#cortis james fluff

[shy9-29]

The Love Letter I Never Sent — z.yf

“my first with him, he already had his with her,” — to all the boys I loved before

✦ You didn’t mean for the letter to send, but it somehow did—and now, he slipped into all the little corners of your life where no one else ever stayed. Unfortunately, you can’t shake the feeling that “you can’t be mad at someone for breaking your heart — it means they loved you in the first place.” Every moment with him feels like something new, something real, something dangerously close to a first you’ll never get back. But falling for him means risking everything… including the parts of yourself you’re scared to show. || pairing: soccer!player James x reader ✉️ wc: 14.9k

‼️ warnings: emotional conflict, jealousy, slow-burn romance, miscommunication, teen angst, mild language, relationship tension, harsh language, making out, pet names

💌 a/n: requested! thank you so much for this idea. I actually didn’t watch the movie so I had to reinstall Netflix and binge watch the first two 🥲.

James has you pressed against the wall before you can breathe, his body hot and solid against yours like he’s been dying to get his hands on you.

He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion. Muscles flexing, stomach tightening and the second he catches the way your eyes linger, his mouth curls into a dirty, knowing smirk.

“Yeah?”

His voice drops, low and cocky.

“You like that don’t you?”

Your thighs clench without permission. You nod, helpless. He slides a hand down your waist, fingers dipping under your waistband, brushing heat, barely there, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he laughs softly, lips dragging along your jaw. “Look at you—so pretty.”

His thumb presses against your clothed pussy, firm enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You gasp, a quiet, desperate sound, and he eats it from your mouth as he kisses you hard, tongue pushing past your lips like he owns the right. Your back hits the wall again.

His hips grind into you, slow and deliberate, the thick shape of his cock rubbing exactly against the spot that makes your knees buckle.

“Thought you’d break for me this easy,” he mutters against your mouth. His fingers slip lower “Let me hear it.”

“J-James.. I-“

You jolt so hard the pen flies out of your hand.

You’re instantly pulled back from your fantasy—heat to ice water in a heartbeat.

“Y/n?” your dad calls, voice muffled through your bedroom door. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Your sister will set the table today.”

You slap your palm over the letter like you’re hiding a crime scene. “I—I’ll be down in a sec!”

Your voice cracks. Horribly. Clearing your throat, you try again. “Yeah! Just—uh—finishing something!”

Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Silence drops. Then the fright hits you. You stare down at the paper. At the graphic, thirsty disaster you apparently wrote while possessed by a sex demon.

“Oh my fucking god.” You grab the paper in both hands, crumpling it so fast it practically crunches like aluminum foil.

“What is wrong with you, Y/n?” You fling the balled-up letter toward the overflowing trash can. It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor like it’s mocking you. Of course it misses. Even your garbage has better aim than your life. A waste of paper and your time. You bury your face in your hands and groan into your palms.

“He doesn’t even know you exist,” you mutter, pacing once, twice, like that might shake the embarrassment off. “How stupid do you have to be writing porn about James!”

James, the school’s most popular student who also happens to be in the soccer team. James who probably doesn’t know you exist and has a girlfriend. Or situationship. Or whatever the hell Amy counts as.

You drop back into your desk chair, heart still racing from the stupid fantasy. A mixture between wetness and heat still clings to your skin in places you wish it didn’t.

“This is insane,” you whisper to the ceiling. “Actually insane.”

You grab another sheet of paper, intending to write something normal. Something sane. Something not involving walls and grinding and his stupid smirk.

The page stays blank. Your hand trembles slightly. You shove it away and stand up.

“Dinner,” you tell yourself. “Food. Air. Brain reset. No… horny… writing.”

You take one step toward the door. Then stop. Then glance at the trash pile, the paper mountain you swore you’d never let anyone see.

One of them shifts from the movement of your fan. A small, sinking feeling hits your stomach. You really need to get a better trash can. Or maybe a shredder—no! Therapy. But first: dinner.

You yank open your bedroom door before you can psych yourself out again. And somewhere in the back of your head—the part you hate the most—James’s voice from your imagination lingers like smoke: Yeah? You like that?

You swallow hard.

“Shut UP,” you whisper to absolutely no one. You go downstairs anyway.

You drift down the stairs the minute the kitchen smells like something worth living for again. Your sister Annie is figuring out how her new phone works that she got for her thirteenth birthday recently. Your dad has his elbows on the counter, the kind of casual that says he’s trying to be chill but actually means business.

“You okay?” he asks between ladles of sauce. He always asks when you look a little too quiet. 

You shrug and grab a roll. “Yeah. Fine. Hungry.”

He’s stirring the pot and watching you like someone trying to read the news in a window reflection. “You’re eighteen, Y/n. That means you should try opening up to people a little. Join a club, meet someone new. Don’t close yourself off to the same circle forever.”

You give him the eyebrow. “You mean Bella?”

“Bella’s great,” he says, tone is deliberately even. “But reliable isn’t everything. You have this… tendency to tuck yourself away. Try something that rattles you.”

“Bella is the most reliable person one could ever know,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of you. Suddenly, the words slide into the hollow place where your thoughts live and rattles something loose. Open up. Rattle. Shake. It’s stupid, obvious, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, it feels like the exact sentence you needed to hear.Before your dad can say anything else, you quickly get up from your seat.

“Honey- where’re you going?!” Your dad asks, your sister’s gaze following his. You don’t answer him. There’s no time for that. Sitting at your desk with your lamp low, you carefully grab another slip of paper.. You’ve always been the type to catalogue everything. Feelings, small humiliations, the way your chest tightens when you see James in the hallway, into the soft, safe pages of your diary. But you ran out of pages two days ago. You didn’t throw the journal away; you just taped the spine and pretended that was a solution. Now the spine is a Band-Aid and your life is still leaking.

So you do something slightly insane. You write a letter. A letter to James that you’re obviously not going to send. But you’re not going to send it—fuck no. You might be crazy but not to that extent. Instead, this letter will just fulfill your delusions, knowing you’re too much of a pussy to actually go talk to him. 

Plus, James as Amy. A girl that’s ten times prettier than you. Even if the letter was sent, it wouldn’t do anything but humiliate her. You sit down and you write like the instruction are pressed into your ribs. 

Dear James,

I don’t know what kind of courage is even required to put this into paper and not just into the soft pulp of my diary where it will sit forever and never hurt anyone but me. I’m out of pages. I like to pretend that’s why this is happening, but really it’s because your face keeps crowding the edges of the life I think I should lead and I am tired of pretending nothing has changed.

I’m writing this because my dad said something tonight about opening up, and for once his advice didn’t annoy me. It lit the part of my chest that likes to tell the truth. Usually, I tell myself the truth in tiny, private scribbles. I tuck things away in notebooks and call it safety. But safe is starting to feel smaller than the way my thoughts about you try to grow.

So here it is: I like you. Not the kind of like that’s polite and fits into a yearbook quote. The kind of like that rearranges the soundtrack in my head and makes dumb songs sound like they were written for mornings when you’re still asleep beside me. I like the way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the field. I like the way your that little pout you make when you miss your shot during your soccer practice. I like the scar on your thumb. I notice the ways you look at nothing and I wonder if you’re keeping a private joke with yourself.

I don’t expect anything. I’m not asking you to change your life, and I’m not asking you to break anything open to fit me inside. I’m just telling you the shape of my heart as honestly as I can. If you look back and you don’t feel anything close, that’s okay. I’ll make more pages. I’ll close my hands around the feeling and let it be pretty and lonely and mine.

If by some impossibility you feel even a fraction of this, if you ever want to talk in the quiet and not for show, I’d like that. If you want to laugh and make terrible jokes and steal fries off my plate, I’d like that too. If you want to touch me and find out how the rest of me holds together like how you do with Amy—well. I want that too, but more than anything I want you to be honest with me the way I’m trying to be honest with you now.

— Y/n

You read it back and feel twelve whole things at once — proud, mortified, relieved, as well as questioning your life decisions. You fold it carefully like it it’s an explosive and slide it into an envelope. You address it with your own hand: Zhao Yufan, his legal name. Under his name, you scribble the address you only learned after realizing he lives six houses down. You seal the flap, press it flat like a bandage, and set the envelope on your nightstand.

You think about putting it in the diary, or a secret drawer, or burning it in the tiny metal box you use to store old receipts, but something about the whole open up thing makes you stubborn. This one you want to feel like it could be sent. So you tuck it under a small stack of textbooks on the nightstand, slide a pen across it like you’re filing it into safety, and tell yourself you’ll shower, you’ll calm down, you’ll decide tomorrow whether you actually post it or not.

You strip and step into the shower, the hot water hitting your skin in a rhythm that slows the part of you that wants to panic. Steam climbs the glass and you lean your forehead against the wall and breathe. You imagine the envelope still on the nightstand where you left it, protected by the textbooks like a little fort.

You shampoo and rinse and think of nothing and everything and finally step out, towel-wrapped and lightheaded. You cross your room, expecting the envelope to be exactly where you left it. But you don’t see it.

You assume you put it somewhere else—under a different stack, in a drawer you forgot about, safe. That makes you breathe easier. You make a mental note to check after you put your hair up. Only thing is you don’t get the chance. As soon as you lay down on your bed, you’re fast asleep.

—

Morning punches you in the face the moment your alarm shrieks. You bolt upright with that weird post-shower fog still clinging to your brain, and then the memory hits you like a shovel: The letter.

“Shit—” You stumble out of bed, hair a disaster, sleep shirt twisted around your waist as you lunge toward the nightstand.

Textbooks: check. Pen you left on top: check. Envelope? Not check. You flip the books. Nothing. Just kill me.

You yank open the drawer. Receipts, scrunchies, a rogue stick of gum. Oh—there’s your favourite lip gloss you lost in eighth grade. No envelope.

You drop to your knees and check under the bed like the letter might be hiding out of spite. Nada. 

“Okay, no. No no no—” Your voice rises, scrapes, breaks. You tear through your desk. Under the lamp. Behind your laptop. In your laundry basket like you’re truly losing it.

It’s gone.

You freeze so hard your breath forgets what it’s supposed to be doing. For a full five seconds you just stand there, staring at the nightstand like it personally betrayed you.

“Y/N! You’re gonna make Annie late!” your dad yells from downstairs.

Jesus Christ. Of course the universe picks today to make you a missing-letter fugitive.

You slap on makeup with the precision of a maniac, yank on loose jeans, absolutely forget deodorant, and sprint out the door with Annie trailing behind you.

She’s eating a Pop-Tart like nothing is wrong in the world. “Can you walk faster?” you hiss.

“You woke me up late,” she mumbles around strawberry filling. “This is your fault.”

She’s not wrong, and it only makes you want to scream into a pillow. “Actually, you could have set an alarm on your phone,” you say defend yourself. “What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t put it to use?” Annie rolls her eyes. The whole walk to her school, your brain is doing a full Olympic-level panic routine.

You drop Annie off—barely hearing her bye—and then you’re speed-walking toward your school like your life depends on it. Which, honestly? It kind of does.

Inside the hallway, it’s the usual teenage circus. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loud. Someone aggressively spraying Axe body spray like they’re trying to fumigate the building.

And then, you see him. James. He’s leaning against his locker, talking to Jihoon and some really tall guy, hair falling over his forehead in that stupidly soft way that makes your chest squeeze. He wipes his bangs aside with his knuckles and you swear your soul leaves your body like you’re some Victorian child witnessing the beauty of art for the first time. 

Your feet keep walking but your eyes stay glued to him as you’re now walking backwards somehow—hey, is it just you or did he bleach his hair blondish orange?

“Ouch! Watch where you’re going.”

Your shoulder ricochets off a wall of person, and a sharp, irritated gasp snaps you back to reality. “Hi Amy.”

Believe it or not, you and Amy were best of friends back in middle school until popularity took over her. Her brown wavy hair is perfectly glossy. Her skin is so flawless it looks like someone airbrushed her in real time. She’s applying a swipe of lip gloss with one hand and glaring at you like you just stepped on her dog with the other.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she snaps, pursing her lips as she caps the gloss. “Some of us actually care about how we look in the morning.”

Heat floods your cheeks, crawling up your neck. You mutter, “Sorry,” but it comes out thin and squeaky—humiliating.

Her eyes flick over you, slow and critical, before she glances past your shoulder toward James—her whole expression softening instantly, like flipping a switch.

You try your hardest not to look. It would be very embarrassing to do so. But you do.

James is watching. Not glaring. Not smirking. Just watching with that unreadable, calm expression he always gets when he’s trying to figure something out. His friends are waving their hands in front of his face to catch his attention. 

Your stomach drops to your toes. Because for one terrible, dizzy moment, you wonder if that letter got somewhere it shouldn’t. You swallow tightly.

This day is already hell. And it’s only 8:07 AM. 

You don’t even get three steps down the hall before Bella materializes beside you like she teleported straight out of loyalty. Her ponytail bounces while her iced latte sloshes, eyebrows already raised. “I saw that, by the way,” she says.

You groan into your hands. “Please. Please, Bella. Don’t.” Bella wiggles her brows. “You full-on stared at him like he was Michelangelo’s David, and then you—what was that? Moonwalked into Amy?”

“Let’s. Not. Talk about it.” You want to crawl inside your hoodie and never come out. Bella laughs so hard she snorts. “Okay, fine. But holy crap, you’re lucky she didn’t claw your face off.”

You don’t tell her about the letter. God, no. Bella is your ride-or-die, but even she doesn’t deserve to carry that radioactive emotional grenade.

The day crawls by at the pace of a wounded snail. Class, class, pretend to take notes, class. After school, you follow your usual routine: cut through the side field, slip past the bleachers, and make your quiet little trail toward the soccer field.

It’s stupid. SO stupid. But watching the practices has always been… calming? Or maybe masochistic. Hard to tell. They’re already running drills. Cleats thudding. Shouts carrying. 

And there he is, James, wearing the neon-pinnied version of perfection. He’s quick. Controlled. Focused. The way his legs move is ridiculous. He spins the ball like it’s attached to him by secret magnets.

Usually Amy’s on the bleachers, cheering him on with her friends. But today there were no signs of her being no where near this field. Strange. You wonder where she is. That should make you feel relieved. It doesn’t.

For once, James isn’t playing like you’re invisible. Because suddenly, he sees you. Actually sees you. His brows knit. His chest rises, pauses. And before you can process what’s happening, he jogs off the field. Then he’s running. Running toward you.

Panic detonates in your ribcage.

No. No no no no—

He stops way too close. Close enough that you smell him—clean, sharp, expensive. Something like cedar and citrus and everything you absolutely should not like.

“Hey,” he says, breath still catching from the run. “Y/n? Is that your name?” You freeze. He rubs the back of his neck. Looks down for a second. Then back at you.

“I see you watching the games sometimes and I, uh… got your note.”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. If a doctor checked you right now, you’d be declared clinically dead. “I just—” he swallows hard. He’s awkward. He’s never awkward. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring it.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the field like he wishes someone would rescue him.

“Listen… I just got out of a breakup. Like. Recently.” He laughs once, dry and not very funny. “And… I don’t even know you. So I can’t—it wouldn’t be fair. Or right. You know?”

“Then get to know me.” That’s what you want to say. Instead you nod slowly. Or maybe you physically malfunction. Hard to tell. He gives you this tiny, apologetic half-smile that somehow hurts worse than being stabbed.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. And then he jogs back onto the field like he didn’t just smash your chest open with his bare hands. You stand there frozen long enough that a stray soccer ball rolls by your foot and you don’t even flinch.

James looks even better up close. And yeah he smells like something expensive. Something that makes your stomach twist. You were never supposed to know that. You swallow, throat tight. It’s the start of the new school year and this day was- well... You’re not sure there’s even a word for it.

The next few days are awkward as hell.

You avoid his locker like it’s a landmine. You walk a little faster in the halls. How the hell did he get his hands on your letter in the first place? If your brain had a mute switch, you would’ve used it. Bella notices and gives you the exact look that says tell me everythingwithout actually making you talk.

You don’t tell her anything. Not about the letter, and about how your stomach clenches when he passes.

One afternoon you cut across the field and freeze halfway, because there they are, the once infamous couple arguing in that tense whisper that looks loud from a distance. Amy’s hands are animated, her face flushed in that way people get when they think they’re right and are also angry. James is calm but tight; his jaw works like he’s chewing on something heavy. You don’t hear words. You only see the body language: Amy stepping closer, James stepping back. The rest of the team keeps practicing around them like it’s normal to be emotionally shredded in the middle of drills. Maybe this happens a lot? Expect this time, they’re arguing as exes, not as a couple.

Three days later, you’re sitting with Bella like every other lunch school-day—salad in front of you, two conversations happening at once. “Hey,” Bella starts, “you think that I could fit three French fries up one nostril?”

You barely get two fries into your mouth before a shadow falls over your lunch table. Bella freezes mid-sip of her iced latte. Her eyes go huge. “Um… incoming.” You turn slowly, like your neck is rusted, praying it isn’t who you think it is. 

James. Hands in pockets. Hair slightly damp from gym. Looking like a walking problem. You could recognize his cologne from miles away.

“Y/n,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk?” Bella nearly breaks her own neck nodding. You shoot her a warning look, but she just winks. Or tries to. It looks more like a seizure. You follow James out to the side courtyard, heart punching your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Did he see you eves dropping on him and Amy’s argument? Or even worse—he somehow got a hold of that piece of paper you wrote a whole entire smut scene of you and him on. No. There’s no way that’s possible. But the letter- shut up y/n.

Finally, he stops by a bench and shifts his body awkwardly. You brace yourself for whatever’s coming.

“Okay, so… about what I said a few days ago.” Deep breath. “I changed my mind,.”

You blink. Not once. Not twice. About twelve times. “I’m sorry—what?” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “Amy found out I talked to you the other day.” His eyes flicker to you. “And she’s… not handling it well.” You say nothing. Your brain is buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “So,” he continues, “she’s convinced I’m into you. And she’s trying to make me jealous by flirting with every guy in our grade. Which is…” He grimaces. “Annoying.”You’re staring at him, blank-faced, because what else are you supposed to do? “So if she thinks you and I are together,” he finally says, “she’ll calm down. And maybe she’ll want to get back together. It’s just… easier this way.”

Ah. There it is.

It’s not because he suddenly sees you. It’s not because your face lives rent-free in his mind the way his does in yours. It’s because you’re convenient and somehow read the stupid love letter you were going to keep to yourself and through away after a few days. 

You swallow, throat scraping. “So you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend… so your get back together?” He nods, relieved you understand. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You take your time thinking—way longer than necessary, honestly. But you’re not stupid. Fake dating James? James, whose face makes your brain glitch? James, who already thinks you confessed some weird crush? Why the hell wouldn’t you?

“Fine,” you say eventually. “I’ll do it.” His whole body loosens like he’s been holding tension since August. “Thank you. Seriously. Okay, uh… we should follow each other on Instagram.”

Shit. 

He pulls his phone out. You do the same—hesitantly. “It’s @y_notn?” He repeats, typing the username into Instagram, then clicking onto your page. You see his lips form a smirk. “You’re already following me I see.” You cheeks match the color of his shoes.

He types fast. “I’ll tag you in my bio. You can tag me in yours too.” Your pulse jumps but you nod in agreement anyways.

He pockets his phone again. “Meet me after practice today. Same field as always.” He gives you a small smile that’s entirely too soft to be legal. “I assume you know what time that is.” Like you haven’t literally watched every practice he’s had since school started.

You nod, trying not to implode. “Yeah. I know.”

“Cool.” He steps back, gives you a once-over that feels like a warm hand on your spine. “See you then, Y/n.” When he walks away, you realize you’re not breathing. You’re not sure you’ll ever breathe normally again.

Bella ambushes you before you even sit down. She’s practically vibrating with questions, textbooks forgotten in her hand.

“So spill. What did you two even talk about? Why is he talking to you when he has a—what is she—Amy? What the freak is going on?” Her eyes are all sharp curiosity and that ridiculous, fierce-protective thing only best friends get. You do the only mature thing you can think of: play it cool. “It’s nothing,” you say, which is still a lie and also technically not. You haven’t explained anything to anyone, not even to yourself.

Bella doesn’t buy it for one second. “Nothing? Y/n. You’ve been crushing on that guy ever since I’ve known you. Do you know how dramatic that was? Spill.”

You fold your fork over your lips. “He said some stuff. Nothing huge.” You focus on making your voice flat, unimpressed, as though your heart didn’t vault into your throat and refuse to come down two hours ago. She leans in until her face invades your space. “Did he… break up with Amy?”

You stare at her. The question feels like a live wire. “Yeah,” you say before you can stop it. “They—he said they broke up.”

Bella’s jaw drops so hard you’d think she swallowed a stone. “And you didn’t tell me? Am I not your best friend anymore or what?” She half-pleads, half-accuses. You laugh because panic tastes weird and small. “I didn’t know until this week, B. Chill. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be the person who screams and jumps on him or whatever you do when you’re extremely dramatic.”

She pouts, not actually mad. “Wait—so was he talking to you because he likes you or something and wants to move from Amy?”

It takes you a moment to respond. “It’s… complicated,” you say, and she deflates into a theatrical sigh. “I’ll keep you updated for sure.”

Later, after classes pretend to move slower than molasses. You go to the side courtyard like you promised. He’s there early, hands in pockets, looking like he walked out of a billboard and then stole your ability to breathe. He waves you over like he’s practiced casualness in a mirror.

“So,” he says, hands folded like he’s bracing for feedback as you two settle down on a nearby bench. “About us.”

You swallow. “About us.” Something you thought you’d never hear come out of his mouth, This is ridiculous. Then you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place.

He exhales. “I should make—uh—parameters. Boundaries. Whatever you want to call them..” He looks earnest. Which is both disarming and scalding.

“Okay,” you say. “No kissing. No… anything farther.” You say it like you’re filing a restraining order against your hormones. Your cheeks heat up right after you say it, like you’ve exposed your soul in public.

He gives you a genuinely confused look. “What’s so wrong with kissing?” You look at him and feel stupid and stubborn and painfully sincere. “I want my first kiss to mean something. I don’t want my first kiss to be a prop in someone’s plan. I want it to be because of… feelings. Real ones.”

He studies your face. For a second you think he’s scoffing. Instead he looks surprised, like he expected something else out of you entirely. “So you’re saying you’ve never kissed anyone? You don’t seem like a first-kiss kind of person,” he says, like it’s an observation, not an accusation.

You don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment. “I’m not,” you say. “I just… want one that matters.”

He nods slowly, and shockingly, he takes it in. “Okay. No kissing,” he repeats. “No making out. No—anything. Got it. I was looking forward to that part though.” That last sentence makes you look up immediately. He lets out a “oh look at you, you feel for it,” laugh. Of course he didn’t mean it.

“And pet names? Like, are we team ‘babe’ or are we staying sane?”

You sigh. “Pet names are allowed but No PDA that crosses boundaries. Hand-holding okay. Quick pecks on the cheek—fine, but only if it’s not humiliatingly dramatic in front of Amy.”

He snorts at that, and for a moment the tension loosens. “Dates?” he asks. James going on a date with you? You want to poke yourself to make sure this isn’t all just a dream.

“Sure.”

You actually grin, and it feels like a defect in your usual composure. This is insane. You’re literally negotiating love like it’s a group project. He hesitates, then asks, “Can I—uh—pick you up to school? Like, to drive you? Make things look… convincing.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I walk my younger sister to school,” you say. “So no.” He brightens, thinking on his feet. “I can drive her too. Drop them both off. Make it seem legit.”

You gape. “You’d drive my twelve-year-old sister to school?” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Less awkward than you explaining a fake boyfriend every morning.”

“Wow,” you say, simultaneously mortified and oddly touched. “That’s… actually kind. Okay, maybe.”

“And—if you want—I can drive you home now,” he adds. “Make it easier. Practical.” You almost laugh because this feels exactly like a dream for someone else and not like your actual life. But then you see his eyes dart—just for half a beat—toward the tree line at the edge of the parking lot. Amy. 

He looks back at you and, without missing a beat, pulls you closer. His hand rests on the small of your back, which feels equal parts possessive and protective. His other hand ghosts over your arm, fingers light, claiming. “Smile,” he whispers into your ear, breath hot and soft and ridiculous.

His hands wander like they’re memorizing the geography of you—over your shoulder, along your ribs—nothing obscene, just bordering on intimate enough to make your teeth ache.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.” He makes sure to emphasize on the baby part so it’s loud enough for Amy to hear. The pet name lands heavy in your chest.

He slides his fingers into yours and leads you toward the parking lot. Your sneakers scuff the concrete. Maybe the letter getting sent out wasn’t as bad after all. But then you remember this is all an act. James doesn’t actually like you. And once he’s back with Amy? You don’t even want to think about it.

You find the car before you recognize it. Low, polished, the kind of car that hums quietly like it was born rich. Leather seats. Chrome that catches sunlight like it’s showing off. You knew he was from money, but you’d never actually seen it up close like this.

He opens the passenger door for you with a theatrical little bow that somehow feels oddly considerate. “Hop in,” he says, and for a second the world narrows to leather and the faint plastic smell of air freshener and the rapid, stupid beating of your heart.

You climb in, and as the engine starts, you wonder which part of your life is a fever dream and which part, if any, is real.

James pulls up in front of your house like he’s done this a hundred times, like this is just routine for him now. The car quiets, he taps the steering wheel once, and turns toward you.

“Thanks for driving me,” you say, suddenly shy for no reason except he’s looking at you like that. You try to keep your smile contained, but it still slips out, tiny and embarrassing.

He catches it immediately. “Cute,” he says under his breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He clears his throat, hoping you didn’t hear him slip. 

“So this is where y/n lives? Didn’t know you lived a couple houses down from me.” You smile and reach for the door handle, trying to act like a normal functioning human being, when he stops you with a soft, “Y/n—wait.”

You blink at him. “Yes?” He holds up his phone. “Can I take a picture of us holding hands? For my Insta so Amy can see.” You swear you felt something real between you two until he snapped you back to reality. “Like… right now?”

“Yeah.” He extends his hand, palm up, waiting. “C’mon.”

You place your hand in his because what else are you supposed to do? Say no? Die? Teleport? His fingers lace through yours, warm and soft, and your whole bloodstream turns into electricity. You feel your body heat up. This is your first ever physical contact with him.

He lifts his phone with the other hand and pulls your joined hands closer to the console where the lighting is better. Of course he knows his angles; he’s literally James.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. You do. He snaps the picture the moment you meet his eyes, like he wants you in the frame even if you’re only visible in the reflection of the screen. 

After the photo is taken, he stares at it for a quick second. Call yourself delusional but you swear you saw him holding back his smile. After tagging you, he uploads it instantly. Your heart legitimately forgets how to beat.

“Great,” he says, dropping your hand slowly, almost reluctantly. “Text me when you’re inside.”

“S-sure,” you mutter, stumbling over your own voice like a clown. You climb out of the car. He waits until you’re at the porch before he pulls away, tires rolling smooth and silent like he didn’t just flip your entire life upside down.

You walk in, still clutching the warmth of his hand like an idiot who’s never known happiness before. Your dad glances up from the kitchen, eyes narrowing with that suspicious dad-squint. “Someone’s smiling.” You almost choke. “I’m not—I’m literally—I wasn’t—”

He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’m not interrogating you. How’d you get home so fast?”

Panic rushes through your veins. “Uh. Bella’s brother drove us. We were going the same way.”

Lie. Instant lie. Horrible lie. Bella doesn’t even have a brother. You want to fistfight yourself.

“Huh,” your dad says, not looking convinced but not digging either. “Alright, well—oh! Before I forget.” He stands, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smiles like he’s about to tell you something wholesome. Instead he says the single worst sentence you’ve heard in your entire life. “I forgot to tell you this but I saw that letter on your desk last week and helped mail it for you, honey.” Your stomach hits the floor. You swear your vision goes white around the edges.

“What—what letter?” You hear your own voice crack like a broken flute.

“The envelope under those textbooks on your desk thst was addressed to one of our neighbours? I figured it’d save you and I less time because I was stopping by the post office anyways,” He beams, proud of himself.

You cannot breathe. So that’s how James got your note. The letter that was literally your unhinged, handwritten, half-fantasy confession about James. The one you should have burned. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice tiny and hoarse. 

You bolt up the stairs the second you’re free, close your bedroom door with the gentlest click ever because of course tonight is the night you suddenly care about door volume, and just… collapse. Face-first into your bed. You don’t even bother turning the lights on.

Your body is still buzzing, like James’s handprint is burned into your skin. Your heart keeps replaying the whole car scene at 8K resolution, IMAX, Dolby Atmos, every upgrade possible.

James and Amy? Over. James talking to you? Actually real. James fake dating you? Also real. You? Completely malfunctioning.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Because the thing is, it’s fake. He asked for to take the picture for Amy, not because he wanted it for himself. He’s James. He dates girls who look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial. You literally tripped over air in homeroom last week.

Still… your chest squeezes around this tiny, dangerous wish. You wish it wasn’t fake, how he meant the way he looked at you in the car, and the warmth in his hand wasn’t just acting. But whatever. That’s not your life. Guys like him don’t like girls like you. You know that. You’ve always known that.

Next morning starts off painfully normal, which is honestly rude given the way last night cracked your brain open. You drag yourself out of bed, brush your teeth while half-asleep, pull on a hoodie that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent and despair, and braid Annie’s hair while she wiggles like a caffeinated squirrel.

“Hold still,” you mutter, trying to tame the last strand. “I am holding still,” she says, not holding still. You finally get her ready, grab your bag, and step out of the building with her hand in yours. It’s quiet outside, cool enough to wake you up a little. The walk to her school is familiar, easy, predictable.

Your brain needs predictable right now. You’re three blocks down before a car honk breaks the morning calm—one sharp, deliberate beep.

You and Annie both turn at the same time.

James’s car is parked at the curb. Leaning slightly toward the window, one hand on the wheel, raising his eyebrows in a “Really? You forgot?” kind of way.

“Oh shit,” you whisper. Annie gasps dramatically and sprints toward the car like she’s starring in her own movie. “Did you just say a bad word?” she calls out over her shoulder. “Also who’s that?”

“My… uh…” You have nothing. No explanation. Just panic. “Just—wait—Annie!” But she’s already yanking open the passenger door. “Did you forget about stranger danger?!”

“Hiiiiii!” she beams at him. James grins back, all sunshine and dimples. “Good morning.” He looks cute when he smiles.  You stumble up behind her, cheeks burning. “Sorry—she just—uh—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “She’s cute.”

Annie giggles like he handed her a scholarship. “My sister thinks cute! Her face literally turned red when she—” You quickly slap your palm on top of her mouth, nearly choke on your own tongue. “Annie! You can’t just—say things—!”

James laughs. “I can see that.” Fuck you. He nods toward the backseat. “You riding or walking?” Right. The whole fake dating thing. You climb in, mumbling, “I totally forgot you were picking us up.”

He shoots you a look in the rearview. Teasing. “Kind of figured.” Annie, meanwhile, is already telling him her entire life story. “So my sister woke me up late again, and Y/N didn’t let me have candy in the morning, so can you convince her t—“

“Annie,” you hiss, “personal space!” James glances at you, amused. “Your sister’s very bubbly.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Runs in the family.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Haven’t noticed much of that in you.” You look out the window so he can’t see your face fall and combust at the same time. “Well… it takes me a while to open up.”

There’s a beat of silence—soft, not awkward. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t mind that. Your breath trips.  Annie thankfully interrupts you before your brain melts. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” You and James say entirely different things at the exact same time.

You: “NO—no no no—he’s not—don’t—” James: “Something like that.”

You whip your head toward him so fast your neck protests. “What?!” He smirks. “Relax. Just keeping the story consistent.” “That’s not consistent, that’s— that’s—”

“Convincing,” he finishes, winking. You swear your pulse jumps like it’s trying to break out of your body. By the time he pulls into the school parking lot, your nerves are shredded.

“Wait.” His voice stops you again. You freeze halfway out. He gets out too. Walks around the car. And then extends his hand. Palm up, a silver ring on his index finger. 

“Come on,” he says. “They’re already staring.” Your stomach drops to your knees. You place your hand in his, because apparently you’ve lost all brain function. His fingers lace through yours. Firm. Warm. Familiar already in a terrifying way. You wonder what if he uses hand cream—and if so, what kind?

You walk side by side, hands joined, through the courtyard. Every. Single. Person. Looks. Someone literally whispers, “Are you kidding me?” as you pass. Another girl stares like you committed a war crime. You try to keep your face blank, but your heart is doing parkour. Even his friends look at him weird. James leans toward you just slightly. “You good?”

“I’m—fine,” you lie. He squeezes your hand. A tiny squeeze. You nearly short-circuit. Then you turn down the hall. And there she is. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. Leaning against her locker with her friends, scrolling through her phone—Amy.

Until she sees you and James. Her entire expression freezes—then sharpens. Expression goes from neutral to knives-out in half a second.

It hits you so hard your stomach does a full gymnastics routine. You instantly look away, like you’re gonna be burned alive if you make eye contact for more than a microsecond. James actually glances. Quick, sharp, assessing—like he’s checking if she saw. And apparently she did, because he gives the smallest nod to himself and keeps walking.

Your palm is sweating in his, which is honestly humiliating, but he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t squeeze or slow down or look at you twice. He’s just walking. Playing the part. Cool. Unbothered. Like this is all just logistics. People are still staring, whispering, straight-up gawking as you pass.  You keep your face forward. Try not to shrink… or die. All three are failing.

When you reach his locker, he drops your hand casually like he’s turning off a light switch. He spins his combo, grabs a book, and says, completely normal, “I saw her staring.”

Your heart is still in your throat. “It’s progress, I guess.” He nods once, satisfied. “Think it’s working.”

James doesn’t look at you again—just shuts his locker with a quick clack and tosses his bag over his shoulder like he didn’t just nuke your nervous system in the hallway.

“See you later,” he says, already turning away. And you’re left standing there, trying not to look like you’re about to dissolve into mist.

The rest of the week doesn’t calm down — it just mutates into this weird fever dream where James keeps doing things that make your brain short-circuit.

Like Wednesday morning, when you’re trying to open your locker and the stupid thing jams for the eighth day in a row. You mutter under your breath, “I hate this place,” and kick the bottom corner. Out of nowhere, James appears behind you, lean and warm and annoyingly tall.

“Move,” he says, voice low like he’s about to break into a safe.

“I’ve tried that,” you snap, not even looking up. “It doesn’t—” He slams his palm against the top left edge with one clean, confident hit. The locker pops open like it’s scared of him. Hot. “Are you—what? How—?!”

He shrugs, smirking. “You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes way too dramatically, but you’re pretty sure your soul floats out the back of your head when he taps the top of your hair and says, “I’ll be here if you need help with anything else.”

You stare after him like a malfunctioning Roomba as he walks off.

Then there’s Thursday, when you’re walking through the courtyard with James and trip over absolutely nothing. Like, genuinely nothing. A single leaf. A shadow. Air. You go stumbling forward like a newborn deer. Before you can fall, James catches the back of your hoodie and pulls you upright by the hood like you’re a cat being relocated.

“I swear to God,” you wheeze, face on absolute fire, “the ground attacked me.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, “the ground looked really hostile.”

You shove his shoulder because you can’t come up with a good comeback and also because you’re mortified. He lets out a quiet chuckle and it unlocks something sweet and dangerous in your chest.

Next it’s Friday morning. You and Annie are waiting for him outside, and your sister is bouncing around talking about how she wants to get a hamster named Bean. James comes out of the car, leans over the passenger seat, and gives Annie an exaggerated thumbs-up.

“Bean’s a great name,” he says, like he’s taking her dead seriously. “Very strong. Very intimidating.”

Annie giggles like she’s met a celebrity. You can tell that your sister likes him a lot. Too bad it might all end soon. You’re standing there blinking because why is he being sweet when no one is watching? There’s no audience at 7:53 AM on a suburban sidewalk. No reason to impress anybody. He looks at you for a beat too long. “What?” you say, defensive because your nervous system is fried.

“Nothing,” he says, that tiny smile tugging at one corner. 

Later that same day, you’re at his soccer practice again, this time on mandatory fake-girlfriend attendance, apparently, but this time you don’t sit on the bleachers. You’re late, so you stand awkwardly by the fence, hugging your bag. 

James sees you. Mid-scrimmage. He’s literally making it past two guys and still looks over like you’re a lens flare he enjoys catching. Amy’s on the far side of the field glaring daggers, and that’s probably why he does it, why he pushes a bit harder. For some reason, she started showing up again. 

But then he smirks. And it’s not aimed at Amy. He jogs up after scoring, out of breath, flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. The kind of sweaty that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Before you know it, his practice ends, the sun’s low, and the field looks like it’s glowing. You’re standing by the fence scrolling your phone, pretending you’re not waiting for him even though obviously you are.

They scrimmage one more play. James gets the ball. The field actually erupts. He slips past two defenders, cuts left, shoots—Goal. The boys yell and explode like he just cured cancer. And then he does something so stupidly cinematic you almost faint: He runs straight toward you. Like you’re his checkpoint.

He stops right by the fence, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, jersey sticking to him — black and green, drenched in sweat, clinging to every muscle that should not legally exist on an 20-year-old.

“Did you see that?” he breathes out, grinning like he’s half-drunk on adrenaline.

“I—I mean—yeah,” you say, but it comes out more like a squeak because you are absolutely staring. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his neck glistening, jaw sharp enough to slice your willpower in half. He smirks when he notices.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he teases, voice low. You immediately snap your eyes away. “I wasn’t—looking. I was—blinking.”

“I didn’t know blinking took that long,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to the fence. You nearly dissolve into the grass.

By the time he drops you off, your brain is a puddle. He taps the steering wheel, looks at you with that same unreadable-soft expression you’re starting to recognize. “Same time tomorrow?” 

Before you could answer, your dad comes out on the porch at the worst possible moment, holding a mug and squinting into the driveway. “Is that the handsome guy Annie keeps talking about?”

Why oh why. “Wha—dad—I—no—?” James, traitor that he is, just smiles and waves like this is a barbecue and not the crumbling of your sanity. “Yes I am!”

Your dad lights up. “Well! Why don’t you stay for dinner?” You see James glance at you like he’s asking for permission—like you’re the deciding vote before he says, “Sure. If that’s okay.” Okay?? You’re already having an out-of-body experience. Inside, Annie is THRIVING. She pats the couch between her and James like she’s the host of a reality show. You sit, fully preparing to be normal. You fail immediately.

Halfway through the movie, James shifts closer—casual, smooth, evil—and drapes an arm behind you on the couch, feeling himself at your home. Not even touching you yet, just… there. Warm. Heavy. Loud in your peripheral vision. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage with a crowbar.

Then, out of nowhere, he reaches over and slides the scrunchie out of your ponytail. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s unwrapping a present. Your hair falls down your shoulders and you swear the air temperature spikes 40 degrees.

“Looks better like this,” he murmurs, barely audible over the TV.

You’re going to combust. Annie is too invested in the movie to notice you dying.

He loops it around his wrist, then pulling out his phone to check something. You assume he’s going to post something on his Instagram for Amy to see, but he checks the time instead. Strange

Your dad comes in once to ask if you all want snacks. James answers politely. You stare at the wall like you’re seeing God. He grabs a piece and feeds it to you. Even morestrange.

Eventually it gets late, and he stands, gives Annie a little salute, thanks your dad for the evening, and looks at you with this unreadable softness that makes your stomach flip.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

—

The night air is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t feel it. His whole skin is still warm from your house, your couch, your hair brushing his shoulder. 

As he hopped into the car, shouldn’t be thinking about that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Getting out, he walks up his front steps, keys halfway out of his pocket, when he freezes.

Amy is sitting on his porch. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Wearing that perfume he likes.

“James,” she says, chin tilted, voice honeyed she knows works on most people.

He exhales, slow. “Amy. What are you doing here?”

She stands up, taking a step closer. “I wanted to talk. We haven’t really—y’know—processed everything. And I…” She lets the sentence trail off, fingers brushing his arm like muscle memory. “I miss you. We were good together.”

He should want this. He knows that. This was the whole point, wasn’t it? Proving he could move on, making her jealous, getting her to come back.

“We were,” he says quietly. It comes out flat. Even he hears it.

Amy leans in, confidence flickering back. “I mean… moving on to someone like her?” She smirks. “Convincing. I’ll give you that.”

He doesn’t say anything. She slides her hand down his arm like she’s done it a thousand times — because she has. Her voice drops. “You could’ve just talked to me, James. You didn’t have to pretend.”

Her eyes glint. She steps closer again, enough that her breath hits his collarbone. “What do you say? Are you up for a redo?” Amy reaches for his wrist, then stops at a certain spot.

“Oh.” Her voice shifts — sweet turning sour. “What’s this?” Her fingers brush the scrunchie. Your scrunchie. Still warm from your hair. She looks up at him, eyebrows lifted like she’s caught him with a crime weapon.

“Is that Y/n’s?” she asks, sickly sweet. His voice is small, quieter than he expects. “It is.”

Amy lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Wow. You’re really committing to the bit.” He doesn’t correct her.

She slips it off his wrist and ties her hair with it, steps back, arms folding. “Well,” she says, lips curling, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, James.”

She walks away without waiting for an answer. Her perfume lingers. But his wrist feels heavier than everything she tried to imply. He stands there a long time after she’s gone. And the scrunchie stays exactly where it is.

—

James picks you up like nothing happened, acting like he didn’t stand on his porch last night looking existential with your scrunchie on his wrist while his ex tried to crawl back into his life.

“Morning,” he says, voice warm, as you hop into the car. 

“Good Morning.”

He glances over, tapping the steering wheel. “Tired?” You scratch your neck, letting out a soft groan. “Not at all.”

He actually laughs under his breath. “Liar.” Ugh. Of course he knows.

He drives for a bit, a comfortable quiet settling between you — or, well… almost comfortable. Then he says it. Soft. Almost shy. “I really like spending time with you.”

You freeze. Brain: 404 error. “Why?” you say before your filter can save you. He looks over. “Why not?”

“No, like—” you wave a hand, “you don’t have to do the whole… nice boyfriend act right now. No one’s looking.” 

His brows pull together, confused, just a tiny bit hurt. “I know.” It’s nothing. It’s everything. You don’t know what to do with it, so you shove it into the mental junk drawer and slam it shut.

—

After your second class, Bella picks you up and you two walk to your lockers, minding your own business, when Amy appears like a horror movie jump scare, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes on you like target practice.

“You know James doesn’t actually like you?” She says sweetly.

It’s not like you didn’t know that. The thing going on between James and you is all for show. Bella stiffens beside you. You close your locker and keep walking. 

Amy clicks her tongue. “Y/n—you forgot something.”

You turn just in time to see her toss your scrunchie. It hits the floor at your feet like a punchline. Bella’s eyes go HUGE. “Um. What—?”

“I’ll explain later,” you mutter, scooping it up with fingers that are absolutely trembling.

You don’t go to his practice after that. Screw that. Screw all of it. You go home, burrow under your blanket, and try to convince yourself you don’t care even though you obviously care so much it feels like a bruise.

Around six, there’s a knock downstairs. Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.

You hear your dad open the door.

“Oh! Hi James!”

“Is Y/n home?” he asks, and his voice is nervous. Nervous? Since when does James get nervous? “Yes, she’s upstairs in her room, doing whatever you teenagers do.”

“Can I— uh— can I talk to her?”

“…Sure, come in.”

You want to sink into the floorboards. Your dad calls up the stairs, “Y/n! James is here!”

Yeah, you heard.

A moment later, there’s a soft knock on your door. “Can I come in?” You don’t answer, and quickly pull the cover over you. He opens just enough to peek inside. “Hey.” You sit up, knees tucked to your chest. “Hi”

He steps inside, closes the door behind him, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hit CTRL+ALT+DEL on his own life. “Why didn’t you show up to my game? You always show up.” 

You look at him for a long second, then ask the question that’s been chewing through your ribs all day.

“Did you… meet up with Amy last night? And then give her my favourite scrunchie?” 

His head snaps up fast. “No.”

“No?”

“I mean—yes and no. It’s not what you think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then what happened?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping. “She just spawned in front of my house as I was driving home. I never asked her to come” Your chest tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Right. And when she took my scrunchie… you just let her take it?” He flinches a little — just barely, but you see it.

“Yeah, that’s my bad,” he says quietly. “But hey, at least you got it back.”

You stay quiet, jaw set as you look down at the scrunchie on your wrist.

“And it’s not a big deal,” he adds quickly. “It’s just a scrunchie y/n.” He stops himself. “Well — not just a scrunchie. Yours.” Your lungs betray you with a small inhale. He moves a little closer, hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Really. And… I wanna make it up to you.”

You tilt your head “How?” And because he’s him — chaotic, dramatic, inexplicably confident — he smiles.

“You heard of ‘Ski Slopes Nation?” The ski trip party my friend hosts every year. It’s, uh, kinda big. And really fun. I want you to come with me.”

You look down at yojr hands, unsure what to say. Strange, wouldn’t he have asked Amy? “James, I don’t even know anyone there.”

“Okay,” he says, shrugging, taking one small step closer. “So what? You’ll know me.”

“That’s not enough. You’ll be distracted by you know who.”

He sighs, walking towards your bed as he puts his finger under your chin, turning your head to face him. He tilts his head, smirk creeping back. “You’re the only distraction I need.”

Your stomach flips so hard you have to look away again. How can he say this when he doesn’t even like you?

“Think about it,” he murmurs. He reaches for the doorknob, pauses, glances back at you with that soft half-smile. “And for the record, I’ll buy you snacks for the whole time we’re there.”

Then he leaves you alone with your heartbeat trying to set a new world record.

“Wait… it was fake?!” Bella’s voice is a cartoon of betrayal—half screech, half wounded martyr. You’re sitting across from her at your usual greasy-spoon table, regretting your life decisions, and she’s dramatically clutching her phone like you’ve personally stolen her childhood.

“I thought he actually liked you,” she adds, scandalized. “I mean, everything! His stories, the way he looked at you—God, I practically had a panic attack of joy.”

You shrug, because what else do you do when your life is embarrassing and baffling at the same time. “It was the plan. To make Amy jealous. To get her to get back with James.”

Bella pokes your forehead with the end of a fry. “So you were a pawn? That is actually a geniu—horrible!”

You let out a sigh and then tell her about the ski thing—James’s invitation that felt suspiciously like a peace offering. Bella immediately goes into PR mode.

“Why aren’t you going?” she asks, all business now. “This could be huge. Honestly, go. I’ll totally come with you if that’ll change your mind.”

You almost say no. You almost say yes. You do say, finally, “Okay, but you cannot leave my side for once.”

She claps and picks up your phone from the table. “Text him now.” She demands while handing you her phone. Slowly, you unlock your phone and type in: “Ok, Ski Slopes Nation it is.” Sent.

Weekend flies. Saturday morning, you stand by the curb, heels tapping like a metronome, expecting Bella’s overzealous face any second. Typical you overpacked for a three night trip. James pulls up right on time, engine purring luxury. You get in. You do a full inventory of your nerves.

Ten minutes later you notice Bella’s text: one-line replies. 

Bella: Sorry guys, mom lowkey got mad because I fumbled my test 🙁. Maybe next time?

You stare at the message like it physically hurt. She didn’t tell you before. This was her plan all along for you to go to the Ski Slopes Event alone with James. She was never going to come.

You turn to James, ready to explode with “where is she?” but the words scramble and bail right out of you. Your hand goes for the door handle. You’re doing the awkward petty-exit thing when he reaches over, still driving, and grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait,” he says. His voice is small, not demanding, just…earnest. “Please. Don’t go.”

You stare at his hand on yours. Your knee-jerk plan is to get out and walk, to reclaim dignity off the side of the highway, but the highway is suddenly very far away and his palm is somehow steadying.

“Why?” you ask, because why not make him explain himself.

He pulls into the next parking spot, kills the engine, and turns fully to you like it’s the thing he’s meant to do all day. The car becomes its own little island of breath.

“I wanted you to come,” he says, simple and flat, like it’s obvious and he’s been dying to say it. “Not because of Amy. Not to make her jealous. I… I actually like doing this with you. I like spending time with you.”

Your brain files that under “unreliable information” and simultaneously under “this actually matters.” You blink. “But—wasn’t this whole thing supposed to get Amy back?”

He hesitates, then answers honestly, the way people answer when the truth is awkward but necessary. “Yes that was the plan. At first. But I don’t know if I want to go back to that. I don’t know if I ever did. And the more time I spend with you—not pretending—it’s not the same. You’ve made me felt something no one else has ever made me feel. But what I know is that I like you. A lot.”

You roll your eyes because dramatic vulnerability is embarrassing even when it’s kind of endearing. And your body heats up. Your cheeks are probably tomato colored, but you try staying nonchalant. “So what, you just switched teams mid-game?”

He gives you one of those looks that’s half apology, half dare. “Sort of. Do you… do you wanna keep doing this? Not for Amy. For us. Keep this—whatever this is—going?”

You inhale, exhale, try to be sensible. “You know how this looks,” you say. “Welp, the love letter sure worked out—just now how I expected.”

He smiles, small and stubborn. “It sure did.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes—part incredulous, part hopeful. You tuck your hand back into yours under the dash. “Fine,” you say, because why be brave when you can be cautiously stupid instead. “But I’m watching you. One misstep and I will glare you into ashes.”

“Deal,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips that’s half triumphant, half relieved. “Also, I’m getting your scrunchie back. Properly next time.”

You look out at the highway ahead, and despite the chaos, despite the lying and the staging and the way your life currently reads like a badly edited montage, there’s a tiny part of you that answers before your brain can veto it.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s keep doing this—carefully.”

He squeezes your hand. The car pulls back onto the road, and the rest of the world sounds like muffled static for a second, just you and the hum of the engine and the very complicated possibility of something messy and real.

“Are you sure you have snow tires on?” You double check as more snow comes down while you guys drive up the mountain. The atmosphere in the car was not quiet, but soft. Not awkward anymore, not tense, just this gentle humming between you two—like the car has its own heartbeat now and it somehow synced to yours. James lets out a low chuckle, reaching for your hand, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“I’m sure y/n.” The way he spoke your name was so attractive yet reassuring. Snow lines the trees like powdered sugar and the sky is a blue so obnoxiously pretty it looks edited. James keeps flicking quick glances at you like he’s checking if you’re still real. You’re still trying to get over the fact that you’re seated in Jame’s car that actually has feelings for you.

When he parks outside the lodge, you hop out and the cold instantly punches your lungs. He grabs the bags before you can even protest because he’s a show-off with biceps, apparently. Inside, the place is gorgeous—warm lights, crackling fireplaces, couples everywhere wearing matching sweaters like they’re in a Pinterest board.

James leads you down a hallway lined with wooden doors and stops at one. Unlocks it, then opens the door. You follow him in. And freeze.

There are multiple reasons why you freeze. First and most obvious reason, the scenery. You knew James and his friends were filthy rich, but this is on a next level. The place was small, but it felt so cozy and expensive at the same time. Second reason, the bed. Notice how it’s bed and not beds plural? 

“…Hold on,” you say, voice thin. “Where’s—uh—the other bed?” There is one bed. One. Big, yes. Fluffy, absolutely. But still ONE BED.

James glances at it like it’s the weather. “Oh. Yeah. They ran out of doubles.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “Is that okay? It is pretty spacious so we can sleep on either ends.” 

Is that OK??

Your soul: NOPE. SOUND THE ALARMS. EVACUATE THE PREMISES.

Your mouth: “Yeah it’s fine.”

Typical y/n. Always lying out of your ass crack.

He tosses his duffel on the floor and starts unpacking, casual as ever, while your brain is mapping out emergency escape routes and calculating the surface area of the bed to figure out how far you can sleep from him without dying.

“We’ve got, like, four hours until the big event,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “It’s basically a party with drinks and games. Then we go skiing. People kinda go all out.”

Skiing? You? “Is it bad that I don’t know how to Ski?”

He snorts—soft, fond. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you if you’re down. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.

He finishes unpacking and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You can talk, y’know,” he says, teasing. “You’re doing that quiet-stressing face again.”

“I’m not”—

“You are.”

“Stop reading my mind.”

“Stop being readable.”

You grab your water bottle just to have something to do. He watches you, amused. The silence stretches—not awkward, but charged. Like static in the air before lightning strikes. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, rambling about something—how cold it is, how Bella tricked you, how the hallway smells weirdly like cinnamon. You don’t stop talking because if you stop, you’ll think, and if you think, you’ll panic.

Halfway through your rant about overpriced ski equipment, you notice he’s not responding. He’s just… staring. Not in a bored way. Or in a polite-listening way.

In a hungry way. In a memorizing-your-mouth-movements way. In a way no fake boyfriend should ever stare. No one has ever looked at you like that.

You clear your throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

James’s voice is low, a little rough. “I don’t know.”

You short-circuit. “I—what—you—you don’t know—?”

“Yeah.” He shifts closer—just enough for your knees to touch. 

You swallow. Loudly. “Cute.”

“Mm.” His eyes drop to your lips like gravity dragged them there. “And distracting.”

Your heart is doing backflips. Your hands start sweating. You are ninety percent sure you’re about to ascend straight off the bed.

“James…” you whisper, though you’re not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation. He moves closer, slow enough to give you time to pull back. You don’t. You couldn’t even if you tried. His forehead almost touches yours, breath warming your skin. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You lean in. Never once in life were you expecting James to be your first kiss. Obviously in those little fantasies of yours, but never in real life.

His lips brush yours—barely, like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud—and your breath catches so hard your ribs ache. He tilts his head, closes the space, kisses you properly this time, soft but hungry, like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

He pulls back, breathless, eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name. Then suddenly he’s dragging you into his lap, steady hands guiding you, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear before pulling you in for another kiss. This one is hungrier—messy, frantic, almost starving.

A small moan slips out of you the second his tongue pushes into your mouth. He’s good—too good. And you were the complete opposite. Heat blooms low in your stomach, and you can feel him hardening beneath you, the realization sending a shiver through your whole body.

He chuckles against your lips, the vibration buzzing straight through you as his tongue keeps exploring your mouth.

“You like that?” he murmurs, fingers trailing up your thigh. You nod instantly, needy, like your body answered before your brain could catch up.

He leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs. You part your lips, but nothing comes out—you’re too wound up, too turned on from everything he’s already done.

“Tell me, baby.” The pet name makes your pussy clench around nothing.

“I—I don’t know,” you finally manage to whisper.

“You don’t know?” he repeats, eyebrow lifting in a teasing way. Embarrassment floods your cheeks as you shake your head and bring your hands up to hide your face.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling your hands away. Your eyes meet, and he him unintentionally bitting his lower lips, his eyes now roaming all over your body.

Before you can even react, he’s kissing you again—deep, consuming, pulling you straight back into the heat of him.

“Do you know how to grind on me?” he asks when he pulls away again. You shake your head no.

“Here, let me guide you.”

His hands settle on your ass, gentle but sure, guiding your hips back and forth over his clothed cock as he pulls you back into the kiss. You both let out soft moans, the sound tangled between your mouths. It’s overwhelming, your fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another sound out of him.

“God, baby… you look so hot on top of me,” he whispers, his hands roaming over your ass again.

Before you know it, James’s hands slide down to the zipper of your jeans. He wants more—you can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his fingers hesitate there like he’s waiting for permission. You stop him, catching his hands before he can go any further.

He looks up at you immediately, eyes searching your face.

“Something wrong?” he asks softly, tilting his head just a little.

“I—I don’t want to go further than that,” you say, your voice small but steady. “Not right now.”

James searches your face like he’s trying to read every micro-expression you’ve ever had in your whole life.

“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” he asks quietly. You shake your head fast. “No, it’s not that. I just… don’t wanna do that right now.”

His shoulders loosen immediately. “Oh. Okay.” And the way he says it—soft, not offended, not disappointed—makes something warm twist in your chest.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead before sliding you gently off his lap. “I’m gonna go shower,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “then we’ll get ready for the party.”

When he disappears into the bathroom and the door clicks shut, the room feels too big. Too quiet. Too… loud inside your head. You flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again, because apparently that’s your hobby now. And, of course, your brain immediately starts being a menace.

Yeah, he used to do this with Amy. Plus, breakup wasn’t even that long ago. Maybe you’re just some transitional little detour while he untangles whatever is still left inside him.

You groan into a pillow. “Get it together,” you mumble at yourself. Your overthinking is doing parkour.

Then the bathroom door swings open—and your soul exits your body.

James steps out with a towel sitting dangerously low on his hips, droplets rolling down his chest like they were directed by a film crew. His torso? Toned. Defined. Absolutely from-the-cover-of-a-ski-lodge-soccer-player-romance-novel level sculpted.

His dyed dirty blonde hair is wet, dripping onto his shoulders, making him look unfairly good. You snap your gaze to the window like it personally offended you.

He grabs his bag and looks over at you. “You gonna get ready?” he asks casually, like he isn’t currently the hottest man alive standing half-naked five feet away.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, I was just… thinking.” (About your sanity evaporating.)

You peel yourself off the bed and rummage through your bag, already annoyed at yourself because you did not pack for a fancy winter party. You pull out something normal, plain, safe—because of course you brought nothing special. James glances over with a soft smile. “Going casual?” You shrug. “I didn’t really bring, like… party clothes.”

His eyes drag over your outfit, then your face.

“You’ll look amazing,” he says simply.

The Ski Slopes Nation’s “big event” is already at full volume by the time you and James walk in. It’s loud. Like… loud-loud. Bass thumping through the floorboards, laughter coming from every corner, people yelling over each other like they’re competing for the Olympic gold medal in being obnoxious. James doesn’t even flinch. He’s been to a million of these. You on the other hand—feel like you just walked into a live-action TikTok POV.

James keeps a warm hand at the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd. “C’mon,” he says, leaning down so you can hear him, breath brushing your ear. “Gotta introduce you.”

His friends spot him immediately.

“AYYYY ZHAO YUFAN BOY!” A giant wasian guy—Martin—throws his arms up like James just scored a goal. He’s tall. Like… tree-level tall. The kind of tall that makes you physically tilt your head back to make eye contact. Next to him is Keonho—smaller, ridiculously handsome, annoyingly charming. Both of them stare at you for a beat, confused as hell.

James just grins. “Guys, this is Y/N.” Martin nods like he’s analyzing an alien species. “Ohhh… she’s the one.” Keonho elbows him. “Bro, don’t be weird.”

You want to evaporate. James squeezes your hand like he can tell. People around the room keep glancing. Whispering. Doing double-takes. James showing up with another girl this soon after Amy? Yeah. You can practically feel the gossip starting to ferment.

You clear your throat. “I’m, uh, gonna grab something to drink.” James nods, gentle. “I’ll be right here.” The second you leave, Martin leans in with that tall-guy nosiness. “Dude. She’s so different from Amy.”

James rolls his eyes. “Okay?”

“No, like… in a good way,” Martin says. “She’s calm. Doesn’t have that whole… I’m-influencing-the-room energy.”

Keonho smirks. “And you like her. It’s obvious.” James gives them a look but doesn’t deny it. Across the room, Amy is staring—hard. Snow-white expensive looking sweater that somehow makes her look like a judgmental snow angel. She watches James talk to his friends, then looks you up and down like you’re the clearance rack version of her.

You return with a drink—your first real drink ever—and try to pretend the room isn’t spinning from nerves. You take a sip. And another. And another. Warmth blooms in your chest, buzzing under your skin. James finds you instantly. “Hey.”

His brows pinch. “You good? You seem… off.”

You look at him. And your brain decides now is the perfect time to unhinge.

“You… used to have sex with Amy a lot, right?”

James chokes. Like, full cough-wheeze combo. “That’s what’s been bothering you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “It—doesn’t really matter. I mean… I know you’re with me right now, so that’s all that counts.”

James steps closer, hand cupping your jaw gently. “Y/N. She’s my past. You’re the one I’m choosing now. And every second with you feels… different. Better.”

Your chest squeezes so tight you forget how to swallow.

You look down at your shoes. “It’s just… I guess my first time with you would be your… I don’t know… however-many-th time with her.”

A breath leaves him—soft, understanding. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I’m not comparing you to her. I’m not thinking about her when I’m with you. I’m here, with you. And I like us. A lot.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.” And just like that, the tension melts a little.

The night blurs in the best way—laughter, games, James’s friends warming up to you, your drink going down way too easily. You’re not drunk, but definitely… pleasantly wobbly. James stays close the whole time, his arm brushing yours, hand grazing your lower back, fingers brushing your knuckles. Subtle, tiny things that keep your brain fried the entire night. 

At one point Martin challenges James to some stupid game that involves taking shots and hitting a mini soccer ball into a trash can, and you swear the cabin shakes when everyone screams after he makes it. You’re laughing. Actually laughing. And your cheeks hurt in the happiest way.

Eventually, when you’re both a little tipsy and the cold outside feels way too sharp, James wraps an arm around your waist and walks you back to the room.

Inside, you both stand awkwardly over the giant bed again.

“Uh… I’ll sleep on that side,” you say, pointing to the edge like it’s a danger zone.

James nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

You settle under the covers, facing away, trying to breathe normally. James climbs in on the opposite end, careful, respectful, leaving a canyon of space between you. As you close your eyes, the coldness of your body was stopping you from falling asleep. After laying there for a few minutes, you finally resort to your last option.

“James?”

He replies immediately. “Yeah?”

“I’m cold.”

There’s a beat. A quiet little inhale. You could practically hear him breathing from the other side of the bed. Then the mattress dips as he moves closer, sliding an arm around your waist and gently pulling you back into him. Warm. Solid. Safe. You exhale without meaning to, your body relaxing instantly into his.

His breath brushes your neck. “Better?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

And just like that, wrapped in him, heartbeat syncing with his, you fall asleep.

The next night creeps in faster than you expect. The final night of the trip—the big skiing day. The sky’s already going dark-blue, that weird shade where you can’t tell if it’s late afternoon or 11 p.m., and the cold is sharp enough to pinch your nose.

James helps you zip up your jacket, his fingers brushing your neck, sending chills that have nothing to do with the weather.

“You ready?” he asks, all smug confidence.

“No,” you answer instantly.

He laughs. “You’ll be fine. I’ll teach you.”

Outside, the slopes glow under tall floodlights, making the snow sparkle like someone dumped glitter everywhere. Kids and pros and show-offs are zooming down the hill like Olympic qualifiers. You’re already planning your funeral.

James clips your boots in for you because he doesn’t trust you with anything involving gravity.

“Okay,” he says, stepping behind you, hands gripping your arms gently. “Lean forward a tiny bit. Just enough to not fall backwards.”

“Okay,” you say, immediately leaning like a malfunctioning tower.

He steadies you. “Not that much—unless you wanna eat snow.”

“I’m gonna eat snow regardless.”

“That’s fair.”

He teaches you slowly, patiently—how to stop, how to turn, how not to accidentally kill yourself. And you… kinda get the hang of it? Ish? You manage to go five whole meters without face-planting.

Every time you wobble, he’s right there catching you by the waist. Every time you mess up, he laughs—not mean, but soft, fond, like he likes seeing you try. Eventually, you’re actually skiing—well, sliding down at the speed of an elderly turtle, but still.

James skis backwards in front of you, because of course he can. His eyes are warm, cheeks flushed red from the cold.

“You’re doing good!” he calls out.

“You’re lying to be nice!”

“I am,” he admits.

You finally stop at the bottom and nearly fall, but he lunges forward, catching you. Your helmet bumps into his chest.

“Hey,” he breathes, smiling down at you. “See? You didn’t die.”

“Yet,” you mutter.

After a while, you both sit in the snow, helmets off, catching your breath. Snow somehow gets down the back of your jacket and into your gloves and probably your soul.

You shriek. “OH MY GOD IT’S IN MY SHIRT—” James bursts out laughing. “You good?”

You do the most logical thing: grab a handful of snow and yeet it at his face.

He freezes. Then smirks. “Oh, it’s on.”

Next thing you know, you’re in a full snowball war—screaming, laughing, slipping everywhere, James chasing you around trees with perfect aim while you miss every single throw like you’re allergic to accuracy.

By the time you both stumble back toward the lodge, you’re breathless and soaked and ridiculously happy. Right outside the hallway to your room, James bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey, uh… go ahead to the room. I need to tell Martin something real quick.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He kisses your cheek—quick, warm—before turning away.

You head inside. You shower, change, check your phone, sit on the bed, go through photos, scroll TikTok, stare at the ceiling, contemplate the meaning of life…

Forty-five minutes pass.

The door finally opens. James steps in, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s tired. “Sorry. Martin was being annoying.”

You smile. “It’s okay. I had fun these two days. Thank you for convincing me to come.”

His eyes soften. “I’m glad you did.”

—

The next morning is chaotic—bags everywhere, people rushing, doors slamming, winter air biting at your face. James looks exhausted, barely awake, stuffing clothes into his duffel like a zombie.

His other friend is waiting for him outside, yelling for him to hurry.

You zip your jacket and head into the hallway. Martin’s there, tying his boots.

“Hey, Martin?”

He looks up. “Hm?”

“What did you and James talk about last night?”

He blinks. “Last night? …We didn’t talk.”

Your stomach drops. “He didn’t see you?”

“No? I didn’t see him at all.”

Oh. Oh great. Fanfuckingtastic. A cold wave rolls through your chest harder than the mountain wind.

When you climb into the passenger seat of James’s car, he’s quiet—clearly tired. He yawns as he turns the engine on. The drive is silent for a long time. Like… too long.

Finally, he speaks. “Are you going to the match today?”

“No.”

He glances at you, confused. “Why not?”

You keep your eyes on the window. “Because I know you didn’t go see Martin.”

The air tightens.

“So who was it?” you ask. James doesn’t answer. Your heart beats loud enough to hurt. The coach starts calling him the second you guys pull into the parking lot.

“James! Let’s go! You’re 14 minutes late. Warm-ups!”

He’s still staring at the steering wheel.

“Tell me,” you whisper. “Did you go see Amy?”

“Look—” he starts, voice low, strained, “I can explain.”

The coach yells again. “FIVE MINUTES, JAMES!”

Your throat burns. “Am I just your second best?”

He winces—like the words physically hit him.

The coach yells again, sharper this time: “Last warning!”

James steps out of the car, but turns back, gripping the door.

“Please,” he says, eyes desperate. “Just come to the game. I promise I’ll explain everything after. Please.”

And then he’s gone, jogging off toward the field, leaving you sitting in the quiet car, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out.

—

The school library is quiet in that specific after-school way — soft humming lights, the vague smell of old pages, one kid coughing somewhere like he’s auditioning for a Victorian death scene. You’re still not sure about meeting up with James after his games. It has been a hell of a week,

You’ve been curled up in a corner armchair for about an hour or two with some random book you grabbed just to distract your brain from… everything. It’s working, sorta. 

Until you flip the page and land on a quote that hits you like a truck:

“If someone chooses silence when they owe you honesty, let them go.

But if your heart aches louder than your pride…

you’ll find your way back anyway.”

You stare at it like it personally slapped you across the face. Why does everywhere you go have to remind you of James. And then you glance at the clock.

You are one hour late to the end James’s game. 

Like — not fifteen minutes, not “oops my bad,”

but a FULL sixty minutes late.

“Shit.”

You jump up so fast the librarian gives you a death glare that could shatter glass.

You shove the book back on the shelf sideways (crime) and practically sprint out. It’s pouring outside — full dramatic movie thunderstorm pouring. The kind that soaks your socks instantly.

You take out your sad little umbrella and start the walk home, hugging your jacket to your chest like that’ll protect you from your own thoughts. But when you reach the edge of the outdoor courts—the ones the team cuts across after games—you pause,

Because there’s someone standing there. Alone. Soaked. Head down. Kicking at the gravel like he’s fighting ghosts. James.

He’s drenched top to bottom, rainwater mixed with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to him. And he’s… waiting. Still. Just standing there like he refuses to leave until something changes. Your chest does something stupid and painful, a mixture of guilt and anger.

You walk up quietly, stepping behind him, lifting the umbrella up on your toes so it covers the both of you. One tiny circle of dryness in a whole world of rain.

He tenses first—then turns slowly. The moment he sees you, his expression crumples in this soft, relieved way that knocks the breath right out of you.

“…You came,” he says, voice low, almost disbelieving.

You swallow. “Yeah. I— I was late. And then it started raining, so I was just walking home but…”

Your eyes flick to him.

“But you’re still here.”

You lower the umbrella slightly so you can see his face better. Drops of rain slide down his cheek, and he looks exhausted — not physically, but in that “I’ve been stressing about losing you for hours” kind of way.

“What made you come?” he asks quietly. You shrug, breath fogging the air. “I… read something. And it made me realize I wasn’t done. With us.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks away for a second like he’s overwhelmed.

You take a small step closer. “Who were you with, James?”

He lets out a breath that’s practically a sigh of defeat. “Amy.”

Your stomach sinks — until he lifts his head, eyes sharp, honest.

“But not for what you think.”

You don’t say anything. You just hold the umbrella and wait.

“I went to tell her to stop,” he says. “To stop showing up everywhere. To stop spreading shit about you. About us. To stop acting like I owe her something.”

His voice strengthens, anger threading through it.

“I told her if she messed with you one more time, I’d—” He stops, shaking his head. “—I’d actually lose it. I didn’t want things to blow up in front of you, so I waited until later. That’s it. That’s all it was.”

Your eyes sting. And your voice comes out smaller than you want.

“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He steps closer, rain dripping off his jaw. “Because when you asked, you already looked like I’d punched a hole in your chest. And then the coach was yelling at me, and I panicked.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

The rain softens around you, or maybe you just stop noticing it.

You whisper, “I thought you were… choosing her again.”

His face twists — hurt, like the idea physically wounds him.

“Y/N.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist gently, like he’s asking permission.

“You were never my second best.” Your throat closes up.

“And I waited,” he adds. “For an hour. In the rain. Just in case there was even a 1% chance you’d show up.” You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “That’s really dumb of you.”

He smiles, soft and crooked. “Yeah. But I’m yours, so… it tracks.”

You look at him—really look—soaked, shivering, but eyes warm like he never doubted you’d return.

You step forward and tuck yourself against him, arms looping around his waist. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole day and pulls you in, umbrella tilting awkwardly over both your heads.

His chest is warm even though his clothes are freezing. His chin rests on your hair. His heartbeat is steady and loud.

“Hey,” he murmurs into your ear.

“What?”

“Thanks for coming back.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Don’t make me chase you through a storm again,” you mumble.

He chuckles, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then don’t leave me behind.”

You shrug playfully. “No promises.”

He leans down, forehead touching yours, breaths mixing in the cold air.

Warm and close and full of everything you’ve been too scared to say.

“Let me walk you home,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go home.”

He takes the umbrella from you, threads his fingers through yours, and the two of you walk out of the storm together — matching steps, matching heartbeats — leaving every misunderstanding behind on the wet pavement.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

You don’t feel like you’re someone’s temporary choice. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. With him.

request || masterlist

[i-kai]

PRIVATE BUT NOT SECRET ⊹ z. yufan

— you and james don’t feel the need to hide your relationship from the public, nor show it off. ( idol!james x idol!reader, reader is in katseye )

— based on this ask!

juhoon ver. ✶ martin ver. ✶ seonghyeon ver. ✶ keonho ver. ✶ cortis masterlist

note 𖦹 reader can be interpreted as being in any age range in the katz lineup since jjami is 20 :3 another cameo by my goat @teacuplps !!!!!!

cortis taglist: @lcvehyeon @xxxicddbr88 @coconhovr @arthurtvslover @bellesophiaa @r0ckst4rjk @marsgirltyshi @arthurtvslover @ramenoil (open!)

[j4eyxn]

𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 🥟 ／ ⋆ ۪ CUTER THAN DOLLS. JAMeS 🩰

….  🦢  his hyper feminine girlfriend ”

% fluff, petnames, skinship, flirting with BF!JAMES

୨୧  james is a sucker for reader’s hyper femininity   (08) RiRI 🎧

“yu, baby, come!” you called out, twirling around in front of your mirror with the biggest smile ever. james immediately entered the room, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

you were wearing your cute nightdress; covered in pink, lace and bows. and your heart pendant that he got for you the day james asked you to be his girlfriend. you never take it off.

and james was obsessed with your love for cutesy things making you hundred times cuter.

usually people would walk into your room, stunned at the absurd amount of baby pink that invaded your room, but james found it insanely adorable.

so much so, he buys you all the cute, pink, lacy things that you love.

james even lets you wrap his arms in pink ribbons whenever you were cuddling, and he’d act like he didn’t like but deep down, he couldn’t have been happier.

he smiled, walking to embrace you from behind.

“love, you’re actually so adorable, have i ever told you that?” he mumbled into your hair, inhaling your strawberry scent.

“yes, a million times, no joke. but i never mind it,” you grinned cheekily, turning around to face your boyfriend. “do you want to help me put my rollers in?” you asked softly, already knowing the answer.

“you know i do, doll. come.” james said, way too eagerly. he took your hand, seating you on the edge of your floral-covered bed.

he took the rollers and clips off your vanity, walking over to you. if there’s one thing about james, it’s that he takes great pride in helping you curl your hair. you don’t understand why it makes him so excited, but any time you mention it, he’s more than happy to grab your pink curlers and help you.

he sat down, patting his lap. you giggled, finding your place on his lap, a soft flush dusting your cheeks. it made you look even cuter.

then he started wrapping your hair around the rollers, his skill unbelievably impressive. you were so convinced that james was either a hairstylist or a hyper feminine girl in his past life because he was better at this than you.

you couldn’t help but admire him as he worked, his focused expression incredibly hot. and when he felt your gaze, he gave you a soft smile, pinching your cheek.

“love, you’re staring at me like i’m a greek god, please stop. you’re going to make me flustered.” he grumbled, staring at you with those gorgeous eyes. you felt yourself melting even more. “because you are that hot, baby.”

you gushed, you love gushing. especially over james’ beauty. he looked unreal, and as much as him compliments you every waking second, you felt obligated to the same.

james smiled sheepishly, trying hard to seem nonchalant but failed instantly.

“i’m so weak for you, love. way too weak. you could make me do anything for you.” he murmured, clipping your hair in place. you laughed, caressing his cheeks.

“well, i know that.”

“of course you do, you’re menace.” he grumbled again, no real annoyance or irritation behind it but instead adoration.

“i’m your menace.” you gushed once more, kissing his forehead. he frowned in despair, letting out a sigh.

“love, i’ll mess up your hair if you continue, stop.” he whined again, louder this time, and he pouted. you smirked slyly, poking his cheeks with your index fingers.

“lock in, baby. do you want me to look like chopped shyt on our date?” you asked, mischievously. james’ eyes widened so much you thought it wasn’t humanely possible then went back to normal as he smiled.

“no, no, absolutely not, doll. you’d never though.” he blurted out cautiously then cooed. you giggled, nudging his shoulder.

“my little cutie.”

“you’re lucky i’m done,” he said, clipping the last roller in place. “i would’ve stopped midway and cuddled you so hard you wouldn’t be able to escape me.” he warned, an attempt to sound threatening but rather an adorable suggestion.

“so does that mean you’re doing to do that now?” you asked, trying to prepare yourself, but as always you weren’t quick enough because he was already snuggling against you as you said the words.

“you bet, doll . my baby.” he murmured, soft and sweet.

you giggled once more, melting into his touch. he let you put your pink bow stickers on his face and a lace bow in his hair, his reward for doing such a good job aside from all the kisses in the world.

“you’re so adorable now. my cutie patootie.” you crooned, attacking his face with kisses. he smiled, interlocking your fingers.

“i know, i love you, doll.”

“i do too, baby.”

your man loved your obsession with being a girly girl, so much so that he’d let you make him a cutie and he’d curl your hair for you, and he was never ever going to stop.

tag list ! @yunsera @amoressb @k-oimani1 @koiiq @weoris @mqytcha @miuwoniz @murastqr @saintlysl @amatariki @liliikkuma @ririzrecs @yooniso @eohyeons @yeppiiz @unakbb

注記 ─── i am a hyper feminine girlie if you couldn’t tell and i absolutely adore fics with hyper feminine girls so um this is indeed a hyper feminine girl appreciation post so all my hyper feminine girls rise with me. hope y’all enjoy this just as much as i do once again! ✶

ㅤㅤㅤ© J4EYXN ‘25

[ceuxnoirst]

my moon, my man

SYNOPSIS. if you were dating Jude Bellingham and cheating on him with James Chao.

warning. SEPARATE FICTION FROM REALITY, purely satire, don't condone cheating, ever!

masterlist . taglist

꒰ 🌊 — @cookyland @weirdowithaphone @toj1sgf @yeeyeehaw22 @inadazeee @chrmedbyjju @taelvvrzz @isthiscool @young2keu @one-chance-pls @luffyloving @joyuuma @hyeonverse @hyuneskkami @ilovegojosatoru13 @stxr-lilac @cortismoon @yvesismylove @jjuhyeons @meeoowchi @xowonat @cvntycapricornxx @fvrgetmenot @kienhawon @chaebbys @kimustar @kiramyeo @keonono @yvalrik @yeppiz @rie-diculous @katsukisser ꒱  

© ceuxnoirst

[ramenoil]

never let go

—zhao yufan

🍶 idol!james x f!reader, second-chance trope, profanity, burnout, angst/comfort, fluff, yearning, misunderstandings

w.c: 2.9k~

syn: now how was James going to cope if he never knew why you left him in the first place?

playlist: let down by radiohead / i bet on losing dogs by mitski / never let go by lngshot

iro's notes: req by @lilithsfatality delanie bby i luv this req sm im sorry i was so slow w it i js cldnt get myself to like anything i wrote

You open the door, pushing a box in front of you. “Okay, I think that's all of it.” James stands in front of you. Hood over his head. Sunglasses on. You look at him for a second before clearing your throat, “So, uh—let me know if I missed anything.” He doesn't look up.

His eyes are locked in on the floor. He doesn't bend down to pick up the box. He doesn't say hi to you. All he does is stare at the floor. His hands clenched into a fist, “What did I do?” You grip the door, “Don't make it harder than it already is,” you mutter, starting to close the door. James grabs the door before you can close it. “At least tell me what I did wrong?” he asks, finally looking up at you. His eyes are bloodshot red. Dark circles sit beneath them—he clearly hasn't been sleeping. “It’s been a whole week, get over it. Please.” You say forcing the door close. 

You broke up with James. You don't know why you did it.

Lies.

The truth sits ugly in your chest, refusing to be swallowed. You know exactly why you broke up with him. You loved him—no, you love him. Maybe that was the problem. Love is supposed to be selfless, right? You’re supposed to help each other grow, right? So why did it feel like you were holding him back? He’s an idol. He has a job, a life and dreams to achieve. 

Love is supposed to be selfless—full of sacrifices and putting someone else's happiness before your own. That's what James always does. When he loves, he loves heavily. He'd always been like that. Even during his trainee years, and back when he was in Trainee A. Irrespective of his schedule he always made time for you. And you saw it, you always did. The way his shoulders would slump down. The way exhaustion lingered beneath his eyes. The way he showed up even when you told him not to. Even when you said it's okay. Even when you scolded him and told him sternly to get rest. He always simply said—”I’ll rest better with you.”

Somewhere along the way, his schedule only got worse when he debuted in Cortis. Days packed with music production, dance practices, music video shoots, and whatnot.

 And yet, he always showed up. 

It started off normal. He’d show up around 8 p.m. looking sort of energetic. But it went downhill. It always does. He started showing up at random hours. In the early hours of the morning. Once he came over at 3 a.m.

You remember waking up with a familiar grip on your waist—James. “James?” Your voice low and groggy. He hummed into the crook of your neck. You slid closer to him, ‘When did you come over?” His voice came out muffled, “Around 3, I don’t really remember.”

“Why didn’t you stay at the dorm? Why travel so much to come here?” 

He only gripped you tighter, “Wanted to.” 

One thing about James is that he always shows up. He showed up for your fifth anniversary after a sixteen-hour work day. He spent the entire dinner trying to convince you he wasn't exhausted. He failed miserably. Halfway through a story, he'd forgotten what he was talking about. His eyes kept drifting shut whenever there was a pause in the conversation. At one point, he reached for his drink and completely missed it. 

And still, when you told him he should've stayed home and rested, he only laughed. "It's our anniversary." Like that explained everything.

You knew his schedule was packed, but you never really realised how bad it had gotten. With the second album on the way, you should’ve received the memo. When someone talks to James, they have his full attention. So you knew it was bad when he had to check work messages during dinner with your parents. 

You tried to ask him about it. Tried to tell him it was okay if he didn't always show up. He wouldn't listen. 

The members were always supportive of both of you. They even joked about you both being their parents. So you understood it was bad when, right before the GREENGREEN release party, Martin called you. Telling you to make sure James stayed at the dorm that night. Traveling back and forth was exhausting for him. Martin sounded worried, genuinely worried.

And somehow, that was your cue to leave him. 

Sounds fucking ridiculous, you know that too. 

Everyone could see what loving you was costing him. Apart from him. 

The days following the breakup were brutal. You would see James everywhere. Especially with the new album out. The billboards were everywhere. They even won. 10 times at that. You wanted to tell James how proud you were of him. 

But you couldn't. 

Reaching out would only make things harder for him. At least, that's what you tell yourself.

“James?”

“Hello? James?” A kick to his chair finally breaks his trance, “Dude, what is it with you?” Martin asks, scoffing in annoyance.

James doesn't look up at him. He just buries his face in his palms. “Fuck,” he murmurs. 

Everybody knows about it. Of course they do, they’re his friends. “It’s about her again?”

“Her” 

That’s the term James has been hearing ever since the new album dropped. Everyone practically treated your name like a curse. It pissed him off. It pissed him off more than he’d want to admit. “Fuck Martin, just say Yn.” He sneered. 

“Right, sorry.” Martin rolled his chair back towards his side of the desk. “Is it about Yn?”

“Let’s just get back to this track.” He inhaled deeply. “Please,” he whispered.

James couldn't explain how he felt without sounding like an idiot. Nobody would understand how his days felt. How his days felt so empty. Knowing you’re not there to spam him with weird reels or tiktoks at weird hours. Knowing you weren't there to ask if he'd eaten. Knowing you weren't there to spam him with blurry selfies and pictures of things that reminded you of him.

He still woke up, still got ready, performed and all that. Everything looked normal. But it didn't feel normal. He was drowning in something, but he didn't know why. He wasn’t able to sleep at night knowing he did something to hurt you enough to break up with him. 

How could it be something a conversation couldn't fix?

Everything felt hollow, shallow. Even though the album climbed up charts, even though the album won multiple awards. He didn't feel happy. It felt too mundane. It's not mundane—it shouldn’t be. He should be over the moon. This is all he’s dreamt of ever since he was 15. 

Where were you when he needed you the most? He didn't know what to do without you by his side. It was almost as if the days he'd spent without you were utterly meaningless. You slid into his life so easily—like the missing piece of a puzzle. Without you, everything was incomplete. You were the finishing touch on a painting he'd spent years working on. Without you, he felt empty.

James tried everything. He tried to be angry at first. Keyword: tried. He even tried blocking you. He couldn't. His fingers would freeze halfway through.

Every good thing that happened made him reach for his phone. 

So did the bad things. 

He was so used to texting you after every minor inconvenience. With you gone, who was he supposed to talk to? He remembered vividly how he'd text you at exactly 2 a.m. Back when James was just Zhao Yufan trying to court you. You both used to talk till the morning. You both would walk to school together with the same drowsiness in your eyes. The reason? Two lovesick fools trying to salvage the few hours of privacy they got at night.

James’ initial attempts at being angry failed. He knew he had to move on. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. But how was he supposed to keep you out of sight when you were everywhere? James opened his phone? A picture of you two. He opens his wallet to pay for something? A polaroid of you. He opens his laptop to produce music? A picture of you again. Fuck that, he even found a polaroid of you both in his pocket.

He almost thought you found a way to haunt him for his mistakes. Mistakes he isn't aware of because you wouldn't tell him. Maybe it was the universe mocking him. Maybe it was truly that evident. Maybe he’s just stupid.

“James?” Martin whispered, leaning closer to him. He turns his head slightly to look at Martin. Martin exhales loudly, “Dude, you’re not doing okay.” He spins in his chair. “Go talk to her. Get closure.” Seonghyeon chimes in, “Yeah, it’s kinda stupid how she didn’t tell you why.”

“It makes no sense.” Keonho adds on. “Just go.” Juhoon says with finality. James could only look around the room. “She said she’s fine,” He mutters. “She probably doesn’t care.” He leans back in his chair, looking straight at the ceiling. His eyes look soulless.

“Doesn’t matter, you’re fucking yourself up. You weren’t even happy after winning an award. That says enough.” Juhoon said, annoyance laced in his words. Keonho gets up from the couch, grabbing James' hands. He pulled him up. “Go. Now. Stop being a loser, we can’t have you like this.” He spins James around. “I’m sure you can get her back.” He said, finally pushing James to the door. 

You’re scrolling through your phone. Scrolling through Cortis’ instagram, to be precise. And to be even more precise, you were stalking Martin's account—it was the safest place to get updates. Martin barely used the account apart from posting silly stories. These silly stories were your holy grail this month. 

You knew Cortis was in the studio today. You knew they were all busy. You threw your phone on the couch, getting up to grab something to drink. Before you could pull the handle of your refrigerator, your door was met with loud thuds. Three loud thuds echo through the hallway.

You knew who it was. You didn't even have to check. But nonetheless, you walk to the door. All you want is a glimpse of James, you get on your tippy-toes to peep through the peephole. 

And then you see him. His eyes are still red. He’s been crying. He’s constantly fidgeting with his fingers. 

“Yn I know you're standing there.” He said You freeze for a second, opening your door now. “James?” You let out shakily. 

He looks at you, “Do you still love me?” He pauses, “Do you?”

“James, go back to the studio. Stop making it this complicated.” He chokes on a sob, “If you think it’s complicated, that means you still care. I can’t go back. I can’t not love you, I don’t even know what went wrong, Yn.” You should tell him to leave, you should slam the door on his face. You’re holding him back. You drain him. He’s exhausted because he goes above and beyond for you. “Please leave.”

“No.” he says sternly, now entering your apartment without letting you protest. 

He grabs your hand and leads you to the couch. He pushes you down, making you sit on the couch as he gets on his knees. His face now buried in your lap. His voice comes out muffled, “Please. Baby please tell me what I did wrong.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Nothing.”

James goes still, he looks up at you. “Nothing?” he repeats.

“You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Then why?” His voice cracks on the single word. You can feel his fingers tightening around yours. “Yn, look at me.” You don't, because the second your eyes meet his. You don’t know what’ll happen. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you do. His eyes are red. His lashes are wet. He looks exhausted. “You don't just throw away five years and tell me nothing happened.”

The tears burn behind your eyes. “James—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “A month ago you were telling me I was the love of your life.” His laugh comes out broken. “Four weeks ago we were arguing over what movie to watch.” Another sarcastic chuckle. “Three weeks ago, you broke up with me.” His voice is shaky. “So tell me what happened.”

You stare at him. At the eyebags. At the way his hands won't stop shaking. At how tired he looks. And that only further proves your point. “You're exhausted.”

James blinks. “What?”

“You never sleep.” The words start tumbling out before you can stop them. “You show up after sixteen-hour work days.”

“Yn—”

“You come over at three in the morning.”

“Yn.”

“You're constantly working.”

You wipe your tears. “Martin literally called me and told me to make sure you stayed at the dorm because travelling back and forth was exhausting you.”

James freezes.

 “You remember our anniversary?” You laugh bitterly. “You could barely keep your eyes open.”

“Baby—”

“Stop calling me that.” Your voice breaks. “Do you know how horrible it feels watching someone you love run themselves into the ground?”

James stares.

“You have albums to make. Stages to perform on. Fans waiting for you.” You look away. “And all I do is take more from you.”

“Yn.”

“You don't understand.” The tears are falling freely now. “You always show up.” You feel your heart twists. “Even when you're exhausted. Even when you're sick. Even when I tell you not to.” You laugh shakily. “You'd choose me every single time.”

James' head tilts. And suddenly he understands, not completely but almost enough. Not completely. “That's why you left?” You don't answer. “You left because you thought I loved you too much?”

A sob escapes your throat. “You were so tired, James.” The confession leaves you in pieces. “You looked so tired.”

Silence engulfed the room for a second. 

“You idiot.” Your head snaps up. James is crying now too.“You absolute idiot.”

“James—”

“You think that's what I wanted?” His voice shakes. “You think I was showing up because I had to?”

“James—”

“I showed up because I wanted to.”

He grabs your hands, grounding you right by his side. Desperately , afraid you’ll pull back. “Because every good thing that happened made me want to tell you first.” Another tear slips down his cheek. “Every bad thing too. I don't know how to do this without you. Do you know what this feels like?” His grip tightens on your wrists now. “I'd wake up and reach for my phone.” He takes a deep breath. “Nothing. I'd finish a schedule. Nothing. We won awards.” His voice breaks completely. “And all I could think was that you would've been happy.”

You start sobbing harder. “James...”

He wipes the tears on your face. “Pease, don’t let me go. Days feel so incomplete without you here, I swear I go insane.” His forehead rests against your hands.

“Please. I don't care if you're scared, I don't care if we fight, I don't care if things get messy. Fuck, I don’t care if the whole world finds out about this.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Just don't run away from me. I'm not tired because of you.” He shakes his head. “I'm tired because my job is tiring.” A weak laugh escapes his lips. “But you?” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You're the only reason I’m surviving,”

You break completely, tears flow down uncontrollably now. And before you know it, you're crying into his shoulder while he holds you like he's terrified you'll disappear again.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Over and over, and over again. Like he's making up for every day he didn't get to say it. “I love you.” A kiss to your forehead. “I love you.” another on the corner of your mouth, “I love you.” His voice cracks. “Don’t ever do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you say amidst your sobs. “I’m sorry.” The apology sounds pathetic the second it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry—I should've talked to you. I should've communicated.” Your voice cracks. “Instead I—I just...” The words refuse to come out. You broke up with him. You hurt him. You spent weeks pretending it was for the best. And now that he's here, kneeling in front of you, holding onto you like you'll disappear again, none of it makes sense anymore.

A sob escapes your throat. “I was scared.” Before you can say anything else, James pulls you into his arms. His arms wrap around you. “It's okay,” he whispers.

His own voice isn't steady either. “It's okay.”

“No, it's not.”

“Baby.”

“It's not,” you repeat through tears. “I hurt you.”

James lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.” The honesty and exhaustion in his voice makes you cry harder. “Yeah, you did.” His grip tightens. “But I'm sorry too.”

You pull back slightly. “What?”

James wipes his eyes. “I should've realised sooner.”

“Realised what?”

“That you were worried.” His gaze drops. “I kept thinking if I showed up, it'd be enough.” A weak smile appears on his face. “I didn't realise you were watching me fall asleep halfway through dinner.”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “We're really stupid, huh?”

“Extremely.”

“Very embarrassing.” Another laugh slips out between your tears. And for the first time in what feels like ages, James hears it. Your laugh.

perm tags: @amb4rluvs / @beatbymarzz / @sailuvsu / @lcvehyeon / @frizzyyo / @09zpzkeonnss / @yunjiiin / @hyuneskkami / @one-chance-pls / @rickyshensgirlfriend / @snowzxki / @yuu-kizx / @myen2rude / @meowchness / @jjuhyeons / @6rei-ji / @luffyloving / @w0narchy / @zzzeeetttaaa / @ddolleri / @1giss4swft3 / @ilovegojosatoru13 / @bitemhoon / @lovedove00 / @pixel-zombie / @tateholic / @mershyjershy

© ramenoil 2026

[crtisbambi]

mr captain ❤︎ james

⚬ in which . . . the ice hockey captain fell for the coaches daughter

﹙PRÉCIS﹚, ✿23𝓈 ㅤㅤ ⸻ icehockey player james & 𝒻. rea 𓂃 Ⓢmau ࣪ ˖ verri silly + lota fluff 𝄞 ⸝⸝ ⟢ 、love at first sight 𓏏 >﹏<

ℬambi :: im so Angry my Memi msgs stopped working bruuuu that Is not Going to stop me tho. Da queen always has a backup plan… Memi will be getting a very long and inappropriate email from ME tho. Gosh.

[cookeyy]

︵⁠ TRACK #01 - TIT FOR TAT

#</3 your situationship stars playing around but you have to show him who the real player is

CONTAINS: situationship!james x 𝑓em!reader smau party settings #no fluff evb just messy af cursing james highk a jerk commitment issues // ignore all time stamps .9ss

⠀⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ was quite the hassle trying to posting this 💔, tumblr kept on flagging my post as mature content 😭😭 (genuinely what is wrong with this app 💀) , anyways here's a lil something as my debut on this account 😛, pretty short nd ahh but wtv 😓

[fleurcub]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 제임스 ────────𝗚𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗖𝗟𝗨𝗕 ﹒ ﹒

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎🪕 。 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗒

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 !james ♥︎ 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 !rea‎ ‎ ﹒ ﹒ ‎﹒ ‎‎ ⌗ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ high school, kiss, music‎ ‎ ‎ ‎✶ 𝟏𝟐𝐎

why the glee club?

the performing arts club where all of the campus losers are found in after school hours. they're the laughing stock of the whole school—theater kids, nerds, just losers in general.

so, for james yufan—the quarterback of the school's football team—to join the glee club is completely unheard of.. like, ever. even though he's going to join, it's not like he's doing it willingly—no, he lost a bet with his teammates and the punishment was to enroll in the club for however long their coach decides.

as the football player nears the choir classroom, he lets out a deep sigh when the sounds of singing and chatter grow even louder with every step he takes to the classroom door.

the honey-brown haired boy enters the classroom, his lips pursed in a tight-lipped smile. he notices how everyone is looking at him with puzzled yet defensive stares because why on earth would the school's quarterback be here?

james locks eyes with you—the school's annoying overachiever—while you're belting in quite an obnoxious yet talented way. he can feel a wave of humiliation crashing over him while he walks up to the glee club's director, letting out a resentful sigh.

"..hi, uh, i was interested in joining this club."

yeah, right.

the director blinks at him—once, twice—like she’s trying to make sure he’s not some sort of mirage conjured by fluorescent lighting and desperation. “you’re… serious?” she asks carefully, voice lilting with disbelief wrapped in cautious optimism.

james exhales through his nose, shoulders stiff beneath his letterman jacket. “do i look like i’m joking?”

then, from somewhere in the room, a poorly concealed snort.

your voice doesn’t stop—not even for a second. you’re still singing, unwavering, crystalline and loud in a way that feels almost intentional now. like you’re proving something. like you’re challenging him.

his jaw tightens.

“alright—” the director says, clapping her hands together as if sealing his fate. “everyone, this is james yufan. he’ll be joining us starting today.”

a chorus of murmurs ripples through the room—skeptical, amused, vaguely hostile. james shifts his weight, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. he’s taken worse scrutiny under stadium lights, but this—this feels different. sharper. more personal.

because here, he’s not admired.

he’s out of place, from a bunch of nerds.

“why don’t you say more about yourself?” the director prompts.

james drags a hand through his brown hair, already regretting every decision that led him here. “i play football.” then, with less conviction, “...and i guess i’m in this now.”

a stifled laugh escaped from a girls mouth.

you.

he looks over, irritation flickering behind his eyes, only to find you watching him openly now, arms crossed, expression edged with something between curiosity and judgment. your earlier singing has stopped, but the echo of it lingers in the room, like it refuses to let him forget.

“riveting,” you mutter, just loud enough.

his lips press into a thin line. “hm? got something to say?”

“just thinking,” you tilt your head slightly, gaze sweeping over him like you’re assessing a performance that’s already disappointing, “this is either going to be a disaster… or really entertaining.”

a few people laugh. traitors.

james scoffs, glaring now. so sassy. “trust me, i’m not planning to stay any longer than i have to.”

“no.. no, we know,” you reply easily, uncowed. “you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“i would.”

“then leave.”

it’s immediate—the way the room stills, the way something sharp settles between you both.

james’ eyes narrow. “can’t.”

“why not?” you pursed your rosy lips a bit, he looks embarrassed.

he hesitates. just for a second.

“…long story.”

you hum, unconvinced, but let it drop—for now. “well, if you’re stuck here,” you gesture vaguely around the room, “you might as well try not to embarrass yourself.”

his brows lift. “i don’t embarrass myself.”

“everyone does,” you say, almost pleasantly. “especially here.”

the director claps again before he can fire back. “alright! let’s get started. james, you can sit in for now—observe, get a feel for things.”

observe. great.

he drops into an empty chair near the back, slouching slightly, arms still crossed like armor. his gaze drifts—over mismatched sheet music, over animated conversations, over the chaotic, unpolished energy that fills the room.

and then, inevitably, back to you.

you’re already mid-discussion with someone, gesturing emphatically, completely unbothered by his presence now. like he’s already faded into the background.

it irritates him more than it should.

rehearsal starts again soon after—piano keys ringing out, voices layering in uneven harmony that somehow… works. james watches, initially detached, counting down the minutes in his head.

you start singing again, showing off as the leader you are.

and it’s. annoying, yeah. loud, a little too much, like you’re trying to outshine everyone else in the room.

..it’s also good. your chill, he thinks.

technically precise, emotionally charged in a way that makes the air feel heavier, like it’s pressing against his chest. your voice cuts through everything else, commanding attention whether he wants to give it or not.

his fingers tap absently against his arm.

he hates that he notices.

hates it even more when he doesn’t look away.

by the time the harmony ends, he realizes something unsettling—this might not be as easy to endure as he thought.

it might not be entirely unbearable.

rehearsal should end there. it usually does—messy applause, chatter, chairs scraping against tile—but something lingers tonight. maybe it’s the way the last note still hums faintly in the air, or the way no one moves right away, like they’re waiting for something else to happen.

you’re already looking at him.

not in that sharp, critical way from before, but something quieter now. more measured. like you’re trying to figure him out instead of dismissing him entirely.

it makes his chest feel… strange. he doesn like that.

“wha?” he mutters, pushing himself up from the chair.

you don’t answer immediately. you just tilt your head, studying him in that unnervingly thorough way of yours before stepping closer—close enough that he catches the faint scent of something soft and clean, like laundry dried in sunlight.

“you were listening, soo intently.” you say finally.

he pouts lightly. “i was stuck.”

“no,” you shake your head, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips, “you were listening. there’s a difference, apparently. one that he doesn’t bother arguing against—because, annoyingly, you’re not wrong.

“so what if i was?” he shrugs, though his voice is quieter now, less defensive. “doesn’t mean i liked it.”

“you didn’t not like it either.”

your eyes catch the light—bright, a little smug, but not unkind. it throws him off more than your earlier attitude ever did.

“you always talk this much?” he asks. “kind of annoying.”

“that’s mean, you seem worthy of attention.”

“…and i am?”

you step a fraction closer, shrugging.“i haven’t decided yet.”

it’s subtle—the shift. the way the space between you narrows, the way the noise of the room fades into something distant and irrelevant. people are still moving around, packing up, laughing—but it all feels muffled, like you’re both standing in the center of something quieter.

he needs water.

“well,” he exhales, forcing a smirk, “don’t take too long. i won’t be here forever.”

“right,” you murmur, softer now. “the guy who doesn’t want to be here.”

he expects the usual bite in your tone, the teasing edge—but it’s missing. replaced with something… else. among the outcasts here, maybe you admire him.

and for some reason, that bothers him more.

“i don’t,” he says, but it comes out less certain than before.

“then prove it.”

his brows knit. “what?”

“audition,” you say simply. “right now.”

“i don’t sing.”

“everyone sings in glee club.”

“not me.” he lastly retorts, then swallows it up.

“you can,” you say, voice quieter now, almost coaxing. “you just don’t want to.” your gaze drops, briefly, to his lips—just for a second—but he notices. of course he does.

the room feels warmer.

“why do you care?” he asks, low.

“…because,” you start, then stop, like you’re searching for a reason that doesn’t give too much away. “because i think you’d surprise people. like you do on the field.”

“i don’t need to impress anyone here.”

“not them.”

your eyes lift to meet his again. “me, i am the head of here too.”

james exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the floor before flicking back up to your pretty, dumb face. “…fine,” he mutters.

your lips part slightly. “fine?”

“don’t make a big deal out of it,” he adds quickly, already regretting this. “i’m just—trying it. once. just for you, yn.”

you don’t smile right away. but something soft blooms in your expression—something warmer, almost disarming. you had a crush on him for a while.

“okay,” you say gently. “just once.”

the director perks up instantly when she hears, scrambling to the piano with barely concealed excitement. the room settles again, attention shifting, curiosity buzzing.

james steps forward, heart thudding harder than it ever does before a game.

this is stupid.

this is so stupid.

but he glances at you for approval and reassurance all at once. and you’re watching him like he’s already done something worth noticing.

it steadies him. just enough.

“whenever you’re ready,” the director prompts.

he inhales. the first note is rough—hesitant, unfamiliar on his tongue. and when he tries again; it’s better and real.

his voice is lower than expected, a little textured, like it hasn’t been used this way before. it doesn’t soar like yours—but it grounds the song, gives it something solid to lean on.

something that makes people stop whispering.

⟡

but staying for full five months of the duration of the glee club, wasn’t the plan for james.

it was supposed to be a joke—something temporary, something he could endure with clenched teeth and a half-hearted attitude until his coach decided he’d suffered enough. he wanted to play along with it. but time, apparently, has a way of softening edges you didn’t realize were sharp to begin with.

and james changes, he’s not the stereotype of a brooding jock that thinks everything is nerdy. just because he didn’t like it.

not all at once. not in some dramatic, obvious way that people can point at and say there—that’s when it happened. it’s quieter than that. slower. something that settles into him without permission.

it starts with staying a little longer after rehearsals.

then with learning harmonies without being asked.

then with noticing when you’re not there before he even realizes he’s looking for you.

by the third week, he stops sitting in the back. by the second month, he knows everyone’s names. by the third, he’s laughing—actually laughing—at things that would’ve made him roll his eyes before.

and by the fifth—he’s not counting down the days anymore. or the time to get out of here.

he feels accepted and not rejected. his mother loved the idea of him finding new interests anyway.. instead of football, football.. football. there’s no hesitation now. no reluctant sigh as his hand presses against the door. he just… comes in, like he belongs there, like the space has shaped itself around him.

and the two you… have gotten pretty close; outside the club and inside.

today is game day, and his nerves are going.

the stadium lights are too bright, spilling over everything in sharp white beams that make the night feel unreal, like something staged just for moments like this. the crowd is loud—restless, alive—and it hums beneath your skin as you sit in the stands, fingers curled around the edge of your seat, trying not to look for him.

of course you do.

and there he is—james—helmet tucked under his arm, honey-brown hair damp, jersey clinging slightly as he moves across the field like he belongs to it. he always has. but now you see more than that. you see the quiet parts too. the way his voice lowers just for you. the way his eyes soften when they find yours. it makes something in your chest ache in a way you don’t try to fix.

“glee club, to the field!” to present them and to stir school spirit in here.

the call snaps everything into motion, and suddenly you’re being pulled along with the others, heart quickening—not from nerves, but anticipation. the team lingers nearby as you all step into formation, and it happens instantly—james looks up, like he felt you before he saw you.

his gaze locks onto yours without hesitation.

you try not to smile, you fail to suppress that pretty smile.

the music starts, bright and full, something meant to stir the crowd, to make them clap along. you fall into it easily, voice steady, practiced—but your focus drifts.

it’s like you can feel his stare.

even as you sing, even as the performance carries forward, his attention doesn’t waver. it feels familiar. like the choir room. like late afternoons where the world narrowed down to just the two of you

the final note rises, holds, and falls away—and before the applause fully lands, james is already moving. toward you. someone calls after him, confused, but he doesn’t stop. not this time. not anymore.

you barely get a second to breathe before he’s in front of you, close enough that the noise cancels. “you were good,” he says, like it matters more than anything else happening here.

you let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “you’ve seen me before.”

“not like that,” he replies, voice softer now, steadier in a way that makes your chest tighten. “not when i’m out here… and you’re there.”

you glance past him, the field still alive with motion. “your game—”

“don’t care,” he cuts in, immediate, certain. “not right now.”

your breath falters.

there’s something in the way he’s looking at you—like he’s already crossed a line in his head, like he’s done waiting for the right moment because this is the moment. and to the reason why his nerves are going.

“james…” you start, but it doesn’t come out the way you expect.

he just shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t need words anymore. his hand finds yours—warm, steady, familiar—and then he leans in to your lips.

it isn’t hesitant. it isn’t careful.

it’s bold.

like the noise, the lights, the crowd don’t matter anymore. like he doesn’t care who sees. and his parents and yours in the stands. (gonna have a big talk).

your breath catches, but you don’t move back—you never do with him—and the kiss is soft but soo sure, something that’s been building for months finally settling into something real. and he pulls away.

the world rushes back in all at once—the cheers, the stunned reactions, the shift of something no longer hidden. james exhales, resting his forehead briefly against yours, like he needs just one more second before everything else comes crashing back.

“…was that too much?,” he murmurs, kind of self conscious from all the stares and reality.

you smile, small and a little dazed, but certain “…no.”

you feel a rush of embarrassment through you, from how exposed you both look. but it diminishes when you look up at him.

when he’s look at you like that, like you’re so endearing to him. which you are.

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