Instead, it’s followed by words like engagement, business power couple, wedding canceled. Articles dissect the timeline like it’s a case study. Comment sections bloom with speculation. People who’ve never used your app suddenly have opinions about your life decision.

They don’t ask about the sleepless nights you spent building Gatherly. They don’t ask about the students who write to you saying your app kept them from dropping out. They don’t ask about the systems you designed to make learning feel human again.

They ask what went wrong.

They ask if you’re okay.

They ask if you’ll ever love again like that’s public property now.

Still, you smile, you stay professional, you stand at the head of glass-walled conference rooms and talk about growth, projections, and futures like your life didn’t just fall apart. Your life still works. The company is thriving. Your calendar is full. You’re successful in every way that matters to everyone else.

And yet, when the lights go out, you’re left with the realization that the thing people are most interested in is the one thing you wish they’d let you keep to yourself.

On paper, everything adds up.

In reality, something essential has been reduced to a headline and no one seems to care how much it cost you to survive it.

-

The office feels quieter after hours but it’s exactly what you need to focus on work.

You’re curled up on the sofa in your office, laptop balanced on your lap, glasses perched low on your nose. One heel has been kicked off, the other dangling uselessly from your toes. Code scrolls past your screen as you work, fingers moving non-stop, comforted by the logic of it all.

There’s a soft knock and once you give the permission, your assistant, Lucy steps in. She takes one look at you—half-curled into the cushions, hair pulled back too loosely, still working and something flickers across her face. Concern, maybe. But she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she reports a few things about deadlines, a rescheduled meeting, a finalized contract.

“Thank you, Luce,” you say without looking away from your laptop screen. “And you can go home.”

She nods but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she drifts to your desk, quietly straightening the clutter you’ve let pile up over the week. You let her and shift your focus back on your work.

After a moment, she clears her throat. “You’re staying late at work.”

“Yep,” you simply answer.

“So it means you’ve decided not to attend the school reunion?”

“Nope,” you answer immediately, eyes still fixed on your screen.

You hate that she brought it up. You hate that you feel the need to share the reason why. You sigh and close your laptop partway, rubbing at your temple. “I’m not going because I’m not in the mood to answer questions about my canceled wedding.”

Lucy tilts her head and then shrugs. “It’s been weeks. People probably forgot.”

You shake your head. “No, they didn’t.”

She looks unconvinced, so you turn the laptop toward her and pull up the article. The headline is still there, far too interested in something that was never supposed to be public.

Lucy’s mouth tightens. “That’s… invasive.”

“It’s upsetting,” you say, irritation creeping in. “I built an app that helps people, employs people. I worked hard on it but all anyone wants to talk about is who I didn’t marry.”

You turn the laptop back, swing your feet up onto the sofa again, and resume working like the conversation never happened.

Lucy hesitates but after a while, she carefully says, “Well, at some point… you should get out there again. Date. You know.”

You don’t even look up and give a strong head shake. “No.”

She tries anyway by coyly says, “I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.”

You shake your head for the last time. “I’m done with dating. And men.”

Lucy exhales slowly, conceding defeat. “Alright.”

Done with organizing your desk, Lucy walks away and then pause at the door. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“I’m okay. You can go home,” you assure her with a subtle nod.

She nods, knowing that there’s no way to insist you to go home so instead, she says, “Don’t stay too late.”

You give her a thumbs-up instead.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind her and you’re alone again. The glow of your laptop fills the room as you keep working, convincing yourself that this success is enough.

-

Silence greets you as you enter your apartment.

You kick off your shoes by the door, drop your bag on the sofa, and head straight to the kitchen. You pick up the half-finished bottle of red wine and a glass, bring them with you as you sink into the sofa like your bones are finally allowed to loosen. You open your laptop again out of habit and yes, you come home only to continue working, not because you want to but because stopping feels worse.

This time, you pour yourself a glass of wine before you start and then take a sip, let the bitterness bloom on your tongue, and scroll through emails that blur together.

Lucy’s voice somehow echoes in your head.

I’m sure there’s still a decent man out there.

You almost laugh at that because the man you were going to marry had looked you in the eye and promised you a future. He’d talked about homes and children and forever like they were facts, not bait. And all the while, he was lying. Cheating. Breaking something inside you so that you’re not sure it ever grew back the same way, breaking you to the point that made you think.

That’s it. That’s the only chance you had with love.

He ruined it. He ruined everything. Your gaze drifts, unbidden, through the crack of your bedroom door, to the vanity table where the engagement ring sits there exactly where you left it, the diamond catches the light like it still has the right to be beautiful. Once, it meant trust. Commitment. Promise. Now it’s just proof of how easily those things can be destroyed. So no—you don’t believe there’s still a decent man out there for you. Not anymore.

You take another sip of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Lucy’s words echo anyway and they tangle with everything else you’ve been trying to outrun. People asking how you’re doing with that careful tone that pretends to be concern but is really curiosity. People reading articles like your heartbreak is a business update, like it’s something neat and consumable.

You trusted him with your heart. You almost gave him your forever. And now strangers get to talk about it like it’s trivia.

They don’t know how it hurt. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning and realize something inside you is permanently altered. That trust doesn’t come back the same way. That love doesn’t feel safe anymore.

You close the laptop too hard, the sound cracking through the quiet apartment.

You curl into yourself on the sofa, wine glass abandoned on the table, shoulders shaking before you can stop them. The tears come fast, chest tight, breath uneven.

This is the part no one sees.

Just you, alone at night, breaking apart with the terrifying certainty that maybe this is it. That whatever part of you believed in love was shattered beyond repair. That you’ll never love again. And no matter how impressive your life looks from the outside, no matter how many things you’ve built and led and survived—

It feels unbearably empty right now.

-

The tech expo is a welcome change.

You stand backstage with a wireless mic clipped to your blazer, listening to the low hum of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. It’s loud, but not in the suffocating way boardrooms are. This noise is anticipation. Curiosity.

You like this better than meetings.

Out there, people aren’t waiting to circle numbers in red and talks about strategies that brings the company most money. They want to know you. How you did it. How you built something from nothing and kept it alive. They want to take notes, to borrow pieces of your story and see if they fit into their own lives.

When your name is announced, the applause hits warm and immediate. You’re introduced as the founder and CEO of Gatherly with the kind of reverence that still feels unreal.

You step onto the stage and smile and this one comes easily.

You talk about the story behind Gatherly, how the app goes viral quietly at first because of clean interfaces, warm neutrals and serif fonts that feel borrowed from old books. People start calling it ‘the academia app’.

Students post their “study with me” videos on Gatherly. Aesthetic accounts post their study sessions—coffee cups, annotated notes, rain sounds. And it sticks.

But the aesthetic isn’t the point—it’s the invitation.

Gatherly works like a dating app reimagined for learning. You don’t swipe on faces; you swipe on compatibility. Subjects. Study styles. Time zones. Energy levels. Goals. The app asks who you are when you’re trying, not when you’re posing.

Users find study sessions instead of profiles. They choose where they belong. The design slows people down. It makes studying feel intentional again—like pulling an all-nighter in a library that smells faintly of paper and coffee instead of doomscrolling in isolation.

Academia loves it because it respects the process. It doesn’t gamify learning. It doesn’t shame productivity. It romanticizes effort, patience, showing up—even when you’re tired, even when you’re unsure. And somehow, that’s what makes it powerful.

Gatherly doesn’t promise success. It promises belonging. Because it was never about going viral. It was about making space for people who are trying their best and reminding them they don’t have to do it alone.

Then you talk about failure, about missteps and sleepless nights and how success rarely looks the way people expect it to. You talk about resilience, about learning when to pivot and when to stay stubborn. You talk about sharing knowledge because hoarding it never made anyone powerful—only lonely.

You see people nodding, writing things down and asks questions they’re curious about. But no one asks about your personal life. No one mentions the canceled wedding or your personal life for that matter. They ask about strategy, vision, grit. They ask how to survive doubt without letting it hollow you out and you answer honestly, passionately.

You leave the stage energized, reminded why you love this part of your life so much. Here, your story is something that helps instead of something people consume.

For a moment, you forget how heavy everything else feels and you carry that feeling with you as you step offstage.

Lucy comes up to you with a bottle of water. You have a long sip of it with a straw while staying still as a staff carefully taking off the mic and wire wrapped around you.

“Do I have anything else scheduled?” you ask Lucy as you hand her the bottle of water back.

She shakes her head. “You’re clear for the next hour.”

“Okay, good.”

The expo floor is alive with screens glowing with information on the new technologies presented in each booth, conversations overlapping in every direction. You move from booth to booth, leaning in to listen, asking questions, impressed by what people are building with nothing but curiosity and persistence.

You chat with young engineers, developers with bright eyes and nervous smiles. You find yourself especially proud when you notice how many women are here—confident, brilliant, unapologetically taking up space in a field that once tried to shut them out. It feels like progress you can see.

You’re moving toward the next booth when you think you hear your name but you keep walking because the hall is loud and you probably misheard it.

Three steps later, you hear it again. A voice you haven’t heard in years, pulling itself out of memory and into the present.  You slowly turn around and for a second, you don’t understand what you’re seeing.

There’s a man standing a few steps away from you, tall, familiar in a way that doesn’t immediately land. Your brain scrambles, flipping through faces that almost fit but don’t quite click. He looks older. Broader. Different. Then he starts walking toward you.

And when he puts on a toothy grin, it finally hits.

“Aaron?” you breathe.

He laughs, eyes lighting up like no time has passed at all. “Wow. You still recognize me?”

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Of all places. Of all people. High school feels impossibly far away and suddenly right in front of you.

-

In a different building, in a much quieter space at a café, you sit across from Aaron with a cup of coffee warming your hands, still trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the boy from your memory. He’s older now with facial hair neatly trimmed, shoulders broader, dressed in a fitted shirt and a tie. Someone who grew into himself.

“So,” you say, half-laughing, half-in disbelief, “I really didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. That hurts.”

“No—wait,” you rush to explain. “I just thought you’d still be on a field. Juggling a ball with your feet to dazzle some girls.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I charm people into buying cars now.”

You nod. “So you’re handling the family business now?”

“It’s legacy,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “Also, because soccer was never really my thing. I wasn’t as talented as Chris.”

Your heart tightens at the mention of his name. You keep your face neutral, lift your cup, take a careful sip of coffee that suddenly feels too hot going down.

Aaron watches you for a second longer than necessary. “You still in contact with him?”

You swallow hard. Nod once. Then shake your head. “No,” you say.

Thankfully, he doesn’t push. He only nods, lifting his own cup. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

A beat passes before he adds casually, “He’s coming to the city this weekend.”

“Oh,” you say lightly. “Yeah?”

“The team he’s coaching has a match here.”

You nod, eyes on your coffee. Pretend you’re uninterested. Pretend this is just trivia.

Aaron smirks as he teases, “You’re probably too busy anyway, huh?”

You scoff. “I’m not that busy.”

As if summoned by the universe, Lucy appears beside you, leaning down to whisper, “You have to leave in fifteen minutes.”

You nod. “Got it.”

When you look back up, Aaron is barely holding in his laugh. “Not that busy, huh?”

You shake your head, conceding the loss.

He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a name card, sliding it across the table. “Call me if you ever need to buy a car.”

You smile, taking it, eyes skimming his name and number. “Do I get a discount?”

He looks offended. “I’ll double the price first. Then discount it.”

You glare at him as he laughs, and the sound of it pulls you backward to lunch breaks, noisy hallways, the humiliating walks to class with his arm around your shoulders.

And then—

Chris.

Your smile fades before you can stop it. You quickly glance at the time and stand. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

“It’s fine,” Aaron says easily. “I should get back to my booth anyway.”

“Next time,” you say, “I’ll treat you something better than coffee.”

He points at you. “Hey. You promised.”

You laugh, step in for a quick hug, then pull away. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Aaron says back with a smile.

You wave once before turning and walking off, leaving him behind, leaving the memories with him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you walk away.

-

It’s been a long day but even exhaustion can’t quiet your mind.

Meeting Aaron keeps looping you back to high school bleachers. Lunch breaks in the school yard. Names you haven’t said in years. You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia but it clings to you anyway, stubborn and unresolved.

“Do I have anything this weekend?” you absentmindedly ask, leaning your head back against the seat.

“I think there’s an event. A banquet.” She pauses to reaches for her tablet. “Let me check.”

“Can I see?” You reach over and take it from her hands before she can scroll too far. There it is, a banquet, neatly slotted, labeled with polite importance.

“It’s just a social thing, right?” you murmur.

“Well, yeah,” Lucy says, unsure.

You hand the tablet back. “Can we cancel it? I want to rest this weekend.”

Lucy nods, already typing, flagging the change and alerting the organizer without a question.

“Okay,” she says.

You turn back toward the window as the car slows at a red light, the city glowing back at you. You can’t quite name what you’re feeling but there’s a pull there, undeniable, tangled with hesitation.

You know what you’re going to do this weekend. You just don’t know if you should. And the uncertainty sits with you all the way home.

-

The car has been parked for a while now.

You sit there with your hands resting uselessly on the steering wheel, Sunday afternoon light spilling through the windshield, the stadium looming ahead of you like it’s waiting to be decided on. You could still leave. You could turn the engine on, drive back home, pretend this was just another bad idea you almost followed through with. But you don’t.

What brought you here isn’t courage. It isn’t hope. It’s quiet yet persistent curiosity. The need to know that he’s okay. That despite everything, he landed on his feet.

You inhale air, steady yourself, and step out of the car. The crowd swells around you immediately as you join the queue to enter the stadium. You blend in easily, ticket clutched in your hand, heart beating a little too fast for someone who keeps telling herself this means nothing.

When your ticket is stubbed, you head for the upper rows—high enough to see the whole field, close enough to recognize faces. You sit and you patiently wait until the game starts.

When both teams are being called to the field, you raise from your feet, neck craning to find a face. After a moment, he finally appears and your heart sinks.

Chris stands near the sideline, older now—his face more defined, time etched into sharper lines around his eyes and jaw. But his smile is the same. Full. Warm. Those dimples still sink deep into his cheeks just the way you remember it.

He leans in to talk to one of his players, whispers something you can’t hear, then taps the younger man’s shoulder encouragingly. The player laughs, nods, straightening like he’s been given permission to believe in himself.

Your mouth parts before you realize it and for half a second, you almost call his name. However, the roar of the crowd swallows the impulse whole so you sink back into your seat, hands clenched together as the match begins. You really try to follow the ball, the flow of the game, but all you see is him.

Chris watches the field with total focus, shouting directions and encouragements, clapping enthusiastically, pacing the sideline. He tugs at the tie around his collar now and then, loosening it as the game intensifies with each passing second. He looks at home there. Certain. Alive.

You have to fight the urge to stand up, to run down the steps, to close the distance that ten years have stretched thin but never erased. You tell yourself to sit still, to let this be what it is. A proof that he is here, still doing what he loves — only differently.

Eventually, you manage to focus on the second half of the match. You follow the passes, the rhythm of the game, the tension that builds and releases in waves. You catch yourself leaning forward, breath held, reacting without thinking. For a while, it’s just a match again. Just soccer. Just noise and movement and hope shifting back and forth across the field. Then, the whistle blows for the final time.

Everything stills and then Chris breaks into a wide, brilliant grin. The kind that lights up his whole face. He runs straight into the nearest player and pulls him into a hug, laughing as the rest of the team swarms in. Arms tangle around shoulders. Someone shouts. Someone else jumps. They gather around him like he’s the center of gravity, like he belongs there.

You don’t think about it but rise from your seat and clap, cheering with the rest of the stadium, voice swallowed by the crowd but heart loud enough for you to hear it.

You’re happy. Genuinely, achingly happy. Because good things happened to him. Because he looks proud and fulfilled and surrounded by people who believe in him. Because whatever paths you took, whatever distance grew between you, this is something he earned.

You clap until your hands sting, smiling through the tightness in your chest and for a moment, the ache softens.

For a moment, happiness is enough.

-

The stadium has mostly emptied now and you’re back inside your parked car. Across the lot, the team bus idles near the other exit, red and black paint catching the glow of the floodlights.

You wait because you want to see him—just once, just briefly. Proof that this wasn’t only for you and that he’s real and fine and right there.

Eventually, the players spill out in small groups, freshly showered, hair damp, dressed down but still wearing their varsity jackets like a shared identity. They laugh, shove each other lightly, carry duffel bags over their shoulders.

You step out of your car before you can overthink it, you start walking. Your heart beating too loudly in your ears as you move toward the bus. You already know how this goes as Chris is always the last to come out. Always lingering, talking to someone, making sure everyone else is settled.

As expected, there he is. He stands near the exit, his stance is relaxed and confident, head tilted as he listens to someone out of frame. The sight of him draws a smile from you before you can stop it— it’s automatic, reflexive, dangerous.

You take another step and then another. Your mouth opens, breath pulled in, his name right there on the tip of your tongue—

“Chris!”

It’s not your voice and you stop short.

He turns immediately, expression softening into a smile that isn’t meant for you. A girl jogs up to him, her ponytail bouncing, laughter already on her lips.

He grins wider as he warmly says, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She giggles, cheeks pink from the cold or something warmer. When she reaches him, he slips an arm around her shoulders without hesitation. They turn together toward the bus, talking over each other, laughing as they climb the steps.

Their voices echo briefly in the emptying parking lot and you take a step back. Then another. Your smile gone now, replaced by something hollow. You watch him disappear into the bus and the door folding shut behind them.

With one last look—just long enough to hurt—you turn away and you walk back to your car, carrying the weight of what you came here to see, and what you didn’t expect to lose all over again.

-

Another day passes, and you tell yourself that work will help you forget what you saw and heard yesterday.

You sit at your desk with your laptop open, office washed in late-morning light, Gatherly dashboards and reports waiting patiently for your attention. You should be focused. You are usually focused.

Somehow your screen shows a search result for Chris. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for anymore. Proof, maybe. Reassurance. Or punishment. You hesitate only a second before clicking the link at the top.

His social media loads and it’s mostly soccer—practice sessions, candid shots from the sidelines, photos of him standing shoulder to shoulder with his team. There’s one from last weekend, all of them grinning, arms slung around each other.

He looks good and happy. At ease. You continue scrolling and there she is. The girl who walked with Chris yesterday, you click on her profile to find out that she’s assistant coach. Still, there’s no clear sign on whether he’s married or dating someone. Nothing to confirm or deny it.

You close the page and return to the search results when you spot an older article. The one about the injury he sustained in his second year defending his university’s soccer team. A severe one to the knee and the surgeries done to it, the one that eventually forced him into early retirement.

Guilt coils tight, making you feel sick from the inside out. Your chest aches, heart shrinking as if it’s trying to fold in on itself. You stare at the words too long, each sentence a reminder of how much he lost. Of how much he gave up.

You close the tab abruptly and lean back in your chair. Maybe this is the universe reminding you of something. A boundary. A warning. That whatever this pull is, whatever thread still ties you to him, crossing paths again would only reopen wounds that never fully healed.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself.

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together as the sting builds behind them. You breathe through it, steadying yourself, forcing the tears back down.

A knock sounds at your door.

You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into something calm and slip back into professionalism. “Come in,” you say.

Lucy steps inside with a folder tucked against her chest. She hands you documents to sign, waits patiently as you do. She lists things to approve, questions to answer, confirmations to give.

You respond but only halfway. Your voice is distant, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Lucy pauses, studying you. “Are you okay?”

There’s no point pretending, no point on hiding it so you admit quietly, “I don’t feel well. Is it possible for me to leave early today?”

She checks your schedule quickly. “You don’t have anything critical.”

You nod. “But let me know if something comes up.”

She smiles, gentle and understanding. “Of course.”

Lucy cradles her tablet close to her chest and offers you a soft smile, “I’ll get the car ready for you,” she says before leaving your office.

You sit there for a moment longer, alone in your office, wondering when exactly doing the right thing started to feel so heavy.

-

The elevator ride is quiet in the way that makes your thoughts louder. You lean back against the mirrored wall, watching your reflection blur past floors you barely register. You didn’t do much at work today but you feel wrung out anyway. Tired. Restless. Like your body is moving forward while something inside you keeps snagging on something.

When the doors open to your floor, you step out and walk toward your apartment on autopilot. You unlock the door and stop when you notice someone is in your apartment.

An open suitcase sits on your sofa, clothes folded inside with a care that feels almost insulting and standing beside is the last person you want to see today, of all days — Cole, your ex-fiancé.

Your eyes meet, and the air goes cold. He sighs before quickly explaining. “You told me to get my things while you were at work. I didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

You don’t answer, don’t even acknowledge him but walk past him without a word and head straight into your bedroom. You don’t want to talk to him. You don’t want to hear his voice. You especially don’t want to see that.

The engagement ring. It sits on your vanity, exactly where you left it. Small. Gleaming. A reminder why you don’t want to see him. You grab the box and turn back around.

Cole is zipping up his suitcase when you reappear. He looks surprised when you hold the box out to him.

“Take it,” you say flatly. “Take the ring too.”

He frowns and pushes it back toward you. “I gave that to you. It’s yours.”

“No,” you insist, shoving it into his chest. “Take it back.”

“I’m not taking it,” he snaps. “I meant it when I gave it to you.”

“And I meant it when I said I don’t want it.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re really going to do this right now?”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You’re packing up our life in my living room. When exactly would you prefer?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’re acting like I’m the only one at fault here.”

“Oh, don’t,” you say, anger flaring hot and sudden. “Do not do that.”

“You weren’t there,” he fires back. “You were always working. Always choosing your company over us.”

You scoff. “Right. So you cheated.”

“I cheated because of you.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Oh, yeah, right, blame my career, blame my success.”

“That’s not what this is about,” he snaps. “I always knew you weren’t sure. You never fully committed to marrying me.”

You shake your head. “Those are excuses. You’re trying to justify what you did.”

He laughs bitterly. “Fine. Yeah. I cheated. But it was because I knew you never believed I was the right one for you.”

You don’t hesitate when you retort. “And turns out I was right.”

The words land hard. Cole drops the suitcase with a thud and steps toward you, voice low and tight. “At least I’m not a hypocrite. You just don’t want to admit that I’m right. That you never been and never will be sure about me.”

Your eyes burn, your hand shoots out, pointing the front door. “Get out.”

He turns toward the door without waiting.

“Never speak to me again,” you shout, tears spilling over now. “Do you hear me?”

“That won’t be hard,” he says without turning back.

“I never want to see you again,” you shout, your voice strained in anger.

His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back but he doesn’t say it. He just opens the door, drags the suitcase behind him, and leaves.

The door clicks shut and, in that moment, you break. You sink where you stand, sobbing into the quiet apartment, grief and anger and humiliation crashing over you all at once. The life you thought you were building collapses in on itself, leaving you alone with the echo of slammed doors and promises that never stood a chance.

You cry until it hurts.

Until you’re empty.

Until the silence is all that’s left.

-

You had a hard time sleeping but you wake to the sound of the door opening.

For a moment, you don’t move. You stare at the ceiling, eyes still burn, body sore in a way sleep didn’t fix. You already know who it is since Lucy is the only other person with the spare code.

You consider staying there anyway but lying still leaves too much room for thinking, and thinking feels dangerous today. So you push yourself up, drag yourself out of bed, and tell yourself it’s better to stay busy. Work is easier than sitting alone with everything you don’t want to feel.

When you step into the living room, Lucy is already setting things down on the coffee table—your breakfast, a cup of coffee exactly the way you like it. In her other hand, she’s holding a garment bag wrapped neatly in white.

“Good morning,” she says gently, smiling like she’s trying not to startle you.

You sink onto the sofa as she hands you your schedule for the day. You lift your coffee and glance at it without really reading. She disappears into your bedroom to hang the clothes, moving around your space as it is routine to her at this point.

When she comes back, she exhales dramatically. “I almost had a heart attack when the tailor forgot where he put your altered suits.”

You hum in response, sipping your coffee. It tastes right. You barely notice.

Lucy watches you for a beat too long. “Is something wrong?” she asks in genuine concern.

“Nothing,” you say automatically, lifting the cup again. “I’m just tired.”

Lucy has been working for you for two years, long enough to notice when you’re just tired or something truly bothers you. But she doesn’t ask but looks at you, patiently waiting for you to decide whether you’re going to tell her or not.

You decide on the former, shoulders slumping just a little. “Cole came by last night and we… we had a fight.”

Lucy’s expression softens immediately as she comes to sit beside you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t look fine. You shouldn’t be working today.”

“I can’t not work,” you reply, sharper than you mean to. “I don’t want people thinking I can’t handle this. That I’m not professional.”

Lucy meets your gaze, steady. “At the end of the day, you’re just human. You don’t have to carry everything at once.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Do you?” she asks quietly. “Can you even work properly like this?”

You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out. The silence answers for you.

Lucy reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Take a few days off,” she says. “Go somewhere. Get out of here.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “You mean… A vacation?”

“Yes,” she answers without a beat.

“What about the company?”

“Herman can handle it,” she says without hesitation. “That’s literally his job.”

She’s right. You know she’s right. Herman is the COO and you’re sure he can handle the company for a few days. And still, the idea of stepping away feels terrifying and yet, oddly relieving.

You look down at your coffee, at your hands, at how tired you feel all the way through. “I don’t think I can get through today,” you honestly admit.

Lucy nods. “Then don’t.”

You exhale slowly. “Maybe I’ll go home. See my mom.”

Her smile is immediate. “That’s a good idea.”

For the first time in a while, it feels like the right decision. You haven’t taken time for yourself, not since you called off the wedding. Not since everything started unraveling.

Lucy squeezes your hand again. “Take your time. Rest. Come back when you’re ready.”

You nod.

And this time, you let yourself believe that stepping away might not be failure but survival.

-

Lucy stayed for another hour before leaving to arrange things for your absent in the company.

You pack a bag with essentials only—clothes folded without care, toiletries tossed in last, phone charger, laptop you debate leaving behind but don’t. The apartment feels strangely quiet as you move through it, like it’s watching you go. You lock the door and don’t look back.

The train station is bustling with people. You buy a ticket, board when they call your line, and sink into a window seat like you’ve been holding yourself upright for too long. When the train finally lurches forward, something in your chest loosens.

The city slowly gives way. Buildings thin out. Noise softens. The view outside the window turns into stretches of green, houses tucked into quiet corners, sky opening wider than you remember. You rest your forehead lightly against the glass and let yourself watch.

You can’t remember the last time you did this. Really watched, really sat still without checking emails, without thinking five steps ahead, without measuring time in productivity. Somewhere along the way, you stopped allowing yourself moments like this and only now do you realize how much you’ve missed.

The way sunlight hits trees at this hour. The way the world moves when you’re not trying to control it. The comfort of going somewhere familiar without needing a reason. It suddenly makes sense why you’ve been craving familiarity, why your chest aches for places and people that existed before everything became so complicated. You miss home. You miss warmth. You miss the version of yourself who wasn’t always bracing for impact.

The memories come gently, uninvited but not unwelcome. And as the train carries you farther away from the life you built and closer to the one that shaped you, you close your eyes and let the motion lull you into something that feels almost like peace.

-

By the time you reach your hometown, the day has thinned into evening.

The train, the taxi ride after, they all blur together until you’re standing on the familiar porch, suitcase at your side, heart oddly hopeful. You knock, already imagining your mom’s surprised gasp, the way she’ll scold you for not calling first and then pull you into a hug anyway. But there’s no answer.

You knock again and still nothing. The house is too quiet. You peer through the window, expecting to see a light on, some movement inside but there’s nothing. She can’t be at the bakery because it’s closed at night. A knot forms in your chest as you pull out your phone and call her. It rings and rings.

On the second try, she finally picks up. “Hello?”

“Mom,” you say, relief flooding you. “Are you home?”

There’s a pause. Then a small laugh. “Oh, honey. I’m on the cruise.”

The words take a moment to land because you don’t remember hearing your mom going on a cruise trip. “The cruise?” you repeat.

“The one you got me for my birthday,” she reminds you gently. “A day before I left, I told you on our phone call.”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You must have missed it. Or heard it and forgotten. Either way, it’s your fault.

She doesn’t dwell on it. “What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m just taking a few days off work,” you say quickly. “I wanted to come home for a bit.”

“Are you alright?” she presses because she knows. Mothers always know.

“I’m okay,” you assure her. “I’m just needing some time alone but don’t worry about me. Enjoy your vacation.”

She sounds unconvinced, but she lets it go. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be home soon,” she says softly.

“Okay,” you reply. “Oh—do you still have the spare key somewhere?”

“Yes. Under one of the potted plants.”

You smile faintly. “Enjoy your trip, Mom.”

“I will. Bye, sweetheart.”

With that, the call ends and you crouch down by the pots, fingers brushing against cool ceramic until you find the spare key. You unlock the door and step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you.

The house wraps around you immediately. Warm. Familiar. Lived-in. Changing but also the same — in a way. You stand there for a moment, taking it all in—the faint scent of home, the quiet that isn’t lonely. Then you head upstairs, each step echoing with memory, until you reach your room.

It’s just as you left it. Your books are still lining the shelf, your desk still organized the way you like it, the bedsheets are the same but you catch the smell of detergent, your mom must have washed it like she knows that you’ll come home.

You drop your bag and collapse onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up to you. The mattress welcomes you like it always has, and before you can think too much, you drift into an easy, dreamless sleep.

-

You wake up late the next day, sunlight spilling lazily across your room.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are and a second later, it settles. You’re home. You’re in the bedroom where you grew up with the quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. You stretch beneath the blankets and realize, with mild surprise, that you feel… good.

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in a long time. Deep and uninterrupted, without dreams tugging you awake or your mind racing ahead to the next obligation. You lie there a little longer, staring at nothing, and it feels strange not having to immediately decide what to do next.

Your phone is silent because Lucy has always been good at shielding you when you need it most. No emails. No calls. No emergencies sneaking their way through. Eventually, you get up and wander downstairs, padding into the kitchen for a late breakfast.

You eat slowly, realizing halfway through that the fridge is mostly empty. You should probably do some grocery shopping. The thought doesn’t stress you out. It almost feels… normal.

In the afternoon, you take your mom’s car and drive with the windows down, letting the town guide you. Streets curve into familiarity, muscle memory taking over as if you never left. You pull over across from your old high school without really meaning to.

The soccer field is alive with players running drills, voices carrying faintly through the air. You watch from the car, smiling softly as memories surface. Sitting on the bleachers. Lunch breaks spent laughing. Watching Chris practice while pretending you weren’t. Aaron and Walcott being loud and impossible.

It feels distant, but not gone.

You start the car again and keep driving. You stop for a quick lunch and coffee, savoring both without rushing, then head to the supermarket, listless but content. You push the trolley down the aisles without much thought, tossing things in as they catch your eye.

Snacks you haven’t had in years. Drinks your mom always said were too sweet. Something frozen, something indulgent, something you’ll probably regret later. You don’t stop yourself. You’re not meal-planning. You’re just… choosing.

Only when the trolley starts to look a little ridiculous do you pause and squint at it. You’re grocery shopping like a kid with adult money.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Maybe some fruits.”

Balance. As someone would say.

You steer toward the fresh produce aisle, grab a thin plastic bag and start filling it with tangerines, testing their weight in your palm, choosing out of instinct instead of skill.

That’s when you think you hear your name and you ignore it because this town is full of echoes and old memories. You focus on twisting the bag closed when a trolley skids to a stop just a little too close to yours.

You slowly turn to the side and find someone smiling at you like she’s been sure all along.

“I knew it was you,” Celia says.

Your face breaks open immediately. “Oh my God—Celia!”

You step forward without thinking and pull her into a hug, the kind that’s easy and warm and unguarded, like no time has passed at all. You linger there with Celia between the rows of fruit, trolleys forgotten, talking like no time ever slipped through your fingers.

She asks about your work first and you give her the light version because you don’t want to give the impression that you’re bragging about your success, and she listens with genuine interest, nodding along like she always did.

Then she tells you about her life. About settling down. About how different things feel now, quieter but fuller. She laughs as she talks, eyes bright, and at some point she reaches out and holds both of your hands.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says softly. “I was so surprised when I saw you.”

“I’m taking some time off work,” you explain. “Just… breathing for a bit.”

Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Carefully, gently, she says, “I heard about the news.”

You don’t have to asks to know what she means. You nod once. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry,” she adds, squeezing your hands.

“It’s okay,” you say, and you mean it enough.

Thankfully, she doesn’t linger there. Instead, her face lights up like she’s been holding onto something exciting. “Oh! I’m having a baby shower tomorrow afternoon.”

It’s only then that you really look at her and notice the curve beneath her sweater.

“Oh my god,” you coo, instinctive and soft. “Celia. Congratulations.”

She laughs, cheeks pink, squeezing your hands tighter. “Please come tomorrow. I really want you there.”

“I’d love to,” you say, then hesitate. “But are you sure it’s okay?”

“Of course it is,” she says immediately. “It’ll be fun. Please?”

You can’t bring yourself to say no when she looks at you like that. And maybe—maybe you do need this. Time with someone who knows you, who remembers you from before everything got complicated.

For old time’s sake, you smile and nod. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Her smile blooms on the heart-shaped face, the same as it was back in high school. It strikes you then how some people don’t change much at all.

You help her load her grocery bags into the back of her car, chatting about nothing and everything. Before she gets in, she reminds you once more about tomorrow, pointing playfully at you like she doesn’t trust you not to forget.

You promise you won’t and with that, she waves as she drives off, leaving you standing there with your trolley and a warmth in your chest you didn’t expect.

Maybe coming home was the right idea after all.

-

Later that night, you eat dinner at the small kitchen table—something you cooked yourself, thrown together without a recipe or much thought. It’s probably not the healthiest thing you’ve ever made, but it’s warm and filling and yours. You actually enjoy it, which surprises you.

Afterward, you open a bottle of wine. You pour yourself a glass and carry it to the sofa, settling in with your legs tucked beneath you. It’s funny that you almost forgot how to spend your free time.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, you call Lucy and she picks up immediately. “Just so you know, the company is doing just fine without you.”

You chuckle. “I figured.”

She gives you a quick rundown anyway. Just enough to reassure you that the world hasn’t ended because you stepped away for a few days.

“So,” she says at last, “how’s your vacation?”

You swirl the wine in your glass. “I forgot I sent my mom on a cruise for her birthday, so I’m alone.”

She laughs softly. “That tracks.”

You hesitate, then add, “The bad news is… everyone knows about the canceled wedding.”

“That means you’re famous,” Lucy simply comments. “So what’s the other good news?”

You smile faintly. “I ran into a friend from high school. She invited me to her baby shower tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Lucy says easily.

“I think so too.” You pause to put away your glass of wine. “Can you help me figure out what to get her? I’m terrible at baby gifts.”

“I’ll make you a list,” she promises. “Send you options.”

“Thank you.”

“And,” Lucy adds gently, “enjoy your time there.”

You nod even though she can’t see it. “I will. Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends, and the quiet settles back in. You sip your wine slowly, alone again and then the thought slips in, uninvited.

If Celia knows about your canceled wedding… does Chris know too?

-

The bell above the door chimes softly when you step into the flower shop, the air thick with the scent of fresh blooms. You wander between buckets of flowers, fingers brushing over petals, eventually settling on something bright and gentle that feels right for Celia.

The florist wraps the bouquet carefully. You thank them, step back outside, and unlock your car.

That’s when you see him or think you do.

Across the street, between rows of small shops, there’s a familiar shape. Broad shoulders. An easy stride. For half a second, your breath catches. Your eyes follow instinctively as the man turns, the profile almost right, almost unmistakable—

But then he steps into a café and the glass door swinging shut before you can take a good look at the person. You stand there, bouquet cradled in your arms, heart thudding far too fast for something that’s probably nothing. But then, this town is full of people who resemble memories if you stare long enough. So you tell yourself it’s not him. It can’t be. It’s just coincidence. You shake your head lightly, dismiss the thought, and slide into your car.

Fifteen minutes later, you pull up in front of Celia’s house and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. A few cars are already parked along the curb. Laughter spills faintly from inside. You exhale, feeling suddenly out of place. Crowds like this still make you uneasy—you’d rather be in a room full of businessmen where motives are clear and conversations are transactional. This kind of gathering comes with expectations you’re never quite sure how to meet.

Still, you step inside, scanning the room instinctively for Celia first. You find her near a growing pile of gifts, glowing in a floral dress that hugs her baby bump beautifully. She’s mid-conversation when you call her name softly, trying to be mindful as to not interrupt.

Her face lights up instantly and pulls you into a quick hug, presses her cheek to yours, and laughs softly. You hand her the bouquet you picked up on the way over.

“Your baby shower gift is still on the way so I bought this,” you say apologetically.

“Thank you for even coming,” she waves it off. “And this is perfect.”

She looks around to find someone and when she finally does, she calls someone over—a tall man with kind eyes and neatly kept facial hair. She pulls him to her side before introducing you, and he smiles warmly, shaking your hand.

Celia steers you toward the refreshment table and pours you a drink. You lean closer to her, lowering your voice. “It’s funny—I ran into Aaron a couple of weeks ago.”

Her brows lift in surprise but her smile never wavers for a second.

You hesitate, then add, “I always thought you two were endgame.”

She chuckles softly. “We did pretty good. We made it through college but then broke up not long after because he got busy with his family business.”

You nod because you understand too well what distance can do. So are time and space.

Then, gently, she asks, “What about you and Chris?”

You blink, feigning innocence. “What about us?”

She scoffs playfully. “Please. There was always something about you two.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Well, you know, nothing happened. We went our separate ways.”

Her smile softens in understanding. Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t linger. She places a comforting hand at the small of your back and guides you toward the living room where the other guests are gathering.

You recognize a few faces from high school who mostly came here with their spouses, children, or both. But the ones gathered in this room are women as the men takes over the back yard with the children.

You softly greet the people you know and offer a polite smile to the ones you’ve just met. Your smile drops just slightly when you see her. Cheryl. Older now, but the smugness hasn’t faded.

You sit on the far end of the sofa with Celia beside you, as far from Cheryl as possible. You decide to not acknowledge her presence and take a sip of your drink, briefly wishing it contained alcohol.

Conversation drifts easily but they’re mostly about children, marriages, routines. You lean toward Celia and whisper, “I didn’t know you were friends with Cheryl.”

Celia murmurs back, “She’s married to the mayor’s son so I kind of invited her out of courtesy.”

You nod, understanding.

Cheryl soon launches into a story about her family—how her son is a spitting image of his father, how accomplished her husband is, how impressive his family’s influence has become. The others nod politely, murmuring praise. And then, she turns to you.

“And you? Do you have anything to share?” she asks.

“Not much,” you reply calmly. “Work keeps me busy.”

She tilts her head, feigning sympathy. “I heard about your canceled wedding. That must’ve been… sad.”

You kind of expected that to happen because some people only change shape but they’re the same inside. And apparently, Cheryl still has a bully mentality. Instead of stooping to her level, you remain calm and unfazed.

“I appreciate your concern,” you say evenly. “But it’s behind me now. I’m focusing on my career.”

You think that’s the end of it and that everyone in this room is grown and mature enough not to cause drama.

“I think it’s just sad,” Cheryl continues, “that you don’t get to experience being a wife. Or a mother.”

Celia stiffens beside you, about to speak but you gently place a hand on her arm. Giving her a look that says I’ve got this. You meet Cheryl’s gaze and smile before speaking.

“Yeah. I’m single. Not married. No kids.” You honestly admit because there’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. “But I’ve built something I’m proud of. I created an app that helps people, employs people. My company is thriving. And most importantly, I’m no longer insecure enough to tear someone else down just to feel better about myself.”

Silence.

A few women shift uncomfortably. Someone clears their throat. Others sip their drinks, faint smiles tugging at their lips. Cheryl doesn’t say another word but you notice the way she purses her lips together like she’s holding herself back from exploding.

Celia squeezes your hand gratefully and stands, clapping her hands together. “Alright, ladies. Let’s start opening gifts!”

The room softens once the gifts are opened. You watch Celia glow as she unwraps tiny clothes and thoughtful presents, her smile full in a way that makes you happy for her without the ache you expected.

You stay for another hour after that, enjoying the food and drinks, talking with people you know from school. When the afternoon begins to wind down, you step aside with Celia.

“I had a really nice time,” you tell her honestly.

She exhales, then leans in a little closer. “I’m sorry about Cheryl.”

You smile softly. “It’s okay.”

She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “Just so you know, most of the guests don’t like her either.”

That makes you laugh and you hold her hand as you remind her once again. “My gift is still on the way.”

She squeezes your hands back as she talks. “Thank you. Really. For even showing up and let me brag about having a successful friend like you.”

Right on cue, her husband joins you, slipping an arm around her waist. You take the chance to thank them properly—for the invitation, for the warmth, for making you feel welcome.

“Thank you for having me,” you say.

They both smile, sincere and kind. In that moment, you can see why they’re married and very certain about it.

“Thank you for coming,” Celia’s husband says with a kind smile.

You wish them a goodnight, one last congratulations, and then you’re back outside, the evening air cool against your skin. You get into your car and sit there for a moment before starting the engine, feeling lighter than you did when you arrived.

And you honestly enjoyed the baby shower. More than that—you enjoyed standing your ground. Not because you’ve been holding onto resentment, but because Cheryl pushed, and for once, you didn’t fold. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t swallow it down and pretend it didn’t hurt. Looking back at it, you don’t know why you were so afraid to stand up for yourself but now, you’re glad you did.

You smile to yourself as the road stretches ahead, then realize there’s no one to share that small, quiet victory with. So you call Lucy and put her on speaker, the phone resting in the cup holder.

The second she picks up, you don’t even say hello. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.”

She laughs. “The baby shower?”

“It was actually… really nice,” you admit. “Celia and her husband were so welcoming. They’re genuinely happy, Lucy. It was—nice to see.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums knowingly. “… And?”

You scoff. “Cheryl the bully was there.”

“Of course she was.”

“She’s still the same bitter girl,” you continue, turning onto your block. “But I didn’t let her get away with it this time. I didn’t even raise my voice. I just—”

Your words trail off as you notice a car parked outside the house. It’s one that you know for sure doesn’t belong to one of your neighbors. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel, alarmed.

“Lucy,” you say quickly, eyes narrowing. “I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, what—”

You hang up to focus on pulling into the driveway slowly, heart starting to beat a little faster now. You turn the engine off, gather your bag, and step out of the car.

You sprint to your porch so if anything happens, you’ll make it safely into your house. As you unlock the door, you’re squinting through the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the unfamiliar car. Then—

You see movements from inside the car and then a soft click. The car door swings open and someone steps out from the driver’s side.

You can’t see this person. Just a silhouette shifting, coming closer. You have your hand on the doorknob, ready to slip into the house. But then the person takes a few more steps forward, into the spill of light from your front porch.

Your heart skips a beat the second you recognize him. Chris. And your heart starts beating even faster.

You stand there on the porch as Chris climbs the steps slowly, like he’s not entirely sure that it’s really you. The porch light catches his face properly now—older, sharper around the edges, but unmistakably him. His brows knit together, eyes searching yours like he needs confirmation.

He exhales, almost to himself. “It’s really you.”

You don’t think he means for you to hear it, but you do. A smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Hi,” you manage, the word catching awkwardly in your throat.

“Hey.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the door behind you. “I was downtown earlier and saw your mom’s bakery was closed, so I thought I’d stop by. Didn’t expect to—” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. “—see you.”

Oh, God, you were right. It was him you were seeing earlier downtown. You hold back from smiling and calm yourself down. “I’m taking a few days off work,” you simply explain. “I’m home for a bit.”

He nods, and something softens in his expression—surprise, yes, but also relief. “I’m… glad you’re here.”

You swallow and mindlessly answer, “Me too.”

The awkwardness settles between you, thick but not unpleasant. It makes sense. Years don’t disappear just because you’re standing on the same porch again. He seems to feel it too, letting out a quiet chuckle.

“I should probably go.”

“Do you want to come in?”

You and Chris say at the same time and a second later, you both burst into soft laughter.

“You first,” he says with a soft, almost shy smile.

“Do you want to come in?”

He looks at you, then grins. God. You missed that grin. “I think this has been sufficiently awkward for one night and I parked too long outside your house so I should probably go.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah. Fair.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. If you don’t have plans. We could… try this again.” He pauses. “Or if you do have plans—”

“I don’t,” you say too quickly. “I don’t have anything planned.”

His smile widens. “Cool. Tomorrow afternoon works for you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’ll pick you up then,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” you echo.

He looks like he wants to say more from the way his mouth opens, then closes. Instead, he steps down one stair, turns back, and says quietly, sincerely, “I’m really happy to see you.”

Your voice trembles just a little. “I’m really happy to see you too.”

Your eyes meet, and the moment stretches—full of everything you don’t say, everything you’re afraid to name. Then he smiles, softer now.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He walks down the rest of the steps. You stay where you are, watching as he reaches his car. Before getting in, he turns back and lifts a hand in a small wave.

You wave back and don’t move until his car pulls away and disappears down the street, leaving you alone on the porch with a racing heart, a promise for tomorrow, and the unmistakable feeling that something long buried has just begun to breathe again.

-

The next day, afternoon slips by in a blur of indecision.

You change outfits more times than you’d ever admit to anyone, muttering under your breath as you stare at the limited selection hanging in your childhood closet. You curse yourself for not packing more or better clothes. And you don’t even know what this is. A hangout. A reunion. Something in between. Is it casual or…

Anyway, you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. But you also don’t want to look like you didn’t try at all.

Eventually, you settle on something simple—a floral dress and white sneakers. Casual but also cute. For the first time in a long while, you actually do your hair, blow-drying it carefully, watching yourself in the mirror with a focus you haven’t given your reflection in months.

You’re not sure what time Chris will come by, but you want to be ready anyway.

So you wait downstairs. You snack on grapes straight from the bowl, pacing between the kitchen and the window, glancing outside far too often. You repeatedly tell yourself that this is probably nothing. Just two old friends catching up. Dinner, maybe. Conversation.

That shouldn’t make you this nervous but when a car finally pulls into the driveway, your heart lurches violently. You nearly choke on a grape, coughing as you scramble for a glass of water to wash it down. You smooth your dress, wipe your hands on your jeans, and school your expression into something calm like you absolutely did not just wait for him for the last hour.

The knock comes and you wait a beat to seem normal before opening the door with a smile. “Oh,” you say lightly, feigning surprise, “you’re here.”

Chris grins. “Hi.”

“Please, come in,” you say as you step aside, opening the door wider. And it feels strange to say it since Chris used to come in like he owns the house.

He walks in, and for a second, the air is thick with things that you can’t name.

Before it can turn awkward, you offer quickly, “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” he kindly refuses with a soft smile.

“Well, uh… I just need to grab my bag upstairs,” you tell him.

“I’ll be waiting.”

With that, you head up the stairs. In your room, you pause at the vanity, applying a fresh layer of lipstick, spritzing a little more perfume than necessary. You grab your bag and take a breath before heading back down. Your heart starts to race again when you see him waiting at the base of the stairs.

He looks good—effortlessly so—in a dark sweater and blue jeans. You stop for a moment, just long enough to take him in, before continuing down. He looks up and smiles when he sees you.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, pulse fluttering in your chest. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

-

✨ EVENTUALLY: FOREVER is available on Patreon ✨

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[seospicybin]

EVENTUALLY.

THEN

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: You and Chris chose future over love once, and it cost you everything you didn’t know how to name. Years later, you wonder if the right person ever truly becomes the wrong time. (11,3k words)

Author's note: From my Patreon's unreleased. I once mentioned that it was meant to be fluff so yeah, expect the spicy part in the later part. But I hope you enjoy this one too ❣️

Mornings always started the same way back then.

You stood in front of the mirror, slipping your arms into the sleeves of your jacket, fixing your hair, backpack already waiting by the door. You were halfway through zipping your bag when the sound of a car horn cut through the quiet. Three rapid honks. Impatient in a way that was never actually impatient. Chris.

You took one last glance around the room to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything. Then you grabbed your backpack and ran down the stairs. You made a turn toward the kitchen to snatch the lunchboxes your mom had packed early in the morning before she left to open the bakery—two of them, stacked neatly together. The strap of your backpack slid down your arm as you locked the door, and you safely tucked the keys into your jacket pocket afterward.

On the driveway, Chris was leaning halfway out of the driver’s seat of his car, one arm draped casually over the door. His varsity jacket was slightly rumpled, his hair a little messy, like he’d rolled out of bed and forgotten to tame his wild curls.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said easily, flashing that dimpled grin of his.

You barely acknowledged it and slid into the passenger seat. Instead, you asked, “Did you finish your homework?”

He laughed, already reaching for his bag. “I knew you were gonna ask.”

Chris handed you his notebook without hesitation, like this was just another part of the routine. He started the engine and slowly backed out of the driveway as you flipped through the pages, scanning his answers. He watched you with quiet patience, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as the car glided through the neighborhood streets.

“It’s fine,” you finally said, satisfied, sliding the notebook back into his bag. “You didn’t mess it up this time.”

“See? All thanks to my personal tutor,” he grinned, relief painted across his face. Only then did he pick up the speed of his driving.

The drive to school was filled with half-finished conversations and Chris’s designated going-to-school playlist playing in the background. He parked in his usual spot—right next to the school field. Chris slung his bag over one shoulder and waited on the side of the car for you.

Three steps into the school building, he was already drawing attention as people started calling his name from every direction.

“Chris, my man!” “Hey, Capt!” “Let’s crush it at practice later!”

He responded to all of it with smiles, nods, and a quick joke here and there. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him.

But honestly, you always dreaded this part—you and him walking the school hallways together. The attention. All the pairs of eyes looking in your direction. The whispered secrets being exchanged when they saw you walking next to him.

In fact, this was the only time you weren’t invisible to the rest of the school, as the girl known only—strictly—as Chris’s nerdy friend.

That was what they called you. Not cruelly—just factually. The girl who helped him study. The girl who’d been around since elementary school. The girl no one imagined he’d ever date—not when there were popular girls openly crushing on him, not when he could have anyone he wanted. And honestly, you didn’t even dare to imagine it either.

In homeroom, you slid into your seat near the front. Chris took the desk behind you, stretching his legs out comfortably. When the teacher wasn’t looking, you felt that familiar weight as he gently placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Canteen today?” he murmured, launching straight into a discussion about where to have lunch later.

You tilted your head slightly. “Maybe. Or the bleachers if it’s not too hot.”

“Yard?” he suggested.

You hummed while keeping your eyes on your homeroom teacher. “We’ll see.”

He squeezed your shoulder once before pulling his hand away like he always did, like it didn’t mean anything more than friendship.

The bell rang, and the students dispersed, beginning to move toward their next classes. The two of you stood, already knowing what came next. Different classes. Different hallways.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Chris said, slinging his bag back onto his shoulder.

“Don’t make me wait,” you warned him.

“I won’t,” he said with an easy grin.

You watched him disappear into the crowd before turning in the opposite direction, hugging your books to your chest and blending in with the other students, becoming invisible once more.

-

The lunchtime noise buzzed around you, but you were only half paying attention. You sat on the bench just outside the canteen, one leg tucked beneath you, a book resting open in your hands. You’d already read the same paragraph twice, kept getting distracted by the fact that Chris had made you wait despite his promise.

You decided to send another text. Where are you?

Barely a second passed before a shadow fell over the page.

“I’m here.”

Chris’s head appeared far too close to yours, his cheek nearly brushing your temple, his dimpled grin already in place like he’d planned the timing just to scare you.

You jolted, nearly dropping the book. “Chris—!”

He laughed under his breath, settling beside you like nothing had happened.

“You’re late,” you grumbled, snapping the book shut. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

“Forever?” he echoed, amused. “It’s been, like, three minutes.”

“That’s forever in lunchtime,” you shot back.

He only grinned wider, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the bench. He waited until you finished huffing before turning to you with a softer smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said thoughtfully, and he placed your favorites on the table like a peace offering—a can of sparkling cider and a pack of M&Ms. A carton of pineapple juice sat in front of him.

Then he leaned close and sweetly asked, “Now, can we eat in peace?”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand was already reaching into your bag. You pulled out the two lunchboxes your mother had packed, placing one between you before pushing the other toward him.

Chris’s eyes lit up as he opened the lid, nodding in approval at what your mom had packed for today’s lunch. He practically shouted a thank-you in the direction of your house, palms pressed together dramatically before digging in with unrestrained enthusiasm.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, just as you opened your own lunch—

“Wow.” A voice cut in.

You looked up to see Aaron and Walcott—Chris’s friends and fellow soccer team members—sliding onto the bench, trays of school lunch in hand.

Aaron stared openly at the lunchboxes, eyes full of envy. “Please, pack lunches for us too.”

You shot him a look. “And what do I get in return?”

Aaron leaned back cockily, cupping his own face with both hands. “You get to see my charming face for free the whole lunch break.”

You groaned because not only were they wearing the same varsity jackets, but they also shared the same level of smugness and cockiness. “You’re all the same, I swear.”

Chris laughed, nearly choking on his food, while Walcott just grinned, stealing a bite out of Chris’s sandwich.

Conversation drifted easily as they talked about practice, the upcoming match, and the soccer match that had happened last night. You listened more than you talked, used to this dynamic.

Then a girl approached and stopped in front of Chris, holding out a cold can of soda. You knew her as one of the popular girls at school—Cheryl. She smiled brightly, eyes fixed on Chris, as she sweetly said, “Good luck on the upcoming match.”

Chris blinked, surprised, then smiled politely as he accepted it. “Uh—thanks. I appreciate it.”

As soon as she walked away, Aaron leaned in with a knowing grin. “Told you, man. She’s into you.”

“Just date her already,” Walcott added, squeezing his shoulder hard.

“Just stop,” Chris said firmly, sliding the soda toward Walcott, who was more than happy to receive it.

That, apparently, was invitation enough for the boys to spiral into teasing and listing the girls who had been hitting on Chris. You focused very intently on your lunch, but inside, you were annoyed by these girls who didn’t even do the bare minimum of knowing that Chris didn’t even drink soda.

When the bell rang, they all stood as you did, gathering your bag and book in your arms.

“We’ll walk you,” Aaron declared.

“I’m fine,” you protested immediately. “I can go alone.”

Your protest didn’t mean anything to them, as Walcott slung an arm around your shoulders, steering you down the hallway. Every time you tried to shake him off, he only tightened his hold.

“Stop,” you hissed.

“Nope.”

You eventually gave up and once again dreaded the way people stared—not at them, but at you. You kept your head down, heat crawling up your neck.

When you finally reached your classroom, you let out a breath of relief, but they lingered in the doorway, waving exaggeratedly, calling your name just to make it worse.

“Have a great class, sweetie,” Walcott shouted teasingly.

Chris grabbed the back of both of Aaron and Walcott’s jackets and pulled them away to make them stop. It was too late. Everyone witnessed it. You groaned, hiding your face as they laughed their way down the hall. However, Chris glancing back once, waving his hand and flashing you his dimpled grin before walking away.

-

After the final bell rang, you made your way toward the field without really thinking about it. Your steps felt automatic, like your body already knew where it wanted to be.

Practice was already underway when you arrived. You could spot him easily — Chris in his school soccer jersey, the fabric darkened slightly with sweat, his dark hair flopping over his forehead as he moved. You slowed near the bleachers, dropping your bag beside you before sitting down.

You watched him juggle the ball effortlessly at his feet—once, twice, three times—before sending it flying cleanly to the other end of the field. He moved with a kind of confidence that only came from years of practice and hard work, from knowing exactly what his body could do. You stayed there for a long moment, feeling content from just watching.

When he finally jogged off to the side for water, you stood and made your way down the bleachers. Gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you approached.

Chris noticed you almost immediately. His face lit up in surprise. “You’re still here?”

You smiled, tilting your head. “Just wanted to check if you’re still good.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Rude. I’m amazing.”

You snorted. Hate that he was right.

As he took another drink, his expression softened. “Sorry I can’t drive you home today,” he said.

“It’s fine,” you waved him off easily. “I’ll just take the bus.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there, the sounds of the field fading into the background and Chris looked at you like he wanted to say something else, like the words were sitting right at the edge of his mouth.

Your fingers fiddled with the strap of your backpack and broke the silence first. “Are you still coming over later to study?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. If practice ends in time, I’ll come.”

“Okay.”

You hoisted your bag higher on your shoulder and took a step back. “Have a good practice.”

“You too—” He stopped himself, smiling. “Be careful on the way home.”

You nodded, turning on your heel.

You could feel his eyes on you as you walked away, the awareness warm and strangely heavy in your chest. You didn’t look back right away. You waited until you reached the edge of the field.

When you finally turned, Chris had already pivoted back toward the game, jogging to rejoin his friends like nothing had happened at all.

And yet, the feeling lingered.

-

You were halfway through highlighting a paragraph in your textbook when the sound of a car pulling into the driveway reached your room. You didn’t need to know who it is.

A moment later, the front door opened, followed by a warm, polite voice, just a little louder than necessary.

“Good evening, Ma’am!”

You smiled to yourself as you kept reading. You could hear him laying it on thick like he always did, thanking your mother for the lunchbox, complimenting the food, promising he ate everything. He had perfected the art of charming adults, and your mom adored him for it.

Footsteps followed soon after, taking the stairs two at a time. Chris didn’t knock but pushed through your bedroom door without ceremony. He dropped his bag by the wall before collapsing onto your bed with a dramatic groan.

“Chris,” you sighed without looking up. “You know you’re supposed to knock.”

He rolled to the side and coyly shrugged. “I know you’re just studying.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stood, walked over, and grabbed his arm, dragging him off the bed despite his half-hearted protests until he was sitting on the carpeted floor.

“No outside clothes on my bed,” you reminded him.

Chris grinned up at you, mischievous. “Then I’ll just take my clothes off.”

You took his bag and dropped it onto his lap. “Start studying,” you deadpanned.

Chris huffed but reaching into his bag. He moved slower now, fatigue evident in the way his shoulders slumped as he pulled out his book. Up close, you noticed his hair was still slightly damp, dark strands falling messily over his forehead. He smelled like soap and his musky cologne you’d grown used to without realizing when it happened.

He leaned back against the edge of your bed, flipping to the page he needed. “This part,” he said, pointing. “I don’t get it.”

You grabbed your notebook and pencils, sliding down to sit beside him on the floor, your shoulder brushing his as you leaned against the mattress too. You walked him through it step by step, slowly and patiently explaining it the way you always did.

Chris really listened. His brow furrowed in concentration, eyes following your pencil as it moved. He asked questions. He corrected himself when he realized his mistake.

You watched him, quietly admiring the effort. You knew he had to be exhausted. School, practice, expectations. And still, he showed up. Still sat on your bedroom floor, trying his best to understand something he didn’t have to care about.

It was one of the things you liked most about him among other things. You just didn’t tell him because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, make him cockier than he already was.

The room was quiet except for the scratch of pencil against paper as you waited while Chris finished the last of his practice questions, knees tucked to your chest, back resting against the bed.

“Are you done?” you asked after a while.

“Not yet,” he answered halfheartedly.

It took longer than it should have. Suspicious, you leaned forward, peering over his shoulder. Chris was lying on his stomach now, notebook angled slightly away from you and he was very clearly not doing math.

You slapped his shoulder. “Chris!”

He laughed, twisting onto his side and holding the notebook up proudly with tongue slightly peeking out from the corner of his mouth. “Look.”

You frowned at the page. “…What is that?”

“A dinosaur,” he said confidently.

You scoffed. “You made me wait so you could draw?”

Before you could scold him further, he flipped the page. “All done,” he said smugly.

You stared at the finished questions, then glared at him. “You could’ve said that instead of wasting my time.”

Your argument dissolved quickly into a mess of laughter and shoving, hands pushing shoulders, legs tangling until you were both rolling on the carpet.

“Kids,” your mom stood in the doorway, shaking her head in amusement, taking in the sight of the two of you wrestling on the floor.

“She started it,” Chris said immediately, index finger pointed at you.

You smacked him lightly on the chest and he yelped in exaggeration.

“Your daughter practicing violence instead of studying,” he added solemnly while rubbing his chest.

Your mom laughed, setting a tray of cut fruit and snacks down beside you. “Behave,” she said lightly before leaving you to it.

Chris wasted no time grabbing a handful of grapes, leaning onto his side with one elbow propped against the floor as he popped one into his mouth. Even with his dishevelled hair and the dark t-shirt rode up his waist, he looked like he’s posing for a magazine.

You quickly shifted your focus back to studying. You picked up your pen and his notebook, carefully checking his answers.

One after another—correct. All ten.

You paused, surprised, then cleared your throat and kept your expression neutral. “Well done.”

Chris smirked, popping the last grape into his mouth. “See? I get it.”

You gathered your things, returning them to your desk but stayed seated on the floor next to him.

Chris rolled onto his stomach and reached for a few crackers, chewing thoughtfully. “Studying after school is boring,” he complained.

“You could hang out with your soccer mates instead. I’m sure they’re much more fun than me,” you teased as you bite into sliced apple.

He turned his head toward you. “How about we go see a movie this weekend?” he asked rather too casually.

You assumed the usual, that Chris will bring along his friends and watch the movie together. He’d done it before. “Oh, yeah. I’d love to hear Walcott’s commentary the whole time,” you said dryly.

He frowned. “No. Just you and me.”

You stopped chewing for a second. “Just… us?”

“Yeah,” he nodded like it was obvious.

You schooled your face to remain calm. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t. You told yourself it was just two friends going to a movie together. Nothing more.

“Yeah, sure,” you said lightly.

“Cool,” he smiled while subtly nodding. “I’ll pick you up at seven then.”

Later, you walked him out. He charmed your mom once more in the living room before heading for the door, waving at you as he climbed into his car. You stood there until his headlights disappeared down the street. Only then did you go back inside and couldn’t stop yourself from hiding your smile anymore.

-

You stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary, changing in and out of clothes for a few times. All this effort… You told yourself you were just making sure you looked presentable.

A presence lingered at the doorway as you adjusted the collar of your top. Your mother leaned against the frame, watching you with a knowing smile. “Where are you going?”

“To the movies,” you answered, eyes still on your reflection.

“With who?”

“Chris.”

Her eyebrow lifted slowly. Deliberately. “Oh? Is this… a date?” she teased, delighted.

“No,” you answered without a beat and groaned for giving yourself away.

You calmed your face before turning toward her and tried again. “It’s not a date. We’re just going to the movies.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced.

You busied yourself by combing your hair with your fingers. “We’re just friends. That’s all.”

She chuckled softly, then gestured toward your closet. “Date or not, I think you should wear that cute top.”

You followed her finger to the white blouse hanging neatly among your clothes. The one she bought for you as Christmas gift. The one you hadn’t worn ever since.

“Mom…” you groaned for unknown reason.

“I’m just saying,” she said, picking up the laundry basket from your room and took it with her.

You stared at your reflection again, doubt creeping in as you kept glancing at that white top. With a dramatic sigh, you reached into your closet, took the blouse off the hanger, and changed into it.

You know. Just in case.

-

Chris’s car pulled up right on time.

You grabbed your bag and headed for the door, only for your mom to beat you to it. She leaned casually against the frame as Chris stepped out of the car, greeting her with his usual easy smile.

“Hey, Chris,” she greeted him brightly. “You look dazzling.”

The compliment made him a bit flustered as he grinned, ears reddening. “Thanks, Ma’am.”

You hurriedly made your way out of the door before your mom could tease either you or Chris. Or both.

“Have a great time, you two,” she said brightly.

“I’ll have her home before curfew,” Chris promised without hesitation.

Your mom laughed. “Oh, you can take her out all night. I’m fine with that.”

“Mom!” you groaned, mortified.

Chris laughed but before you could recover, he grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the car.

“Goodnight!” He called over his shoulder at your mom.

You barely had time to protest before you were guided into the car, his hand warm around yours as he opened the passenger door for you.

The car ride to the movies was filled with his voice. Chris rambled easily about the movie options, about how one had better reviews and the other had cooler trailers. You nodded along, half listening, suddenly very aware of how he looked.

He’d dressed nicely in simple dark shirt, blue jeans. His hair was styled, pushed away from his face in a way that made your chest feel oddly tight. And when he leaned over to adjust the volume, the scent of his cologne filled the space between you, familiar but sharper tonight.

Somehow, you thought about what your mom had said and how you told yourself after. Just friends. Still, you wondered if this was really just the two of you going to the movies as Chris kept talking, oblivious, one hand on the wheel as he smiled to himself. You stared out the window, something tugging at your chest and tried not to think too hard about it.

The two of you ended up choosing a rom-com because the other options were horror and thrillers, and despite Chris’s image as this badass, confident soccer captain, he absolutely could not stomach those kinds of movies.

“I’m not watching something that makes me jump every five minutes,” he said flatly.

You smirked. “You can be honest with me and say that you’re scared.”

“I’m sensible,” he corrected.

Tickets bought, the two of you joined the queue for snacks next. What started as a simple decision quickly turned into a heated yet entirely unserious argument.

“We don’t need nachos and popcorn,” you insisted.

“Yes, we do. It’s all about balance,” Chris argued.

“That’s not how balance works.”

Before you could respond, someone stepped into his line of sight.

“Hi, Chris!”

It was Cheryl—the one who’d given him a drink the other day. She smiled, eyes fixed on him and only him, barely sparing you a glance. You were used to it so you did what you always do in this situation, eliminating yourself from it. You stepped forward in the queue, giving them space, and focused on the menu.

By the time it was your turn to order, Chris reappeared beside you, casually slipping an arm around your shoulders.

“Popcorn,” he said to the cashier, “and sparkling cider. And M&M’s.”

You turned to him. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “You always get the usual.”

You scoffed, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Don’t act like you know me.”

He only smiled wider and continued ordering more snacks for him. Then insisted on paying the whole thing.

Inside the theater, you barely had time to sit before Chris was already reaching into the popcorn.

“Hey,” you scolded, lightly slapped his hand. “It’s gonna be gone before the movie starts.”

He pouted dramatically but stopped. “Can I have some of your M&M’s then?”

You poured some onto your hand and handed him a few.

He frowned. “Why are they all brown?”

“Because the colored ones have artificial dyes,” you said seriously. “Bad for your athlete body. I’m basically giving you the best ones.”

He paused, genuinely considering this. Then nodded. “Fair.”

You turned back to the screen just in time to see him lifting an entire handful of M&M’s toward his mouth.

“Chris!” you hissed, grabbing his wrist. “One at a time!”

“Stop scolding me,” he whispered back.

The lights dimmed and everyone in the theatre immediately stopped shifting, turning quiet.

“Shh,” you hurriedly whispered, settling back into your seat.

At the same time, you both let out suppressed laughter, shoulders shaking in the dark. And for the first time that night, you didn’t think about labels. You just leaned back and let yourself enjoy being there with him.

-

The movie played on, soft music filling the theater as the story unfolded. You tried to focus on the screen, on the predictable banter and the slow build between the characters, but Chris kept moving. Not a lot. Just enough for you to notice.

He leaned over to grab popcorn from the bucket resting on your lap, his arm brushing yours every time. At first, you stiffened, then you forced yourself to relax, pretending it didn’t register. His hand settled on the armrest between you, palm turned upward, open and close enough that you were painfully aware of the space it occupied. Too close to be nothing. Too far to be something.

A few times, you felt his gaze on you, and when you glanced back, he looked away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, his attention snapping back to the screen.

The movie reached the part you knew was coming. The characters finally stopped pretending. They stood too close, voices dropping, eyes searching each other’s faces. When they kissed, it was soft and inevitable, and the theater went quiet in that shared, collective stillness.

You felt warm all of a sudden. You shifted in your seat, trying to act casual, like the scene didn’t affect you at all. Like you weren’t imagining what it would be like if it were you and Chris instead—if his hand on the armrest moved just a little, if he leaned in the way the actor did.

You had to actively tell your brain not to look at him and forced your eyes on the screen instead, heart beating a little faster than it should, telling yourself again and again that this was just a movie. It was the proximity, the dark playing tricks on you.

Still, when Chris’s fingers curled slightly on the armrest, you felt the unspoken invitation to put your hand on his, slipping your fingers between the gaps and intertwining them together.

God, you wondered…

And yet, you didn’t dare to move.

-

When the credits rolled, the lights slowly came back on. You stretched, blinking as the theater filled with movement again.

“I’m going to go to the restroom,” you told Chris, already standing.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said easily.

You nodded and slipped away. Inside, the restroom hummed with the sounds of people shuffling in and out of the stalls, footsteps against tile, the rush of water, the harsh whine of the hand dryer. You ducked into a stall, shutting the door quietly behind you, taking a breath.

The sounds faded one by one until it was quiet. You took a moment to relish everything—the moments you’d quietly shared with Chris in the darkened room. You smiled to yourself as you recalled and questioned everything at once.

Then you heard voices, and you recognized them immediately. It was Cheryl and the friend she’d come to the movie with.

“At first I thought I was seeing things,” Cheryl said with a scoff. “But it was Chris. With her.”

Your stomach tightened, your breath slowed, realizing she was talking about you.

Another girl hummed in response, uninterested but listening.

“I mean—how does that even make sense? What does he even see in her? She’s not… like—” Cheryl trailed off, sounding distracted for a second before finishing the sentence. “She’s not fit for him.”

Your fingers curled against your thigh, nails digging through the denim. You pressed your lips together to keep from making any sound, exposing yourself for listening in on their conversation.

The second girl laughed softly. “She probably thinks she has a chance.”

They giggled, the sound echoing in the quiet room, endlessly mocking you.

“Like some hopeless wannabe Chris’s girlfriend,” Cheryl said with a sharper scoff. “As if.”

“So… pathetic,” the other added and they burst into laughter. Like the words they’d said were harmless. Like the very person they were talking about couldn’t hear it.

You sat back on the toilet lid, heart pounding, staring at the stall door as if it might give you away. You didn’t move. You didn’t say anything, because interrupting would hurt worse. You just waited in silence as your heart grew heavier, sinking deeper and deeper.

Eventually, their voices faded. You heard the door open and close. Then silence.

You waited a few more seconds before stepping out and walking to the sink. You turned the faucet on and stared at your reflection. You looked the same as you always did. The same face Chris had known since you were six. The same girl who packed lunchboxes and tutored him on bedroom floors.

And suddenly, you felt foolish for fixing your hair, for changing your top, for thinking—just for a moment—that this night meant something. What a fool you were to believe someone like Chris would ever look at you that way. To imagine you could be enough. To even let the thought exist.

The doubt spiraled fast, relentless, pulling you under until you couldn’t tell which parts were theirs and which parts were yours. You dried your hands slowly, fought the tears stinging your eyes, swallowed the lump forming in your throat. And when you looked at your reflection in the mirror again, you convinced yourself you were okay and walked toward the door.

Chris was leaning against the wall when you came out of the restroom, phone in hand. He looked up immediately, a smile breaking across his face like nothing in the world could be wrong.

“Hey,” he said, falling into step beside you. “Let’s go grab something to eat before we head home? I’m thinking something greasy, so… burgers?”

“I just want to go home,” you said.

He paused, glancing at you. “What? Why—are you sick?”

“No. I think all that romance just made my stomach sick,” you joked weakly and managed a faint smile. “Probably hormones. Or my period.”

Chris grimaced in sympathy, concern flickering across his face before he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll take you home.”

The drive was quiet, but your head was loud instead—those words replaying over and over, sinking deeper every second. Not fit for him. Wannabe. Hopeless. Pathetic. They echoed until it was hard to hear anything else. Hard for you to ignore.

Chris glanced over at you. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m just sleepy,” you lied easily, staring out the window.

He checked the time. 10.03 p.m. “Wow. Yeah, it’s way past your bedtime.”

You let out a small chuckle, hoping it sounded convincing enough while still avoiding his eyes.

When the car stopped in front of your house, you forced a smile and reached for the door. “Goodnight.”

“That’s it? No goodnight kiss for me?” he teased, dimples sinking deep into his cheeks as he grinned.

You glared at him. “Goodnight, Chris.”

He laughed as you closed the door, and you could feel his eyes on you as you walked toward the house—but this time, you didn’t turn around. You kept walking until you were inside, until the door shut behind you.

Your mom looked up from the living room. “Hey, honey. How was the movie?”

You didn’t answer and headed straight for the stairs, feet heavy, chest tight. Once inside your room, you dropped your bag and collapsed onto the bed, curling into a ball as the tears finally spilled over.

Your mom’s footsteps approached, and not long after, the door creaked open. “I didn’t expect you home so—” She stopped when she saw you.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, immediately sitting on the edge of your bed, her hand rubbing slow circles against your back. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Everything, you answered inside your head. Instead, you shook your head, crying harder.

“Are you hurt?” she asked gently.

All over. Yet you shook your head again.

She was quiet for a moment before asking softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You lifted your face just enough to whisper, “I just want to be alone.”

She nodded, understanding without pressing. “Okay. You tell me if you need anything, alright?”

You nodded as you hid your face behind the pillow.

“I love you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before leaving you alone in the dim quiet of your room.

And you cried and cried until the night felt too big to hold.

-

After that night, you learned how to draw lines.

Not the obvious kind, just invisible ones you kept reminding yourself not to cross. You told yourself, over and over, that you were just Chris’s friend. That you had always been just that, and that it would stay that way. You became good at repeating it until it sounded true.

School kept moving whether you wanted it to or not. Classes piled up, deadlines crept closer, graduation looming on the horizon like something unreal. You threw yourself into your studies because it was easier to focus on grades and schedules than on the way your chest still tightened whenever Chris smiled, or grinned, or leaned too close. Or how he made jokes just to make you smile.

Some part never really changed. You still talked to him every day. He still drove you to school, still had lunch together with you, still texted you memes at midnight like nothing had shifted. And maybe nothing had—not for him, anyway.

You learned to swallow the ache and answer him like everything was normal. Because friends did that.

You watched him live his life—soccer practices, matches, teammates, people who orbited around him so naturally it made you feel like you were standing just outside the frame. You reminded yourself that he was allowed to have a world that didn’t revolve around you, that you weren’t entitled to more.

So you chose yourself instead. You stayed up late to study, headphones in, notes spread out across the table. You started thinking about the future, about colleges, about leaving, about who you could be when high school was finally over. You told yourself that that feelings were temporary, just things you outgrew if you ignored them long enough.

Some days, it almost worked. Other days, you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, and your heart stumbled all over itself. And on those days, you looked away first and locked your heart shut.

You learned how to want him quietly. You learned how to be his friend without asking for more, how to smile without letting it show how much it cost you. And somewhere along the way, you convinced yourself that this was safer.

High school would end. You would move on. And Chris would just be someone you once loved in a way you never said out loud.

-

The box of sandwiches was warm against your stomach, the paper bags crinkling softly with every step. Your mom had woken up early to make them because it was something she liked to do as a form of contribution and also because it was the last match of the season—the last time this team would play wearing the school’s colors.

The second you pushed open the locker room door, the noise hit you.

“YEAHHH—!”

Cheers erupted like they’d been waiting for you. It seemed like they had been, in fact, expecting you. Someone whistled. Someone else clapped. Aaron was the loudest of all, already halfway across the room with his arms in the air.

“Our favorite person is here!” he announced, dramatic as ever.

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Don’t eat them yet. These are for after warm-ups,” you warned, narrowing your eyes while holding the box away from him.

A collective groan filled the room, followed by laughter. You scanned the space out of habit, craning your neck to look between the rows of lockers and through the chaos of a room full of testosterone. You noticed the absence of one person.

“Where’s Chris?” you asked, turning back to Aaron.

He jerked his thumb toward the hallway. “He got called to the coach’s office earlier.”

Your brows knit together, confused and slightly concerned. “Why? Is he in trouble?”

Aaron snorted like the idea was offensive. “Please. Chris? Trouble?”

You hummed, unconvinced, but before you could say more, you gestured toward the door. “Can you help me grab the boxes from the car? There’s more. My mom went all out.”

Aaron’s eyes lit up at the mention of more food. “Say less.”

The two of you headed out to the parking lot, the late afternoon sun hanging low and golden. Aaron hoisted the box like it weighed nothing, chatting as easily as he always did.

“So,” you said casually—maybe too casually—“do you know why Chris was called in?”

Aaron scoffed again, like the answer should have been obvious. “Scouts.”

Your feet skidded to a stop as you used the chance to adjust your grip around the box of cookies. “Scouts?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back at you, grinning. “He’s been getting offers from universities to join their soccer teams. Big ones. They’ve been watching him for a while.”

Your chest tightened because Chris had never told you any of it. “Oh.”

It wasn’t really a surprise. You’d always known this was coming. You’d seen the hours he put in, the way he treated the field like something sacred. Chris was good. Everyone knew it.

“Do you think he’ll take it?” you asked, even though part of you already knew the answer.

Aaron gave you a look. “Of course he will. It would be stupid not to take it.”

You nodded slowly, your steps falling back into rhythm beside him. “Yeah. Right.”

Chris was smart. He knew what he wanted. He knew how hard he’d worked for this. You pictured him in a different jersey, on a different field, chasing the same dream he’d always had—and instead of sadness, what rose first was pride.

You smiled to yourself as you walked back toward the locker room, because good things were happening to good people. And even if your place in his life had shifted, even if it hurt sometimes, you were still happy for him.

That was what you did. That was what friends did.

-

The bleachers were already packed by the time you and your mom squeezed into a spot halfway up.

It felt like the whole town had shown up tonight. Familiar faces from school, parents, kids with painted cheeks, even shop owners who definitely should’ve still been working—your mom included. She’d closed the bakery early to watch her charming boy, Chris, play his last match defending the school.

“This is a big one,” she said, more to herself than to you.

When the team finally ran out, the crowd erupted. The sound was almost physical, vibrating through the metal bleachers beneath your feet. You leaned forward automatically, eyes sweeping the field, and you spotted him immediately.

Chris jogged out with the rest of the team, jersey clinging to his shoulders, hair already a little wild. Then he slowed, craning his neck, scanning the bleachers like he was searching for something—or someone.

Your heart stuttered when his eyes landed on you and his face broke into that dimpled grin you knew too well, the one that felt like it was meant just for you. He lifted a hand and waved, a little shy despite everything.

You laughed softly and waved back, mouthing good luck with an exaggerated thumbs-up. Your mom squeezed in beside you, also waving and wishing him luck.

He nodded, eyes lingering for half a second longer, before turning back to his teammates and taking his position on the field.

A moment later, the whistle blew and suddenly you weren’t thinking about anything else. You gripped the edge of the bleacher, breath caught in your throat as the ball moved back and forth across the field. You sucked in a sharp breath when Chris nearly scored, your mom clutching your arm at the same time.

When he got tackled, you gasped, half-rising from your seat until he pushed himself back up, shaking it off like it was nothing.

With only a few minutes left in the second half, the ball arced perfectly, Chris moved on instinct, and when it hit the back of the net—GOAL!

You were on your feet before you realized it and the crowd exploded in cheers, whistles, screams. You were shouting too, hands clapping, heart pounding as you watched Chris throw his arms up, his teammates swarming him in celebration. He’d done it. They’d won.

When the final whistle blew, the noise became deafening. The team piled together at the center of the field, laughter and shouts and pure, unfiltered joy spilling out of them.

You watched Chris in the middle of it all, sweat-soaked and glowing, smiling like this moment was everything he’d ever worked for.

And it hit you all at once.

You were happy—so happy—for the way he’d grown into this person, for the way his hard work had finally paid off, for the future opening up in front of him, wide and bright. But tucked into that happiness was a tint of ache.

High school was ending. This chapter was closing. Soon, the paths you’d been walking side by side would start to drift apart, each of you following your own direction. The realization was bittersweet, but even as your eyes burned, even as a tear slipped free, you smiled anyway because this moment deserved joy.

And you let yourself feel all of it at once.

-

The car ride felt much quieter after all the loud, deafening cheers from the soccer match earlier. Your mom hummed along to the song playing on the radio, hands steady on the steering wheel as she pulled into the diner’s parking lot. The neon sign buzzed softly, the place already glowing with noise and a growing crowd.

“Okay, we’re here,” she announced, slowing to a stop.

You nodded, gathering your phone and jacket. You paused with your hand on the door handle, then turned back. “I’ll be back before curfew.”

Your mom snorted. “You’re eighteen. You don’t have a curfew.”

“I’ll be back before curfew anyway,” you said with a grin.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Just have fun. You earned it.”

You pretended to think about it, eyes drifting up as if considering something monumental. “Hmm… nope. I’ll be back before curfew.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “Just be safe, okay?”

“I will.” You leaned over, gave her a quick hug, and murmured, “Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight,” she replied, watching you fondly as you stepped out of the car.

The diner was already packed, booths full, laughter bouncing off the walls. As soon as you stepped inside, you spotted Aaron’s girlfriend, Celia, waving both hands enthusiastically from a booth near the back.

“Over here!” she called.

You weaved through the crowd and slid in beside her, passing the time chatting about the match earlier.

A moment later, the front door burst open and the team stormed in like a parade—a sea of blue and black varsity jackets, loud and chaotic. The entire diner erupted into cheers, people clapping and whistling as if the match were still happening. You laughed as Aaron and Walcott hoisted Chris into the air, leading everyone to chant:

“Best captain! Best captain! Best captain!”

Chris groaned, ears and face reddening as he laughed and squirmed. “Put me down—guys—guys—”

They finally released him after throwing him into the air once, and he stumbled back to the ground, still smiling like he didn’t know what to do with all the attention.

Once everyone settled into booths, plates of burgers, fries, and sodas crowded the tables. Chris slid in next to you without thinking, his shoulder brushing yours as he grabbed a fry from his plate.

“Great match!” you praised genuinely, a hand gently placed on his shoulder. “Great play. All of you!”

“Thank you,” Chris said with his mouth full.

“My mom cheered so hard I think she’s legally allowed to adopt you now.”

He laughed, ducking his head. “Whoo! Free bread for life.”

“Not bad, right?”

Still, he couldn’t help himself. “I should’ve passed earlier in the second half. And my timing on that last run—”

You cut him off with a look. “You played great. The team won. That’s the part that matters.”

He exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

With that, he took a bite of his burger, chewing at ease. And you wanted to ask about the scouts or the offers he’d received so far—but you figured it wasn’t the best time. Not here. And definitely not when everyone was celebrating.

Across the table, Aaron and Celia suddenly leaned in at the same time, muttering something to each other before their lips met in an innocent kiss—and when they kissed again, it escalated into a full-on make-out within seconds. You and Chris groaned in perfect sync.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, looking away in disgust.

“Get a room!” Chris groaned as he grabbed a fry and tossed it. It bounced off Aaron’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Aaron laughed, holding up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay—no violence from the captain.”

Celia only giggled as Aaron wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Then he eyed Chris. “After-party at my place?”

Chris shrugged, then tilted his head toward you. “I gotta drive her home. She has curfew.”

You elbowed his side. “I’m eighteen. I don’t have a curfew.”

Chris winced and tried again. “I meant it’s way past her bedtime. She gets cranky.”

You slapped his chest hard enough that he yelped, his hand flying to his heart. “Ow!”

You looked back at Aaron, smiling sweetly. “We’ll be there.”

Aaron leaned back, satisfied. “Cool.”

Chris looked at you, rubbing his chest, eyes bright. “You’re violent.”

You leaned in and grinned, then absentmindedly said, “You love it.”

And for a second, he looked at you like maybe that was true.

-

The celebration continued from the diner to Aaron’s house, as it was the designated hangout place for the soccer team. Chris drove the car slowly, his night drive playlist softly playing through the speakers, the windows cracked open, the night air cool against your skin. You were halfway relaxed when you realized the streets were… wrong.

“Chris, you missed the turn,” you said as you glanced at him.

He didn’t even look at you. He just smirked, one hand steady on the wheel. “Did I?”

“Yes. Aaron’s place is the other way,” you said matter-of-factly.

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “Then where are we going?”

He finally looked over, a crooked grin on his face. “Trust me.”

You scoffed, arms crossing. “That’s not an answer.”

The farther he drove, the more you recognized the road. The old stretch with the uneven streetlights. The public library. The park, and then—

“This is—”

“The elementary school,” he finished lightly as he pulled into the empty parking lot and killed the engine.

The building loomed in the dark, windows black, the flagpole creaking faintly in the breeze. It looked smaller than you remembered and somehow more intimidating at night. You stepped out of the car, hugging your jacket closer as you waited by the door, eyes drifting over the school you’d both attended years ago. Memories flooded in—sticky cafeteria tables, scraped knees, the first time you’d met him.

Chris shut his door and walked over, his grin still firmly in place. He turned on the flashlight on his phone and shone it straight up at his face, casting ridiculous shadows. “You up for a trip down memory lane?”

“You’re so stupid,” you groaned, a smile tugging at your lips.

He laughed, already turning away. “C’mon.”

Despite having no idea what he was planning—and every instinct telling you to ask more questions—you followed him. Past the school building. Past the quiet playground where the swings swayed slightly in the wind. And then farther.

Toward the tree line. Into the woods.

-

The woods felt different at night.

Teachers had warned everyone not to go past the fence, not into the woods—but you and Chris had never listened. You remembered how you used to run through here without a second thought, sneakers crunching over leaves, laughing too loud, convinced nothing bad could ever happen to you. You were braver then. Or maybe just smaller, with less to lose.

“I think we were fearless,” you murmured, following close behind him, your flashlight beam shaking slightly with each step. “We were, like… eight. Wandering around here like it was nothing.”

Chris snorted softly. “Yeah. I’m realizing now this place is actually kind of terrifying.”

You laughed under your breath. “Right?”

You’d been walking for more than ten minutes when the boulder came into view. It was still there, massive and stubborn, perched near the edge of the hill like it had been waiting for you. Memory crashed into you all at once—scraped palms from climbing it, afternoons spent drawing on the rough surface with crayons, pretending the two of you were explorers instead of bored kids.

You shone a light over the surface and swallowed. “I thought everything would be gone.”

“Me too.”

But when you angled the light just right, you saw the faded streaks of color caught in the crevices. Ghosts of crayon. Red. Blue. Yellow.

“This stupid rock,” you whispered with quiet affection as it held so many memories.

Before you could react, hands gripped your waist and lifted you effortlessly.

“Chris—” you yelped as he hoisted you up.

“You’re welcome,” he grumbled.

You scrambled onto the top and scowled down at him. “I could’ve climbed myself.”

He scoffed, already pulling himself up with ease. “Sure.”

You sat side by side, so close your shoulders brushed, legs dangling over the edge. The town stretched out below you, lights scattered like stars fallen to the ground, framed by trees swaying gently in the wind.

“Didn’t know the view looked this beautiful at night,” you sighed in awe.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly.

A cold gust cut through you and you shivered. Without a word, he shrugged off his varsity jacket and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm and smelled just like him. You didn’t argue, but clutched it closed and smiled as you muttered, “Thank you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable and full. But at the same time, it was heavy with things you wanted to say but didn’t know how.

“School’s ending soon,” you said eventually.

“Thank God,” he muttered as he leaned back, hands propped against the rock.

“You’re gonna be this huge soccer star,” you teased, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Too famous to remember me.”

He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I heard you got scouted,” you added carefully.

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a slow nod.

“That’s amazing.” You turned to him, eyes bright. “You’re so close to your dream.”

“Mm.”

The faintness of his smile made you uneasy. “You’re taking it, right?”

He went quiet, and you waited patiently for his answer. Inside, you hoped he was only hesitating to share—not because he had bad news.

When he sat straighter and finally looked at you, it felt like the air shifted. Like the world narrowed down to just the two of you sitting on a rock in the dark. He inhaled deeply and held your gaze.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he blurted quietly.

For a second, the world felt suspended in time and your heart skipped a beat.

“No—” Chris quickly corrected.

The world tilted and your heart dropped.

“I…” He swallowed before finally finishing. “I love you.”

Air caught in your throat. Your heart hurt so good.

He kept going, voice steady but raw. “I love that you’re smart. You care. You see me. You’re patient with me. I love the way you worry about everything. I even love your weird sense of humor.”

You laughed softly, confused, flabbergasted, heart pounding.

Then his hands cupped your face, and he said it again with all of his heart. “I love you.”

The words hung there, fluttering in the air, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said out loud until now. You were still processing when he leaned in and kissed you. His lips were plush and soft against yours, brushing so tenderly, like he was afraid of breaking the fragility of the moment. The kiss was gentle yet certain, like something inevitable finally happening. Your eyes stung, tears threatening, because it felt right in a way you hadn’t known how to want.

Chris pulled away slightly, his thumb swiping across your wet lower lip, his eyes lingering with want before flicking up to yours, searching for permission. You gave him a small nod, and that was all it took. He moved his hand to the side of your face, cradling your jaw as he leaned in once more.

The first press of his lips was innocent until he parted his mouth just enough to capture your lower lip between his. You felt the way he gently sucked on it, the way his warm tongue brushed over your lips, patiently coaxing your mouth open. You caved almost immediately, letting him taste you more.

Chris didn’t rush. He knew how to build anticipation. First, his hand slid to the nape of your neck, holding you there as he tilted his head. Only then did he slip more of his tongue in, deepening the kiss, stealing the air from your lungs with each passing second. It was dizzying, intoxicating—and still, you didn’t want it to stop.

By the time he broke the kiss, you were gasping for air. He smirked in satisfaction like it had been his intention all along. Then he rested his forehead against yours, and the two of you stayed like that for a moment.

“I want to be with you,” he whispered.

Maybe it was because you were still catching your breath, the lack of oxygen clouding your thoughts, that you didn’t immediately question what he meant beyond wanting to be with you like this.

“I want to stay close to you,” he continued, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with such care. “I’ll go wherever you go.”

That was when you saw the fault in his words, and you hesitated to ask, afraid of the answer. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll come with you wherever you’re going,” he said like he hadn’t just committed himself to you.

You should’ve been happy to hear it, to know he was willing to go that far to be with you. Instead, your stomach dropped in shock. “But Chris… what about the scouts, the offers—”

“I won’t take it.”

“No,” you said instantly, pulling back. “No.”

His face fell. “Why?”

“You can’t do that,” you insisted, your voice trembling.

“Yes, I can.”

“We’re eighteen. You don’t know—”

“I do,” he cut in. “I know what I want.”

“But I—I have my own dreams,” you stuttered desperately. “And you have yours. You worked too hard for this.”

“There are other teams—”

“I don’t want you giving this up because of me,” you said, tears spilling over. “I couldn’t live with that.”

“It’s my life,” he argued softly. “I know what I want.”

The wind cut through the trees, colder now, like it was trying to sober you from the moment. You sat there in silence, Chris’s jacket heavy on your shoulders—warm, but weighing on you now.

Part of you thought you should feel happy. You were happy, in some fragile, devastating way. Because your feelings hadn’t been imagined. Because he’d said it out loud. Because he loved you enough to consider giving everything up.

But instead, it hurt.

It hurt because loving you shouldn’t mean sacrifice. Not like that. Not his dream. Not the thing he’d chased with sweat and tears and hard work and every ounce of discipline he had. The thought of him letting it go for you settled in your chest like guilt—heavy and suffocating.

“Chris, please…” you said, your voice trembling with sadness. “Take the offer. Do it. For yourself.”

The silence stretched before you added, pleading once more, “For me. Please…”

He grew quiet, considering it for a long, solemn moment until you saw surrender in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said with a heavy sigh, like it hurt to say it.

You closed your eyes, letting out a breath of relief, telling yourself you were doing the right thing. That this was what loving him looked like.

Still, a quieter, crueler thought slipped in and refused to leave. That someone like him—bright, driven, adored—should never have to choose. That you weren’t deserving of a love that asked him to shrink his future. That letting him go might be the only way to prove you loved him back.

So you sat there, next to the boy who loved you, staring out at a town full of lights, holding onto warmth that already felt like a memory, telling yourself the ache was worth it.

That someday, you’d understand why it had to hurt this much.

-

Graduation day felt unreal. It hadn’t fully sunk in that you had finished high school, that you’d graduated and this part of your life had ended. You were about to step into the real world now.

You loosened the front of your gown as you stepped onto the field, joining the other students greeting their parents. Your mom pulled you into a tight hug and placed a kiss on the cheek, a flower bouquet pressed to your chest as she looked at you with pride and fondness—and a hint of disbelief at the reminder of how much time had passed, how much you’d grown.

“So proud of you,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Thank you, Mom,” you muttered with a smile.

She sniffled and shifted her focus to the camera she was holding. “Let’s take some pictures.”

You stood beside your mom, cap crooked on your head, smiling for pictures you knew she would treasure more than you ever would.

“Wait,” she said suddenly, her eyes lighting up. “Chris!”

You turned just in time to see him walking toward you, gown hanging open, hair slightly messed up like always. He smiled when he saw you—soft and knowing, a little careful now.

“Come here,” your mom insisted, already waving someone down to take the photo.

You stood together, your mom wedged snugly between you and Chris, her arms hooked through both of yours. The student holding the camera laughed, counting down before snapping the picture. You smiled automatically, your cheeks aching.

However, your mom wasn’t done when she got the camera back. “Now just the two of you,” she said, ushering herself out of the frame.

You stepped closer to Chris, the space between you shrinking until your arms nearly brushed. He hesitated for half a second before his hand settled at the small of your back.

The touch was light, but it sent a quiet ripple through you—different now that you knew what it meant. You glanced up at him without thinking, and for a brief moment, your eyes met. There was something there, something warm and aching, unresolved.

You looked away first, faced the camera, and smiled. So did he.

Once your mom had taken more pictures than strictly necessary, she turned to Chris, her hands clasped proudly.

“Congratulations, Chris!” she said with a bright smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said politely, his usual charm reserved just for your mom. He took his cap off and teasingly added, “All thanks to your smart, violent daughter.”

Your mom chuckled softly. “I heard about the scout. My God, you’re going places.”

His eyes met yours for a brief moment before he responded to your mom. “Not yet.”

“Yeah, but soon,” your mom corrected. She gave Chris’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as she added, “I wish you good luck, Chris. I really do.”

Chris grinned, dimples showing, eyes crinkling. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

The air was still buzzing with chatter and laughter, but the field grew less crowded as students and their families left in groups. Chris straightened slightly and turned to your mom. “Can I take your daughter for a drive?”

Your mom glanced at you before grinning. “Just take her away as you please.”

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled anyway.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Chris said, amused.

The car ride was quiet, but it wasn’t awkward. It was nice and comfortable, like nothing had changed at all. Chris drove slower than usual, like he was stretching the road on purpose. You watched the town pass by through the window, committing everything to memory—the movie theater, the bowling alley, the diner glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Every place felt like a bookmark in your life.

You turned your head to the side and didn’t even try to hide that you were looking at Chris. One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel, the other on his thigh. His dark curls swayed in the wind slipping through the open window, his pale skin glowing under the sun. He looked calm. At ease. Confident. Like thoughts of the future didn’t scare him one bit. He looked most attractive when he was confident like that.

When he signaled and took the turn toward the elementary school, you already knew where he was taking you, and you let him.

-

The woods were way less frightening, more familiar in daylight. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dust motes floating lazily in the air as you and Chris walked side by side along the path you had taken so many times before.

“It’s not as scary during the day,” you said, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah. Night really does a number on this place,” he agreed.

When the boulder came into view, you let out a small sigh of relief. You took a moment to breathe it in, the town stretching out below you, rooftops glinting under the sun. Warm. Familiar. Home.

You turned to Chris and held your arms out expectantly.

He raised his brows. “Didn’t you say you could climb by yourself?”

You pouted. “Not in a dress.”

With a huff, he gave in immediately, hands gripping your waist as he lifted you up. You settled on top of the boulder, smoothing your skirt just as he climbed up after you without any effort. His white shirt tugged loose from his slacks as he moved, exposing a strip of skin, the hint of abs beneath. You looked away quickly, pretending you hadn’t noticed.

He sat close enough that your arms brushed with the smallest movement—enough to remind you that he was there, real.

“It’s just as beautiful during the day,” Chris sighed, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“I think I’m going to miss this,” he added softly.

You nodded again, then asked almost wistfully, “Do you think it’ll still be this beautiful when we come back someday?”

“It will still be beautiful,” he said like it was a fact he’d known all along. “Because it survives time.”

You smiled, catching the meaning tucked beneath his words. You chose to believe him.

“I can’t wait for the future,” you said, letting out a soft chuckle. “I can already see you—famous soccer player. National team. Playing the biggest match of your life.”

He smiled, but it faded when you added lightly, “Though honestly, the biggest match of your life is trying to understand a math formula.”

He bumped his shoulder into yours in offense. You yelped, nearly slipping, and his arm shot out instantly, wrapping around your waist and holding you close.

With a mischievous smile, he said, “I can see you in the future too. Being a…” His words trailed off. “Wait—what was your dream again?”

You bumped his shoulder back, carefully this time. He laughed and tightened his hold.

Your heart ached then, because the future was still unknown. There was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t be part of each other’s lives the way you were now.

So you reached for his hand, slipping your fingers between his, intertwining them.

“Wherever we end up,” you said sincerely, your voice trembling just a little, “I hope you’re always happy.”

You swallowed hard, managing a faint smile even though the thought of not sharing a future together was painful to bear.

He squeezed your hand, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles over your skin. “I wish you the same.”

You stayed like that—looking at each other with ache and warmth and everything tangled in between. When tears threatened, you looked away, resting your head against his shoulder. You closed your eyes to hold them back, but they spilled anyway. You wiped them quickly before they could fall.

“You should’ve said it earlier,” you muttered, part scolding, part joking. “We could’ve had more of this. We could’ve planned better.”

He scoffed softly. “Anyone could see it. You were just too stupid to notice.”

You huffed, offended. “How was I supposed to know if you didn’t say anything? I’m not a mind reader.”

The bickering softened, turning into something tender, and then you were both laughing—sad, breathless laughter that felt like relief.

When his eyes found yours again, they were steady and certain. “I love you,” he said, his voice as soft as his gaze.

You felt it everywhere—in your chest, your hands, the way your heart answered before your mind could catch up. “I love you too,” you said.

His smile was warm and full, the happiest you’d ever seen it, like he’d waited his whole life to hear it back from you.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in and kissed him. The moment your lips met in a deep, loving kiss, the world felt suspended in time. It was just you and him, sharing everything spoken and unspoken, and everything in between through the kiss. And God, you really hoped it lasted for eternity.

By some miracle, you managed to pull away. You rested your forehead against his, breathing him in.

“I’m surprised you know how to kiss,” he joked softly.

You scoffed. “I know how to kiss. I’ve read books.”

He grinned, dimples deep, and you smiled before resting your head on his shoulder again.

You stayed there like that, hands clasped tight, holding onto something you didn’t know you’d be allowed to keep. Neither of you said it, but you both knew—you were already yearning for each other.

So you held on tighter before you had to let go.

-

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[yubinism]

although knowing about how’s it going to end, my heart still ached at the ending ☹️ cannot wait for the next chapter and read the gut-wrenching angst that i know is going to come up. you wrote so beautifully in this chapter, and im the proudest of you!!

[seospicybin]

Dearest Yubin, idk why I only saw your reblog now. Anyway, I'm glad you finally read this and enjoyed it. I can't wait for you to read the next one and reading your thoughts on it. Love you, appreciate you tons ❣️

[seospicybin]

I think generally less people reading the love is blind saga is mainly due to the fact that love is blind is for more older audience and has a smaller fandom to begin with. Don’t get me wrong anything you write will be good regardless 😛 I would say give love island a chance since it is more popular and currently booming. The target audience is more similar to THTH and the interactions of the characters could be more one on one with more opportunity for tension because they can see each other. Anyways love your work and I would recommend everyone to read anything you touch. I personally would say I love is blind is not my cup of tea but I read your fan fiction anyways and as always it was wonderful 💗

Thank you so much, anon. Not only you sent me such a wonderful, insightful feedback. You also made a great example on how to deliver proper feedback. And I gladly received it.

And yes, it kind of make sense. Love is Blind is very much different from THTH. And I can see Love Island could be more acceptable (?) so with this, I declare that I'll start working on it soon. I have to do thorough research first and get into the feels. Thank you again for the input and the lovely words. Have a good day 🫶🏻🥰