synopsis. when your father sent you with one simple task — seduce the crown prince, the future king — you didn't think it would be this easy.
pairing. needy!valarr x dancer!reader
contains. ❀ straight pwp honestly, man's addicted to tits & pussy, valarr is a pathetic virgin, sub!valarr, face riding, breeding, p in v, babytrapping
a/n. pic is for the aesthetic purposes only, ughh i need him
your task was simple and clear: seduce the crown prince.
and if the gods (or your cunning) were kind, make sure that by this night, life stirred inside you — a small spark with dragon blood.
at least, that was what your father said. become his weakness — and you would become our strength.
and you almost swore it worked, when you caught his gaze on you again — enchanted, almost childlike.
he sat there, gripping the armrests of his chair. his pale face was still, his lips slightly parted.
he looked so innocent and defenseless, trying with all his might not to look at you, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
you let out a soft little giggle when he awkwardly looked away again, then glanced at him once more through your lashes, all innocence — and noticed how he immediately swallowed and hid his face in his wine cup.
you did not care about the other princes who looked at you like prey, something they meant to take.
you only needed him — valarr targaryen.
and he was already caught, when later he stood right outside the chambers prepared for you during the king’s celebration.
“my prince?” you said, your voice soft. you raised a brow, looking at him with almost innocent surprise. “you must have mistaken the door. the royal chambers are in the east wing.”
he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as a flush spread from his collar up to his ears. “i… no,” he said, forcing the words out. “i mean, yes, i know where my chambers are. but i… i am looking for you. i… i could not leave without saying — ”
it made you take a step back, slightly hiding behind the door, and look at him with quiet offense. “if you come here because you think i am… one of those women whose time can be bought with gold… if you come here for easy pleasure…”
his reaction was instant. valarr waved his hands, his voice nearly breaking with panic as he shook his head.
“no, yes, i know! i swear by the seven, i know!” he said, stepping forward, almost stumbling in his nerves. “forgive me, i am not… i would never dare!"
"i… i have just never seen anything like you.”
looking at him — sweet and so easily led — you giggled again, this time soft, encouraging.
he dropped his shoulders and gave a shy smile in return.
“well now,” you stepped deeper into the room, leaving the door open. “we cannot leave a prince standing at the threshold, can we?”
valarr stepped forward, and the door behind him closed with a soft click. he looked around your chambers, then his hand awkwardly reached to the back of his neck.
you giggled again, unable to hold back the soft tease, and valarr, catching your gaze, answered with a shy, almost guilty smile. a deep blush, bright and honest, spread across his cheeks, giving him away completely.
he felt damn ashamed. he knew his cousins and brothers already bragged about their wins in the city brothels and talked of their romps, while he stood here like a foolish boy.
but you did not mind, because he was bloody charming.
you walked up to him, touched his warm fingers, and gently pulled him along toward the bed, making him sit down at the edge, stiff as a drawn string, afraid to even breathe.
you stood close, right between his parted knees. your sweet scent, mixed with the faint smell of sweat after dancing, wrapped around him, and strands of your hair brushed his cheeks, soft as the finest silk.
your chest, in the thin beaded bodice of a dancer, was right at his eye level. valarr swallowed hard, his hands resting on his knees growing damp, his gaze completely lost.
“how... how do you like the feast?” he said, forcing the words out, trying to focus on anything at all, gripping the fabric of his trousers until his knuckles went pale.
you only smiled at the corner of your lips and, without taking your eyes off him, reached for the ties of your outfit.
“what are you doing?” the prince said at once, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper. “i am not here for that… i… i do not think this is a good idea. we should not…”
you did not let him finish. slowly, almost lazily, you brought your index finger to his trembling lips, gently pressing it right at the center. “shh…”
valarr fell silent at once. his lips, still warm with nerves, brushed against your fingertip, and you felt how his breath turned uneven beneath your touch.
his gaze darted around the room in panic — to the tapestries, to the flickering candle, to his own boots — anywhere but at what was happening right in front of him.
you laughed and, with one sharp movement, untied the laces. the bodice fell to the floor, and your chest was fully revealed to his gaze, shifting slightly right at his lips.
valarr let out a muffled groan and immediately squeezed his eyes shut, lowering his head. he had never seen a woman this close, never felt this raw, primal pull. his breathing turned uneven and heavy as he felt your warmth.
you gently took his chin and tilted it up, making him lift his face toward you, though his eyes were still tightly shut. his hands were clenched into fists, and through the thick fabric of his fine trousers you clearly saw how his hardness became obvious.
“do not fear your desires, my prince,” you whispered, your breath barely brushing his lips.
your hands rested softly on his face, and you carefully traced your fingertips over his eyelids, making him finally open his eyes and meet your gaze.
your fingers slid higher, slipping into his hair, curling a stubborn silver strand around your finger before moving to the back of his head.
you pressed firmly, pulling his head straight into the hollow of your bare chest. valarr froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the closeness of your skin, then he inhaled sharply, deeply taking in your scent, and a broken, needy sound slipped from his chest.
a soft, strained moan escaped him. his hands finally left his knees and flew to your back, gripping at your shoulder blades — he breathed so heavily, his chest rising and falling.
you tugged lightly at his hair, pulling him back just a little, then guided his head toward your right breast.
you saw how he swallowed hard before his mouth closed over your nipple, eager and impatient. he bit down too hard, making you cry out despite yourself.
“gentler, my prince!” you say, scolding him lightly as you caught his head and lifted his face.
valarr stilled, looking at you with dark eyes clouded with desire, where real remorse flickered. “… i am sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.
he leaned into you again, but this time he started with a gentle, teasing lick. you let out a low moan, and that sound finally made him lose his mind.
valarr started to suck your breast so greedily, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. he bit your skin a little and then licked it at once, trying to pull you as close as he could.
his hands tightened on your back, literally pulling your soft body into him, while you whined from the pleasure and ran your fingers through his hair, holding him against you.
"yes, like that... just like that, my prince."
the room filled with wet, slurping sounds and the sight of the shameless prince before you. when you tugged his hair, he gave a tiny, pitiful whimper and dove back in, not wanting to let go of your skin. you clicked your tongue and moved him to the other breast, watching him suck it just as hard as the first one.
knowing he would not stop on his own, you pulled him away with a wet pop, leaving a thin string of spit between your nipple and his open lips for a moment.
valarr looked truly sinful: flushed red, his mouth shiny and wet, his breath heavy and ragged. you took his face in your palms, leaned down, and gently sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, getting spit on his chin while he whimpered under you.
when you made the kiss deeper, it was clear he never did this before — he was touchingly clumsy, just desperately trying to keep up with your tongue.
you broke the kiss and pushed him onto the bed. valarr fell back onto the silk but propped himself up on his elbows at once, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second.
under his hot stare, you started to get out of your clothes: your skirt slid to your feet, your hair pins hit the floor with a ring, and your smallclothes followed. he watched you, barely catching his breath.
"i... i do not know how to please you, i never —"
you walked right up and sat on top of him so you felt his heavy, hard cock beneath you.
"you are perfect, my prince. you have nothing to worry about."
the moment you gave a teasing rock of your hips, he fell back onto the pillows with a loud moan. he tried to say something, muttering about how he was not good enough, but every move you made turned his words into messy, sweet whimpers.
seeing how his head was spinning with thoughts, you gave a sly smile. "i have a fine way to make you forget those thoughts."
you moved up until your thighs were right over his face, pinning his head between your knees.
his eyes went wide when he saw what you meant, taking a deep, shaky breath before you slowly lowered yourself right onto his face.
you felt his hot breath on your soft skin, and a second later, you cut off his view completely, covering his face with yourself.
valarr made a muffled, deep sound right into your thighs —half a moan, half a try at speaking — but you only pressed down harder, feeling his nose and lips against you. his hands, which were searching for a grip, found your thighs and held on like death, pulling you even closer.
he did not try to get free: instead, he greedily pressed his face into you, catching every breath and every scent.
you rocked slightly on him, feeling his tongue start to explore you, shy at first and then bolder. valarr was gasping for air under you, his thighs shaking.
you felt his lips moving feverishly, trying to give you pleasure.
you noticed his hips starting to jerk on their own, his pelvis bumping up to match your rhythm. he was clumsy, but he worked his lips with such desperate grit to keep up, and something about how much he wanted to please you made your insides tighten.
gripping his hair tight in your fists, you started to move slow, setting the pace.
valarr made choked sounds, suffocating under your body, while his fingers dug painfully into your thighs, trying to hold you and pull you even tighter.
he tried to catch the rhythm, pushing his face up to meet you, while you teasingly pressed down harder, taking away his air and leaving him with nothing but your taste and scent.
"yes, mmhmm!... just like that, right there..." you breathe out, moving faster and feeling how his nose rubbed your clit with every move, making you moan louder and louder.
to be honest, at that moment you didn't care at all if he had enough air, and it seemed he didn't care either: he did not make a single move to pull away, but only whimpered like a loyal little puppy and pressed his face harder into your pussy.
of course, it was not enough to make you come, and you did not plan to do it now, saving the sweetest part for later, so you slowly pulled away and got off him.
valarr, not understanding what happened, tried to pull you back, gasping for air. "did... did i do something wrong?"
his face was completely wet — you rode him so long and hard that the moisture reached even his forehead. his words made you gently shake your head to calm him. "no, you were wonderful, my prince, but i just cannot wait anymore."
you slowly slid down, making his damn rich doublet messy with your arousal, until you reached his hips, where you suddenly felt heat and a strong stickiness.
oh gods.
he came.
just from you riding his face.
the shock was so big that you lost your speech for a few seconds, just looking at the wet spot. when you finally looked up at valarr, you saw that he wanted to sink through the ground.
he desperately tried to cover his face with his hands, burning with shame because he finished without even being inside you.
but you did not let him hide. you caught his hands, making him sit up and be on the same level with you, and covered his lips with a deep kiss.
you literally swallowed him, feeling your own taste on his lips, and at this time your fingers started to skillfully deal with his clothes. you unfastened the buckles of his doublet and pulled the ties of his thin linen shirt, noticing how much his hands shook.
pulling away from his lips, you went lower, to his belt. you took off his pants and his smallclothes, and in that same second, his cock hit his stomach with a thud.
valarr's cheeks flushed deep red, spreading down to his neck and chest, and his breath hitched. seed still leaked from him. by all laws of nature, he should have gone soft, but he stayed there — hard, hot, and scary big.
you looked at him and thought that he clearly did not use his full potential — for how could such an innocent and shy man have such an impressive cock?
it seemed you had to thank your father.
you kept looking at his cock in a trance, while the room stayed silent, broken only by the prince's ragged breathing.
at last, valarr awkwardly cleared his throat. "is... is everything good?" he barely squeezed out.
in answer, you only giggled softly, looking up at him through your lashes. "good? you are huge, my prince, and i am not even sure you will fit inside me."
hearing this, valarr instantly covered his face with his palms, and the tips of his ears turned bright red with shame. "you cannot... just say things like that," he groaned through his fingers, completely defeated.
you gave a flirty smile, leaning closer so your hair tickled his knee again.
"i will be lucky if you do not tear me apart from the inside."
that comment made the prince let out a pitiful cry, and when you saw his cock twitch again with heat, you firmly wrapped your hand around it.
valarr moaned so loud you thought the sound echoed through the whole wing of the castle. your palm instantly got wet with his slick and the rest of his seed while you slowly moved your hand up and down, making his hips push toward you on their own.
"please... i want... i need — "
"what exactly do you need, prince?" you asked back, amused by his struggle. "you know i would not dare disobey my future king."
his fingers gripped the sheets until his knuckles were white, and he tried to put his needs into words, fighting through his deep shame. "i am about to... i need... you... i want to be inside you!"
you laughed once and sharply pulled your hand away, making him whimper piteously. "no... please..."
getting up, you swung a leg over him and hovered above, holding your weight in the air and watching him desperately try to lift his hips to close that painful gap.
"is this what you dreamed of since you saw me in the hall, my prince?" you asked, looking down at him.
valarr nodded fast, his eyes full of unshed tears. "i... i wanted to do so much."
"oh? tell me all of it."
he shook his head, still too shy to say his fantasies out loud, and he could not take his eyes off your wet pussy that stayed a couple of inches away. "please... mmh..."
you took his cock, guiding the head right to your opening. "be a good prince for me, and tell me everything you wanted to do to me."
valarr almost cried from the heavy tension and, closing his eyes tight, started to whisper in a rush. "i imagined..."
and right then, you dropped down fast, taking all of his length in one go. you both moaned so loud and deep that the sound seemed to pierce right through the castle walls.
valarr arched his back, his eyes rolling back from the heavy pleasure, and you felt your whole body shake as you took him inside.
damn, you were not joking when you said he would tear you apart.
you froze for a few moments, trying to get used to his size and find your breath, while your body slowly adjusted to that new, filling weight.
"gods, you are perfect." there was so much real wonder in his voice that you pulled him in for a long, wet kiss, and spit ran down your chins, mixing together.
you grabbed his hands, which gripped the sheets so hard they almost tore, and moved them to your ass, making his fingers dig deep into your skin.
you started to move — slow and careful at first, remembering he just finished, but soon you moved faster, setting a ragged and wild pace.
valarr gasped and whimpered, begging you not to stop while you swiveled your hips, making his pelvis jump up and hit you with a dirty sound.
wet, splashing noises filled the quiet room — your pussy became so wet that you should have felt shame that you felt like that because of a man who did not even know where the clit was, but you couldn't have cared less.
he had a truly divine cock, so who could blame you?
"hnn-ngh!... want... to suck... please... please..."
you laughed softly and, leaning in until you were almost touching, gave him one breast. valarr wrapped his lips around the nipple at once with a greedy sound, making you arch your back and moan loud.
"haah, my prince, yes... right there, hnghh!." your fingers tangled in his dark hair, holding his head to you so tight it was like you wanted him to drown in your tits.
when you started to literally bounce on him, going as fast as you could, valarr let go of your breast with a wet pop, and his face twisted with pleasure that was almost painful.
"it is too much!... i am still too sensi.. mmnhm! i cannot..." he sobbed.
you kissed his sweaty lips quick and whispered right against his mouth. "you can, my prince. do you not want to leave your babies in me? do you not want to feel your seed fill me to the brim, and see my belly grow with your little dragons?"
a half-sob, half-cry broke from his chest, and he nodded hard, weeping from the rush of feelings.
"i want... i want it so much... hngh!...gods, i never wanted anything more."
"then come for me. let everyone in this castle know that it was you who filled me, my future king."
tears rolled down his cheeks as he made a sharp, desperate thrust upward, going so deep that his cock hit your cervix.
you screamed loud from that sweet pain, your muscles squeezed tight around him, and you felt the first wave of orgasm wash over you.
in that same second, valarr shook, and you felt the hot, thick stream of his seed fill you up inside. that heat felt so right and good that you only purred with joy, making your last, slow moves with your hips.
valarr was almost fully crying, his body still shaking from the shock, and you heard him whisper. "i really cannot do more... hngnhh!... i want to so much, but i cannot."
you softly calmed him down, rubbing his wet shoulders and telling him otherwise. "it is alright, you did perfect, my prince. no one could be better than you."
hearing your praise, he calmed down a lot, his breath went steady, and he practically pouted as he lifted his chin. "want a kiss."
you smiled gently at this sudden change and leaned down to him, covering his lips with yours while your sweaty bodies stayed pressed close together. you pulled away and kindly ran your fingers through his silver hair.
"you did so well."
later, when he fell asleep beside you in your bed, with his head tucked against your neck and his arm around you like you belonged to him, you listened to his steady breathing.
summary: when you injure yourself two weeks before a showcase, dennis nurses you back to health.
pairings: dennis whitaker x ballerina!reader
cw/tags: mentions of a knee injury, x-rays, pain medications (advil). blisters. no use of y/n, use of pet names (bug, baby), established relationship, swearing. reader has hair long enough to be put in a nondescript updo. hurt/comfort and fluff!!! i am not a dancer so this is extremely vague but please enjoy :))
word count: 4.2k
masterlist
requested by @coldbrewspice thank u so much!!!
“You should get that checked out,” Your friend says, sitting on the floor beside you, stretching her legs out and leaning to one side. “I swear I heard something snap.”
“Nothing snapped,” You counter, still oscillating between massaging and trying to move your knee. “It feels fine now.”
Lie.
She raises an eyebrow, grimacing as she remembers the way your knee shifted when you came down from your jump, and how you had instantly walked off the floor, not even attempting to finish the choreography before sitting down.
“Well, luckily you basically have an ER at home,” She says, making you laugh a little. “Don’t keep dancing on it, seriously, you don’t wanna’ mess it up before the showcase.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna’ head home in a bit,” You agree.
You get back to yours and Dennis’ apartment sometime after nine, pushing the door open quietly, not sure if he’s already in bed or not. A few lamps are on in the living room, but Dennis is nowhere to be found, which means he doesn’t see you limp inside.
“Bug?”
His voice comes from the bedroom. You take a deep breath as you make your way over, poking your head into the doorway, smiling at the sight of him wrapped up under the covers.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” You ask, and he shakes his head.
“Wasn’t sleeping yet,” He says. “How was rehearsal?”
“Great,” You say, still not coming into the room, which makes him raise an eyebrow. You usually jump onto the bed when you get home after him (if he’s awake), throwing your body across his and laying there until you decide to get up and shower. “I’m starving though, are you going to bed soon?”
“Hopefully,” He says, sitting up so he can see you better. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You ask, subtly shifting more of your weight onto your uninjured leg, leaning against the doorframe for support.
“Why are you staying in the doorway?” He asks.
“I’m tired, not sure if I’ll ever get back up if I get in bed now,” You say, the excuse coming easily, worrying him being the last thing you want to do right now.
“Okay,” He says, hesitantly. “Why don’t you get in the shower and I’ll heat up your dinner?”
“You made me dinner?” You ask, smile obvious in your voice. He always makes you dinner when you’re at rehearsals late, but it still makes your brain feel fuzzy.
He nods, tossing the blanket aside, swinging his legs over and standing up.
“You don’t have to do that,” You say. “Stay in bed, please.”
“I don’t mind,” He says, pulling a crewneck over his bare torso, leaning in to kiss you as he walks by.
You wait for him to disappear into the kitchen before heading to the bathroom, jaw clenching harder with each step. You strip your tights and leotard off, tossing them into the laundry basket while the water heats up, carefully stepping into the shower. You rinse off quickly, then get out, wrapping your robe around yourself and moisturizing.
You suck up the pain for a minute as you walk into the kitchen, trying to appear as normal as possible, sitting at the island just as Dennis slides a plate over, handing you a fork.
“Thank you,” You say. He kisses your temple, hands falling onto your shoulders, massaging them lightly.
“Vic asked when she’d be seeing you again today,” He says. “I said we could do a movie night or something soon.”
You huff dramatically, leaning into him. “That would be so nice.”
He chuckles. “After the showcase, maybe?”
“Definitely after,” You say, bending your knee to lift your foot up onto the chair, completely forgetting about the injury for a second. You hiss, wincing, immediately straightening your leg back out. Dennis flinches, movements pausing for a second until he looks down towards your knee.
The swelling is obvious, making his eyes widen. He crouches down, gently grabbing your foot to keep you still.
He says your name softly, drawing it out a bit. “What happened?”
“I landed wrong, it’s fine, I just moved it too fast,” You say, trying to play it off. “I’ll ice it tonight, then it’ll be okay.”
“How bad does it hurt?” He asks.
“Like…right now?”
“Right now.”
“Not at all,” You say, despite the tiny amount of throbbing that rattles around the joint. “Mostly hurts when I walk on it.”
“Did you hear anything when you landed?” He questions. “A pop or a crunch?”
“No, I don’t think so,” You say. “Probably just over-extended it.”
He lifts his free hand up, looking towards you for permission, continuing when you give him a nod. He touches a few spots along your leg, taking note of when you wince or move away. He has you bend and straighten it a few times, slowly, frowning at your limited range of motion.
He stands back up. “If you came into PTMC like this I’d definitely order an x-ray.”
“Good thing I didn’t do that, then,” You tease. “I always have some kind of injury, Den, I’m okay.”
He nods, knowing that you know your body better than most people, and that you wouldn’t jeopardize making it worse with your show coming up so soon.
“Okay,” He says. “Let me set you up on the couch for a minute.”
He helps you into the living room, one arm propping you up and the other carrying your food. He sets you down, putting your legs straight out over the cushions, placing your dinner on your lap. He walks off for a minute, returning with an icepack, Advil, two kinds of tape, and antiseptic.
He puts the icepack on your knee, then gives you the painkillers and water. He sits down by your feet, rubbing some hand sanitizer in before starting to peel back the loose tape that’s covering your blisters. You watch him work, admiring how precise he is, cutting tiny strips and putting them in place with ease. He still isn’t entirely cool with the idea of you constantly having open wounds, but it doesn’t spark anxiety the way it did when you first started dating.
“You always do that better than me,” You say eventually, trying to lighten the mood, Dennis’ concern obvious by the way his eyebrows are knit together. “Thank you.”
He hums, still focused, putting another piece in place. “You’re a lot faster.”
“That’s true, this is taking fucking forever,” You say, making him laugh.
“I’m almost done,” He says. “Don’t want you to bleed through them right away.”
He finishes up a few minutes later, moving onto your knee, taking the icepack off and grabbing the athletic tape. You’re leaning against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed, not paying attention to what he’s doing anymore. He carries you to bed when he’s done, setting your alarm for you and making sure you have everything you need before climbing in beside you.
“Come get an x-ray before practice,” He says the next morning, watching you carefully test your leg out, placing increasing amounts of weight on it as you get ready for the day.
“I don’t have time,” You argue. “It feels better than last night.”
“You have an hour,” He says. “I’ll make it fast, promise.”
“What if people are dying?” You counter, zipping up your hoodie over your leotard.
He shrugs. “Nightshift’s still there. They won’t need me.”
You purse your lips, thinking about it for a second before nodding. “Okay, if it would make you feel better.”
He brings you in through the staff entrance, and you shrink into yourself, feeling guilty for bypassing the already very long line that’s forming in the waiting room. You don’t know the nightshift as well as the dayshift, but there are a few vaguely familiar faces around as he guides you into the department.
“You’re here early,” The red-haired nurse, who you assume is Lena, comments, peering at both of you over the counter. “You must be the ballerina girlfriend that he never stops talking about.”
You grin, glancing down at your outfit quickly. “What gave me away?”
“Right, uhm, this is Lena,” Dennis says, the tips of his ears bright red. “She’s the nightshift charge nurse.”
He tells Lena your name too, and she smiles at you. “Nice to meet you, hon. What’s going on?”
“She twisted her knee at rehearsal yesterday,” He explains. “I was hoping I could get her an x-ray before she dances on it again.”
“Oh, absolutely, not a problem,” She says. “Eight’s open, why don’t you take her there and I’ll send someone over?”
“Great, thanks, Lena,” He says, putting his arm back around you and showing you to the room. He helps you up onto the bed, and you narrow your eyes at him once you’re settled. “What?”
“You said it would be fast,” You say. “Getting a room doesn’t feel very fast.”
“Well, someone has to do an exam, then order the scans,” He says. “But from there it’ll take five minutes.”
“I need to be at the studio by eight.”
“And you will be.”
You fill out a registration form while you wait, and he eventually leaves you alone at six-fourty, needing to change into his scrubs and get his handover. He assures you again that it won’t be much longer, seeing how restless you’re getting, wanting to get to practice.
You shift on the bed, setting your uninjured leg on the ground, grabbing your other foot and raising it above your head without bending that knee. You hold it there for a minute, then you stretch farther, pointing and flexing your toes inside your slipper.
“Uh, what’s eight here for?” Cassie asks, tilting her head slightly, coffee in one hand and stethoscope in the other as she stands by the central desk. The curtain is only partially closed, letting her see half your body as you stretch, making her squint to make sure she’s not seeing things.
Parker looks up, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t think there was a patient in eight.”
“Well…there is,” Cassie says, and Parker moves so she can see into the room, her eyes going wide. “I think.”
Parker pulls up the chart on her tablet, reading the brief triage note and your name.
“Knee injury,” She says, which only makes the situation that much more confusing. “Doesn’t seem very injured to me.”
“Hey, Lena?” Cassie calls. “What’s the deal with eight?”
Victoria can’t help but look too, a small gasp falling from her lips when she sees you. “You haven’t met her yet?”
“Can’t say I have,” Parker says. “You know her?”
“Yeah, that’s Dennis’ girlfriend,” Victoria explains, saying your name. “She’s a ballerina.”
“Ah,” Parker says. “That explains…that.”
“She’s so cool,” Victoria adds. “Is she a patient?”
“Apparently.”
Parker passes the tablet to the medical student, who nods as she reads it. “I can do the work-up.”
“I don’t think she needs one,” Parker counters, just as Cassie returns from chatting with Lena.
“Whitaker says she needs an x-ray,” She relays, watching as your leg is finally lowered back to the ground. “Fibular head and patella tenderness, moderate swelling after twisting it yesterday.”
“Jesus, this is her on a bad day?” Parker asks.
“Is there a reason you’re all staring at eight?” Robby questions, coming up behind them, not actually looking towards the room yet as he gets oriented for the day. Parker vaguely gestures in your direction, and he follows the motion, looking just in time to see you fold forward, torso flush with your legs and arms wrapped around your calves. “Whitaker!”
Dennis, who’s adjusting his stethoscope as he comes out of the locker room, jumps a little. “Yeah?”
“What’s your girlfriend doing here?”
“Oh, she needs an x-ray,” He explains.
“Of…what?” Robby questions.
“Her knee,” Dennis says, slowly, seeing the precarious position you’ve put yourself in like it’s nothing. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s hurting her pretty bad.”
“I can do the work-up,” Victoria repeats.
“She’s your friend,” Robby argues. “McKay, can you…?”
“Yeah, definitely,” She says, setting her coffee down and walking over to you. You lift your head up when she knocks on the wall outside your room. “Hi, I’m Dr. McKay. You can call me Cassie.”
“Hi, sorry,” You say, unfolding yourself and standing back up, shuffling towards the bed. “I have rehearsal in half an hour, figured I’d make the most of my time.”
“Right, yeah, no worries,” She says. “You’re Dennis’ girlfriend?”
“Yeah, I am,” You say, then you say your name. She nods, repeating it as you crawl onto the bed, grimacing.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
You shrug. “I landed on it funny at practice yesterday and Dennis insisted I needed to get an x-ray, so.”
She laughs, nodding. “Yeah, I think he’s probably right.”
“How long will it take?” You ask, not wanting to be annoying, but you’re also well aware that rehearsal officially starts in an hour.
“Not long, I’ll do a quick exam and get them ordered, they haven’t gotten too backed up yet,” She says, pulling on a pair of gloves. “May I?”
The x-ray is done by seven-thirty, and Cassie pulls it up on her computer, knowing you won’t have time to wait for the radiologist to result it. Dennis can’t help but glance over, watching as she zooms in on a few spots, looking for tiny fractures.
“I think she’d be okay with you seeing it,” She says, not even having to look to know that he’s staring at the screen.
He exhales, nodding, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans over. “Osseous structures look intact.”
“Yeah, significant soft tissue swelling, though,” She adds. “Any chance she doesn’t go to practice today?”
Dennis laughs a little, shaking his head. “No, none.”
“You wanna’ let her know?”
“Sure, yeah,” He says, putting his tablet down and heading to your room. You’re sitting on the bed in a second position stretch, one arm raised delicately above your head as you tilt to one side, your head landing on your shin. “Hey, bug.”
You snap back up, placing both your hands on the mattress in front of you, smiling. “Hey, am I good to go?”
He nods. “Technically, yes. Nothing’s broken.”
“Thank fucking god,” You breathe, swinging your legs back together and getting to your feet. “Advil and ice it is.”
He grabs your arm, forcing you to slow down for a second. “Be careful on it, please.”
“I will,” You promise, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “Have a good shift, Denny.”
“Good luck at practice,” He says, looking around quickly before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”
The next few days follow a similar pattern, minus the ER trip. You wake up, test your knee as you get ready, then you go to dance. You mark lots, but you’re always in pain by the time you get home. Dennis stays up until you’re back, making sure you ice it while he replaces your bandages.
You come home on day five exhausted.
It’s almost eleven, and you were gone before Dennis woke up this morning, meaning you were there for at least twelve hours. He knows you’re not dancing the entire time, but that’s too long for you to be bearing weight on your knee.
“Hey,” You say, leaning back against the front door as you close it, face tight with pain.
“Hi,” He says, reaching for your bag, taking it and putting it on the floor. You slowly sit on the bench along the wall, carefully sliding your leg out, avoiding bending your knee more than necessary. You exhale, eyes screwing shut. He kneels in front of you, bracing your leg with one hand and sliding your slipper off with the other, then doing the same with your other foot. “Worse today?”
You shake your head too quickly. “No, not really.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Bug.”
“It’s just a little achier than before,” You say. “But I think it’ll be okay once it’s elevated.”
He helps you over to the couch, again, and you fall into routine. This time, while he’s bandaging your foot, he finally gathers the courage to say something.
“You’re pushing too hard,” He says, wiping disinfectant over a blister, making you flinch. “Sorry.”
You hum, grabbing a fistful of the throw blanket to distract yourself from the burning sensation. “I can’t take it any easier.”
“You could,” He counters, gently, knowing how reluctant you’ll be to take his advice here. You’ve been dancing your entire life, injured or not, so what does he know? “One day off would make a big difference.”
You don’t respond. He finishes up the bandages, taking hold of your ankles, squeezing them. He moves his hands up your calves, rubbing along your sore muscles with his thumbs. You take a deep breath, exhaling loudly, putting a hand on your forehead as you squint.
“I can’t just not dance,” You say, and he isn’t sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or him.
“I think one day would be okay,” He says, still gentle, not wanting to push you. “The odds of you injuring it further are pretty high, and that time it might be worse than a sprain.”
He’s teetering on the edge of boyfriend and doctor now, which makes you smile a bit.
“That’s your professional suggestion?” You ask. “One day off?”
He nods. “Yeah, just one.”
You inhale again. “Okay.”
While that’s instantly relieving, it also sparks worry in his chest. He bites his lower lip, gnawing on it for a moment.
“It hurts more than you’ve been letting on,” He says, not as a question. You shrug.
“Yeah, I mean, a bit,” You say. “It’s okay though, honestly.”
But he knows you. Better than anyone ever has.
“Baby,” He murmurs, the sweetness in his voice making your throat tighten. He carefully moves, sitting beside you, looking at you with both eyebrows raised. “How bad, scale of one to ten?”
You think for a second. “A four right now, maybe a six when I’m upright.”
He checks his watch, lifting the icepack off now that it’s been on for twenty minutes. He sets it on the coffee table, and you carefully shift, giving him some more room on the couch.
“You work tomorrow, right?” You ask, leaning your head against his shoulder once he’s settled beside you.
“Yeah, sorry,” He says. “I could ask Trinity if she could cover, then I can hangout with you.”
You shake your head. “No, I’ll be okay, thanks Denny.”
Dennis gets home the next night around eight, a trauma keeping him late. The apartment is quiet when he comes home, a few lamps on and soft music playing. He frowns, coming farther inside.
He’s expecting to see you marking the routine, but he’s shocked when you’re not doing anything of the sort. You’re sitting on the living room floor in a wide straddle, elbows on the floor with a book open in front of you.
“I just wanna’ finish this chapter,” You say, not even looking at him. He smiles, nodding, dropping his bag beside him.
“Okay,” He says, still smiling, bending down and planting a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll be back.”
You mumble something incoherent in response.
He takes a quick shower, and you’ve finished the chapter by the time he gets out, still sitting on the floor. You beam up at him, making his heart pound in his chest. He sits on the floor too, kissing your forehead, then your lips.
“Is it good?” He asks. You nod emphatically, delving into the most recent plot point. He bought you the book for your most recent birthday, and while you’ve never not enjoyed one he picked out for you, he always feels a twinge of pride when you get wrapped up in them. He listens intently as you talk, watching you with bright eyes and a soft smile.
His eyes trail to your knee once you’re seemingly done, but it’s covered by the sweatpants you’re wearing.
“How’s it feel?” He asks.
You shrug. “A bit better.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“You can say ‘I told you so’ if you want,” You add.
His face contorts with obvious confusion. “Why would I say that?”
“Because you were right,” You say. “I should’ve just taken the day off after I fucked it, it’d probably be almost healed if I had.”
“Maybe not,” He counters. “I’m just glad it’s feeling better, bug.”
A week and a half later you’re backstage, fully costumed with your pointe shoes laced up, doing a combination of marking your routine and stretching. You pull your phone out, the time reading six-oh-six, with no new text from Dennis. He sent you one earlier, wishing you luck and saying that he wished he could be there to watch. He had tried desperately to get someone to cover his shift, but it just hadn’t happened.
“Your boyfriend coming?” One of your friends asks.
“No, not tonight,” You say, a small smile on your face. “He couldn’t get the day off.”
“He can’t just leave early?” She asks, and you laugh.
“He barely gets to leave on time most days,” You counter. “Let alone early.”
You take a deep breath, putting your phone away, trying to calm the nerves that have settled in your chest. You manage to drop your heart rate by a few points, but then you’re taking your place beside your fellow dancers in the wings, the lights dimming slightly as the performance is announced.
You shake your hands out, wringing them in front of you before you have to walk out, plastering a poised smile on and walking gracefully to your spot near centre stage. You shift into the starting position, eyes scanning the crowd quickly, your heart jumping in your throat again.
It doesn’t matter how many times you do this—this feeling is still fucking terrifying.
The audience cheers, and your eyes fall on a very familiar head of blonde curls in the front row. You have to stop your eyes from popping out of your head when you realize that it’s Dennis, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands, his eyes meeting yours. He’s already grinning despite the fact that you haven’t even started dancing yet, and you can’t help but smile a little wider, giddiness replacing the nerves.
Dennis’ eyes don’t leave you for the entire performance, watching every move like his life depends on it. He’s amazed by everything you do, each twirl and jump making his smile somehow grow even wider. He doesn’t hesitate to stand up the second you’re done, clapping and cheering loudly when you hit the final pose.
“That’s my girl!” He yells, the sound almost completely drowned out by the rest of the crowd, but you hear it. You duck slightly, heat rising on your neck and cheeks as you walk off.
You see him again once you’re changed, hair freed from the updo and slippers on. He’s leaning against the wall down the hallway outside of the dressing room, along with some of your teams partners and family. You would run to him if you felt like you could, but your feet and knee are aching, so you opt to just walk. He meets you halfway, a shocked laugh escaping when you throw your arms around him, jumping up and wrapping your legs over his hips, crossing your ankles around his back.
His free hand falls to the bottom of your thigh, effortlessly keeping you up.
“You were incredible,” He says, slowly putting you down, shifting his hand so it’s on your lower back. You grin, pressing your lips to his.
“You made it,” You murmur, fingers twisting into the curls at the nape of his neck
“Yeah, I think Santos felt bad for me,” He admits. “Or she got sick of my moping. She convinced Vic to help her cover my patients so I could get out of there.”
You laugh, leaning back, admiring the flowers that he’s holding. “Those for me?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” He says, passing them over. “Of course they are.”
“Thank you,” You say, taking them carefully. Dennis reaches for the bag that’s slung over your shoulder, taking it and putting it on his own. His badge is still clipped to his scrub pocket, his mostly unzipped hoodie not completely hiding it from view. You reach for it, plucking it off, smiling when you read the letters at the bottom. “I didn’t know you finally got the new one, Dr. Whitaker.”
He laughs softly, a hand coming up to the back of his neck, cheeks turning red. “Yeah, a few days ago.”
You exhale, putting it back where it was, nodding. “That’s fucking hot.”
His eyes go wide, his throat bobbing with an obvious gulp as he tries to recover from the comment, a slightly nervous chuckle coming from him.
“I, uhm, really?” He asks.
“Very.”
He’s about to continue the flirting, but he notices the way you shift off your injured leg, and he’s snapped back into reality.
“Come on,” He says, moving your bag out of his way and letting you lean on him. You wince after a few steps, and he doesn’t hesitate before bending slightly, sliding an arm under your legs and picking you up. You gasp, naturally putting your arms around his neck, and you can’t keep yourself from smiling the entire way to the car.
A/N - hi y'all!! happy thursday i hope ur all doing amazing and u look amazing wow im agog. i hope u all enjoyed this :) next week i start studying for finals (fml) so uploads from me will likely be pretty infrequent but ill be updating my 'this week' post as best as i can lol. okay bye love u mwah!
Summary: Y/n leaves behind her old life for a new one and lands a job as a burlesque dancer in Las Vegas. Things get off to a rocky start, but a handsome stranger offers her something that might just help her out.
A/N: This 3 part short series was posted on Patreon in 2023 and I'm bringing it here to Tumblr finally! Rereading this, I remember how much fun it was to write, but it could definitely be reworked at some point! Not my best work, but I still love it, and I hope you do too :)
Word Count: 10k+
Warning: mentions of abuse, alcoholism, homelessness, food insecurity, and a scene that includes attempted assault and a motor-vehicle accident
[PART 2 COMING NEXT THURSDAY]
.
It’d been a few weeks since she’d been on her own. Left her dad’s house, left her abusive, careless boyfriend, left the town she grew up in, and thus left the town she thought she’d die in.
A new start. Hard. Free. Broke. That’s the thing about embarking on new journeys, following the heart. Damning the flesh. Adventure might mean jobless. Homeless. Hungry.
She was broke. Maybe homeless.
Times were hard but they were sweet. Her little two-door hatchback car had taken her from conservative, Bible Belt nowhere to shiny, endlessly bright, hopeful-maybe? Las Vegas.
Y/n had trained to be a dancer. Not a stripper, not that she’d mind, but an athlete. A performer. She had a degree. She wasn’t just some random pretty girl from small-town wherever with a dream (okay, well maybe she was a little), she was skilled, and she was smart, she was determined. Desperate.
She slept in her car close to a trailer park, just behind the lot. She rarely had anyone bothering her. A membership to a cheap gym provided her with showers, full access to exercise equipment, and a yoga room that no one ever used.
There was an opening at a burlesque club called the Haute Baude (she hated the name too, but the opening was for an amateur without experience, which was precisely her burlesque skill status). She was desperate for work. She came to Las Vegas knowing she’d probably be doing something like this. Being a burlesque dancer could be fun, but she wasn’t trained to dance burlesque. She had classic training, though, and was capable and athletic.
The gym’s yoga room had come in handy for her training. She had her first appointment for an interview in a week’s time and until then, she worked her ass off, studying burlesque fundamentals, and style. She was lucky the position was for someone with no experience. She could dance and keep rhythm and make her own dance routines… she had a solid foundation, but burlesque was something a bit different than she was used to. A little outside of her comfort zone.
A bit sexier. Daring.
For the interview, she scraped together something she thought might be appropriate to wear. A pair of tights with athletic shorts (cute athletic shorts, she thought), paired with a cropped long-sleeve top. All black. It wasn’t what she would have chosen if she had more money to her name but it could work. She hoped.
Hope was the only thing keeping her feet on the ground as backward as that may sound.
Tucking herself into her backseat with her blankets and pillows she watched out the window looking at the stars and moon. She couldn’t believe this was her life but at the same time, she was proud she had the nerve to leave her dad’s house. The safety net of home came with a big catch. Her dad was an alcoholic and could be abusive. Not physically (only a couple of times did he ever lay a hand on Y/n). And then there was her boyfriend. She lived with him for almost 6 months until his lease came up and he didn’t renew so he moved in with mutual friends but she refused to be a burden to any of her friends in that way. He also occasionally pushed her around.
He was edging toward being physically abusive. He never left bruises. He’d only ever shoved and pushed her, yanked her wrists, and pulled her hair (and not in a fun way). But it was never enough to see it for what it was.
Until she left. Until she got air. Until she could look in from the outside.
She soon came to learn that Chad didn’t care much if he saw her once they stopped living together. She’d drop by to see him but he never made an effort to see her. So she did an experiment. One week she just didn’t make plans to see him nor did she stop by randomly. He never even called her. He didn’t care.
That realization stung her a bit, but she figured if he didn’t care, then neither did she. That was the final push she needed to pack up her car and head West. She didn’t tell her dad, and she didn’t tell Chad. Neither had called her yet. She didn’t need them.
The day of her interview she showered at the gym and got ready the best she could. She had nearly perfected a sweet little winged eyeliner which she felt proud of. When her phone had fully charged she called her only friend, Vinnie, for a pep talk. Vinnie had been her best friend since high school. He moved away to California the year before when he got a job in costume design and production in LA.
“Today’s the day, beautiful!” He answered the phone excitedly.
Y/n laughed into the receiver, “It is. I’m so nervous Vin. I just had to shower and get ready at the gym. I hate the outfit but my eyeliner is on point,” she spoke as she leaned into the mirror to get a closer look.
Y/n spoke to Vinnie every day. She missed him a lot and one of the reasons Las Vegas was on her radar was because she’d be closer to him. Maybe one day she could make it to LA for good but rent prices were even higher in LA than in Las Vegas. She and Vinnie imagined living together in some cute little bungalow with a small yard and a dog, both working and grinding and doing what they loved most. But that was just a dream and even though she’d come this far, she couldn’t know what her future really held.
She only knew she was never going back to where she came from.
The club was busy when she arrived. She was led to a back hallway and into a room that looked a bit like a clinical waiting area. There was one woman sitting in a chair near reception but otherwise, the waiting room was empty.
She sat close to the door and read a little bit on her phone, an article she started reading earlier in the day before she went to get herself ready at the gym.
She tried to pay attention to the article but her mind was all over the place. The first thing she wondered about was the club. It seemed so busy and posh when she walked in, but this waiting area was the opposite. She could hear the thudding of the base from the main room’s music. The waiting room had bright lights with deep blue carpet and white walls and the sterile smell of the waiting room had her a little confused.
A door opened and a young woman dressed in workout gear called out, “Regina!”
The other woman who’d been sitting near the reception area stood up and walked through the door. Y/n wondered if Regina was here for the same job opening – or if for something different. Looking back down at her phone to continue reading she realized she wouldn’t be able to take in any of the information. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and crossed her legs.
When she graduated with her bachelor’s in dance, she felt so proud. Her mother would have been proud. Y/n’s mother was a trained dancer as well. She taught Y/n all about the world of dance and would bring her along to the dance studio when she went. Everything for Y/n was all about dancing and artistry and music and movement, especially when she was little.
Then she met Chad when she was 22 and he never encouraged her to dance and never went to any of her performances, not that she had many of them. He just really didn’t seem to care. The more she thought about Chad the more she realized he was never any good for her. Kind of a dick really. He was emotionally abusive and sometimes handled her with anger, shoving her, or yanking her arm. He never hit her, but he wasn’t nice. Now, away from everything, away from her dad and her boyfriend, she realized that even if she’s sleeping in her car in a not-so-safe area, she’s still better off.
Happier. Free.
The door was pushed open and the same young woman with the workout gear on popped her head out and looked at Y/n with a bright smile, “Y/n?”
The next room Y/n was brought to was darker and felt more like a club. There was a pole and a small stage with a desk facing toward where she assumed she’d be showing off her routine.
“Just wait here. Angelique will see you in a moment.”
Y/n walked around the room. There were speakers at the top corners and lights pointed at the small stage area. The room wasn’t large, but it made sense that it would be a spot for an interview or maybe a private dance. Y/n wasn’t exactly sure about what kind of club this was. Burlesque didn’t usually involve private dances or anything like that, but she hadn’t done a whole lot of research about Haute Baude.
“Ms. Y/n?”
Y/n turned quickly and took in the woman who was probably Angelique. She crossed the room and held out her hand, “Yes! Nice to meet you. Are you Angelique?”
The woman was older with dark hair and dark eyes and botoxed lips. She was fit and tall. She held out her beautifully manicured hand and shook Y/n’s with a nod, “Yes. It’s good to meet you.”
Angelique sat while she gestured toward the stage, “Do you have a song you’d like to be played or shall I pick?”
Y/n stepped up onto the stage and nodded, “Yes. I was hoping to do a routine to I Want To Be Evil by Eartha Kitt.
Angelique smiled and nodded, “Lovely. Do you happen to have the song saved so we can play it to the speakers?” She waved her hands upward gesturing toward the speakers.
Y/n did. It had been on repeat for over a week when she practiced every day in the yoga room. When Eartha’s voice came over the speakers, Y/n walked back and forth and began to move slowly, using her hips and stepping in line with the words spoken.
When the music really got started and Eartha began to sing, Y/n had memorized the choreography she put together and began to move and add texture to the sensual beat. It was a mix of things she’d learned along with some of her own little bits she added in.
One of the reasons she chose that song, in particular, was because it was classy and sexy and only three minutes long. She really hoped the amateur part of the interview would give her an in. She really needed this.
At the end of the routine Angelique stood up and clapped with a smile, “Great. Thank you, Y/n. Come and sit.”
Y/n jumped down off the stage and sat in the metal folding chair across from the desk.
Angelique rounded the front of the wooden furniture and sat down at the edge, “Your resume tells me you have a dance degree and that you’ve never danced burlesque. Correct?”
Y/n nodded, “Yes. That’s true.”
Angelique nodded, “I can tell,” she laughed, “but don’t worry. You’ll get better as time goes on. We don’t need someone here who is a star. You could become one someday, but right now we’re looking for someone who can dance in a group setting in the back to fill in space, and also serve cocktails.”
Y/n’s eyes widened. The way Angelique was speaking made it sound like she’d already gotten the job. Not something she expected at all.
“We have two big burlesque evenings every week. Fridays and Saturdays with two shows each night. We’re looking to fill bodies into the back. You can keep rhythm and you seem to understand the basics so you would work well for our needs,” the woman spoke with her hands, waving them around to punctuate her words, “We also would like you to be available for small parties to do dance routines in groups and serve cocktails from time to time. I know being a cocktail waitress doesn’t seem to go with the job here, but we get booked for small parties from high-paying clientele and generally, we like to keep our best on the big stage, and the small parties we can send out the amateurs to serve cocktails and maybe do a dance or two. No stripping or anything like that.”
Y/n listened intently with a smile and a nod.
“How does this sound to you?”
Y/n sat up straight, “I need the job. I’d love to do anything you could book me for.”
Angelique nodded and her smile revealed a row of straight white teeth, “Oh, honey I know you need the job. Most of the types coming in for a no-experience-required job are usually in a tough spot here in Vegas. Can you do the job and be available and on call as needed? That’s all I need to know.”
Y/n nodded again, “Yes. Absolutely. I have no obligations.”
. . .
There was no one to celebrate with and Y/n didn’t have money to buy wine or something yummy to commemorate the occasion either. But she did call her best friend and he squealed and she squealed.
It felt good to have a job. To have a place in the world, even though she’d not yet started. Her night ended just as it began, in her little car, at the back of the trailer park, doors locked, stars shining in.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face and just knew this could be the beginning of something good.
. . .
Things were not good. Her first night at Haute Baude did not go as expected. She was sent a text on Wednesday about her upcoming schedule and the dance routine she’d be working on. She was expected to be at the club and to practice and then be ready on Friday and Saturday.
The other burlesque dancers she practiced with didn’t give her the time of day. She still practiced with them, watched closely to learn the routine, and stayed after to really get the portion down that she’d struggled with. On Friday she arrived very early to practice again. She had been fitted for a costume after her interview and expected that it would be ready before the shows on Friday night.
The studio she practiced in was empty when she arrived but that was only better for her she decided. The other dancers weren’t very welcoming, and she knew they wouldn’t be. She was just the amateur thrown into the back anyway. Why bother?
After three hours of dancing, and practicing she’d worked up a sweat and an appetite. Y/n was hungry. She hadn’t really eaten all that much because she simply couldn’t afford to. The dancer’s locker room had showers and vanity areas to get ready. Y/n took a warm shower and shaved all her nooks and crannies. She knew what the outfit looked like and she really wanted to make it look good. If she couldn’t get the moves down perfectly, at least she could look perfect.
When she found Angelique after searching through the building for a bit, she was already out of breath. The show would start in two hours and Y/n still didn’t know where to find her costume.
“Angelique!” Y/n spoke excitedly.
The woman looked scattered and panicky, “Yes?” Angelique turned and once she saw Y/n her smile dropped.
“Hi. Uh, I just wondered if you knew where I could find my costume. I don’t…”
“You’ll need to find Richard. He should know where it is,” Angelique turned to walk away.
“Wait! Who’s Richard? Where do I find him?” Y/n followed Angelique, hating to be a bother because the woman was clearly busy but she needed to find her outfit.
“He’s at the bar right now. Short man with blue eyes. Bald,” she didn’t bother to turn and look back as she quickened her haste down the hallway.
Y/n stopped in her tracks with a frown. Angelique was busy and in a hurry. Y/n didn’t want to be a burden anymore than she already felt she was.
When Y/n got to the main room she spotted Richard right away. He was wearing a tracksuit and had a big belly.
“Richard?” Y/n spoke as she walked toward him. Patrons were in the lounge area already, filling up the space and chatting. Music was playing, and on the stage was a dancer doing a solo routine.
“That’s me,” he spoke and looked Y/n up and down. Y/n still had not done her hair or makeup yet. She wanted to wait until closer to show time.
“Hi. I’m Y/n,” she held her hand out to the bald man to shake. He smirked and took her hand with a limp hold.
“Pleasure. How can I help you?”
“I was told you might know where my costume is for tonight’s show. I’m one of the dancers.”
Richard’s brows went up and then he looked toward the corner of the room with a squint before turning his sight back to Y/n, “I don’t know of a costume that needs to find its owner. All of them have been handed off to the dancers already. Sorry, doll,” he turned back to doing whatever it was he’d been doing before Y/n interrupted him.
Y/n’s heart sank. This was not good, “Sir. Look, Angelique told me you’d have it. I’m new and I was just fitted for it on Wednesday, so would there be someone I can speak to who knows where I can find one if mine’s not ready yet?”
Richard sighed and cocked his head as he looked back at her, “I have another idea.”
. . .
Her costume was lost or had never been ordered. She wasn’t sure. So, instead of having her first dance routine that night, she was booked to serve cocktails for a private party. Not how she envisioned her dance career progressing, but a job was a job. She needed the money. She needed to eat.
She was given a basic outfit to serve cocktails in. There were four cocktail waitresses. The little outfit was a bit showy for such a job, but she wouldn’t stick her nose up at it.
She curled her hair and pinned the front back and applied makeup. She adjusted her little outfit and tugged at the hem of the skirt. It barely covered her bottom. The tall heels were a touch too small for her feet but she took deep breaths and kept calm. The private party was in a large room (not the main room) with a small bar, some tables, and a stage.
She stood toward the entrance and watched the room get set up.
When the guests who’d booked the private party arrived, Y/n took her spot as directed and saw a group of ten men with nice suits and big attitudes walk in.
She immediately walked up to the table assigned to her and smiled brightly, “Welcome! Can I get you started off with a drink gentlemen?”
There were three tables for the guests and four cocktail waitresses spread amongst them.
Two beers, a whiskey neat.
Back and forth.
A round of shots for the group.
Water. Don’t forget the lemon.
No ice for the one with the grey suit and pink tie.
Her feet were killing her. She leaned against the bar and slid her shoes off for a moment of relief. The fucking things were an inch too high and a half inch too small, and she was struggling. She took a breather and watched over the table she was working. They had just gotten fresh refills and more water so they would be good for a bit.
The dancers on stage were having fun. Y/n could tell they were fill-ins. Not main stage worthy. Like Y/n, amateurs most likely.
Bethany put her hand on the bar next to Y/n, “Can you take my table their drinks? I need to go to the bathroom,” she told Y/n the order and ran off.
The bartender quickly got the order ready and Y/n reluctantly slid the borrowed heels back onto her feet. Somehow, the short rest for her feet only made putting the tight shoes back on worse. Her gait was affected. Her heels were blistered, and her toes were smushed in. She tried to maintain a natural stride on her way to the table but the only way she could stand to walk was to go very slowly.
“IPA?” She lifted the pint up and a man raised his hand as she placed the glass in front of him.
She handed off the drinks one by one and the last was a bourbon on the rocks. The only man who’d not yet been served was looking at her with anticipation of receiving his drink. She moved toward him and her attempt to not step fully down onto her heel had caused her to lose her balance and she dumped the whiskey onto the man’s nice suit.
She gasped and so did the man. Kicking her heels off she ran to the bar to grab towels and then back to the table.
“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry, sir! This is my fault. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning…” She got to her knees and placed the towel over the top of his thigh and looked up at his face with worry and noted his surprised smile.
She used her other hand to wipe the table as she blotted the towel over his thigh. She had not expected a smile from him.
“Don’t worry. Happens to us all. I don’t need you to pay for the dry cleaning either,” he said as he took the towel from her.
His voice was calm and deep. He sounded British. She stood up and stared down at the man and realized how kind he looked. His smile was genuine and the dimples poking into his cheeks were boyish and cute. He had crystal green eyes and broad shoulders. He was handsome. She was thankful that he was kind.
“I’m really so sorry, sir. I feel so bad. I’ll get another one for you and make sure to put all your drinks on the house,” she knelt down to pick up her heels and as she turned to go back to the bar the man gently grabbed her wrist, “Another bourbon is fine. You don’t need to comp any of my drinks, though. Please. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”
She looked down to where he had her wrist. He had rings along his long fingers. His hand was big. She looked back up to his face with a smile, “Are you sure?”
The man with curly brown hair smiled and nodded, “I’m sure.”
The rest of the night was far less exciting. When Bethany returned Y/n went back to her original spot. But she couldn’t stop herself from looking at the other table to the man who’d been so kind to her, even after she ruined his suit. He was attractive and it was clear to Y/n that Bethany also thought so. She gave extra attention to him. Anyone would.
When the guests had left and Y/n could put on her sneakers, the room got cleared and everyone went their separate ways. The club didn’t serve food, which Y/n had kind of hoped it would. She was hungry. She’d barely eaten anything all day long. Her day started off early trying to perfect the routine but then after hours of practice, she learned she wouldn’t be on stage because her costume was nowhere to be found.
Running back and forth in tight heels to serve liquor was just as tiresome as dancing on a stage. And being hungry on top of it all was brutal. Her stomach was growling as she walked out of the club and to her car parked at the side of the building where all the employees parked.
“There you are!” The voice of a familiar-sounding man startled her.
Y/n jumped and lifted her head to find the British guy with the bourbon-stained suit approaching her. Her eyes widened. As nice as he seemed in the club, she was hesitant to give him her full trust at 1 am in a dark parking lot with no one else around.
The man stopped in his tracks, “I’m sorry. I know you probably didn’t expect to see me, but I noticed you walking out and thought I’d just come and, I don’t know… maybe say hi,” he suddenly seemed more timid. Perhaps he realized how scary it could be as a woman to be approached by a man in this way.
Y/n gripped her keys tight and looked around. His soft smile put her at ease a little, “Yeah. I figured you guys all left already. I was just leaving for the night. Everything okay?”
Even in her alert state, she still wanted to make sure the man was all right. She was probably too nice for her own good.
His husky laugh sounded like relief in Y/n’s ears and it made her smile, “Everything’s fine. I was hanging back. I have a friend who works here. Just happened to see you leaving is all.”
Dimples.
Bright eyes.
Dark curls.
Tattoos, that she hadn’t noticed until now with his sleeves bunched up to his elbows.
He was attractive and his demeanor slowly put her at ease. She loosened the grip on the keys in her hand and finally smiled at him genuinely.
“Oh. Who do you know?”
“The owner. Richard. Short guy,”
“Bald,” Y/n spoke with a smile and Harry grinned back at her and nodded.
“Yeah. I’ve known him for years. Always lets me get in for a quick last-minute private party if I need. A lot of my colleagues enjoy the atmosphere.”
Y/n nodded and kept her eyes on the man. They both fell silent.
“Uh,” he lifted his hand up in a waving gesture and rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m Harry.”
Y/n’s smile widened, “Y/n. It’s nice to meet you, Harry.”
Harry nodded and stayed in his spot on the other side of her little car. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by getting too close.
“So, guess you’re headed home, huh?” Harry looked at her little silver car and back to her.
Y/n nodded, “Yep,” she didn’t know what home meant but she would consider her car her home at the moment.
Harry looked down at his feet and back toward the car, “I uh, are you new here? I mean, I only ask because I’ve never seen you around.”
Y/n nodded, “First day. Was supposed to be in the main room on stage but my costume was never ordered or it was lost, or I don’t know… So they had me serving cocktails. I just need the money so I’ll do almost anything at this point,” she laughed and her shoulders relaxed a little more.
Harry’s brows furrowed and he frowned, “Understandable.”
The silence grew loud again and Y/n shifted on her feet. Suddenly the sound of her stomach gurgling in hunger filled in the space in between them and she laughed it off, “Wow. I should uh, go get something to eat.”
Harry kept the small frown on his face, “Well, there are plenty of places open. Vegas baby. Right?” He chuckled lightly, “I guess I should leave you alone, huh? So you can find a spot to grab a meal,” Harry spoke as he backed away from her car, and slowly headed toward the main parking area.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Harry. Thank you for being so kind to me on my first day,” she slid the key into her door to unlock it and kept her eyes on the man.
He nodded and put his hands into his pockets, “It was nice meeting you, Y/n. And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. I’m around often.”
~~
The following night her costume had been found. Another dancer had taken it, mistaking it for their own. Angelique apologized for the miscommunication and Y/n had her first night on stage. She was in the back, though. Which was expected.
After the group did their routine the main dancers got to use the locker room showers and vanities first. So, Y/n had to wait around a bit to let the room clear out. She and the other three amateur dancers sat together at the bar after the final show and chatted. They hadn’t really had the time to talk before. But Y/n was tired. The practicing and routine, the late nights, the lack of sleep, the lack of food, it was all catching up to her.
When they finally were able to use the locker room, most of the guests and the other dancers had already left. After a warm shower, she put on clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulled her hair up into a bun, and charged her phone while she scrolled through social media and saw that Chad had posted a blurry picture of himself and another girl on Snapchat.
Y/n screenshotted the photo before it could disappear and analyzed it. Now, even though she had considered Chad to be her ex (though they hadn’t officially broken up because they hadn’t spoken in over a month) it still felt gross to see. Chad wasn’t doing anything particularly damning in the blurry photo, that she could tell. But the girl was really close to him and they were facing one another in the photo.
Fucker.
She sighed and put her cell phone down. Closing her eyes she leaned back in the chair and stretched her arms above her head, groaning with delight from the yummy stretch of her back and arms.
Her stomach growled. Y/n shook her head. She couldn’t wait for her first paycheck. She was barely hanging on anymore. She hadn’t eaten at all that day. Her cache of food had disappeared, and her checking account was low. She didn’t want to put anything on her credit card until she knew she could pay it off. But she was hungry. And she was slowly becoming sore and stiff from lack of nutrients and a proper bed at night. But tomorrow was Sunday and she would take the day off from practicing the routines. She needed to let her body rest. She also planned on using the last of the money in her checking account to buy food for the rest of the week.
When her phone was mostly charged she grabbed her bag and left the building. Most of the lights were out. It was nearly 2 am. She hated leaving so late but that was her life. She’d chosen this path. Maybe one day she’d have an apartment to go home to.
A safe place to rest her head.
A refrigerator full of food.
But for now, using showers and mirrors and outlets at work and the gym, and sleeping in her car were her life.
Parking in the hidden spot behind the trailer park, she climbed into the back seat and curled up into the cramped space and closed her eyes. Eventually, sleep found her tired and hungry body. She knew she was doing the right thing, even if it didn’t seem that way to anyone looking in from the outside. This was her life. She would get there soon; she just needed some more time.
. . .
Y/n wouldn’t have her first paycheck until Friday, which was when the next show was. She continued to give herself pep talks. She could make it. She could do this. The paycheck wouldn’t be much, but she would be able to buy more food, pay her cell phone bill, and get another month at the gym. She could budget. She’d eventually be able to save up enough to find a place to rent one day. But going without enough food was hard. At the club, there was a small break room but the fridge was usually empty. Most of the girls at the club weren’t eating on purpose. Y/n wasn’t eating because she couldn’t afford to.
Sunday afternoon she bought groceries. Not many. Bananas, granola bars (the cheap sugary kind), a bag of off-brand pretzels, a jar of cheap peanut butter, and a loaf of cheap white bread. Not what she’d normally want to buy but it was all in her price range and didn’t need to be cooked.
On Thursday someone had brought in a fruit tray to share at the club. Y/n could have cried. She watched as the other girls picked at the fruit but Y/n was starting to cross over into survival mode. She stayed by the tray and ate fistful after fistful of grapes, apple slices, pineapple wedges, and oranges. She did it discreetly, not wanting the others to see how ravenous she was.
She guzzled water from the water fountain in the hallway and showered after her practice with the other girls and felt wide awake. Energized. The fruit brought life back into her body. Literally. The calories and the sugar were her saving grace that day. Her costume, which she’d only gotten the week before was already loose on her body. She needed to eat and while the fruit wasn’t quite enough, it made her body happy. It was far better than all the starchy foods she’d gotten herself, which had mostly all been eaten by that point.
Vinnie was worried about her. He knew her situation. But she insisted she was doing well. Because she was mostly. She was struggling yes, but she was doing something good for herself. Plus, Friday was just in grasp. Her first paycheck would be handed to her after the show. She could almost taste the pancakes and the orange juice. She had planned on going to a dingy little diner she passed by a few times after work.
The sign read: 24-hour breakfast. $2.99 all-you-can-eat pancakes. The one she drove past every day.
She imagined slathering each stack with butter and syrup and surprising the staff when she went for seconds and thirds. Her stomach growled as she got into place behind the other girls and the music started. Bethany raised a brow at her when she heard it.
The routine was the same as the week before. They had a short break before they went back up and did another set. Y/n hadn’t been in such a good mood in weeks, knowing what was coming after the show. She was shaking with the anticipation of finally eating something of substance.
Like last week, the main dancers got to use the locker room first. Y/n and the others sat at the end of the bar and watched the guests leave as they chatted. They never got into anything too deep. Y/n wasn’t keen on telling the others about her situation. It was embarrassing. She was technically homeless and she was dirt broke. But Angelique had given them their checks and Y/n was more than happy to use it. She wouldn’t cash it that night because it was too late, but she planned on using her credit card to buy the $2.99 buffet pancakes. Maybe she’d splurge on eggs as well.
After showering and charging her phone she nearly skipped to her car. She parked strategically under a lamppost and noticed right away a man leaning on her front bumper.
“Excuse me?” She stopped halfway between the building and her car, ready to run back into the building if needed.
The man stood and she saw the chocolate curls of the British man she’d met the week before.
“Sorry! I thought I’d wait out here for you. I wanted to tell you that you did a great job in there,” he smiled kindly. That sweet smile, dimples and all.
Y/n let out the breath she’d been holding and finished walking toward her car. She figured she could trust Harry at this point.
“It’s okay. Just startled me a little to see someone leaning on my car. And, uh, thanks!”
She dug her keys out of her bag and walked next to Harry. He was taller than she thought. She hadn’t stood directly next to him before but now that he was only a few feet from her as she unlocked her car door she noticed it.
Harry pointed into her windshield, “I don’t mean to pry or anything, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but I noticed the blankets and pillows in the backseat. Is that… are you…?” Harry didn’t finish his sentence but Y/n knew what he was asking.
Normally she folded up the blankets and stuffed the pillows into the floorboards nicely but that morning she didn’t care. She’d been in such a good mood about the upcoming pancake dinner that she left it all strewn about.
She thought for a moment about how to answer. She looked down at her shoes and sighed, “Just temporary. It’s not a big deal,” she brushed it off.
Harry stayed quiet. But the longer he was silent the stranger it felt. Y/n looked back up at him and he was stoic. Deep in thought. Her stomach growled loudly and she groaned. It was as if all the most embarrassing things in life could come out all at once in front of a handsome man it happened right then. She was hungry and homeless. That was the truth. And Harry was now aware of this fact.
Harry sighed and his face softened, “Look. I know it can get hard out here. But, let me buy you something to eat at least. I was hoping to chat with you anyway. Maybe we could just… I don’t know… get to know one another over a drink, or food. No pressure,” Harry was cautious. He knew he could be overstepping a little. But he probably felt it was necessary based on the circumstances he was now aware of.
Y/n shook her head, “That’s not necessary, Harry. I just got paid. I was going to buy myself something to eat. You really don’t need to…” The look on his face had her pausing her words. Harry’s brows were raised and the soft grin told her he wasn’t buying her I-don’t-need-your-help act.
“Fine. Then you buy yourself something to eat. Can I join you at least?”
And so that’s how she found herself at the dingy diner sitting across from Harry in a booth as she shoveled pancakes in her mouth. Harry ordered a coffee. Black.
He watched her for a bit as she scarfed down her first plate. Y/n tried to hold a conversation while eating but her body was on autopilot. She needed to eat. Harry could see that too.
When she finished the first plate she looked up at Harry. He was leaned back, comfortable in the booth with his arms crossed over his chest, an amused look on his face.
She licked her lips and sipped the orange juice before clearing her throat, “What?” She felt embarrassed. It was quite obvious to Harry what was going on.
“Nothing. Still hungry?” He smirked and leaned forward to the table, putting his forearms over the linoleum and clasped his hands together in front of him. He’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows again and Y/n could make out the dark tattoos that went up one arm.
She breathed out a laugh at the question. Without a doubt, she was still hungry. She nodded, “I am. Yes. Is it okay if I grab another plate? Do… uh, do you want anything other than coffee?”
Harry shook his head and kept his eyes on hers, “I’m fine. I’ve eaten today. Go and get another plate. I’ll be right here.”
Y/n brought back another stack of pancakes with a handful of margarine butter packets and went to work to make her second plate as sugary, fattening, and calorific as possible.
“So, where are you from, Y/n?” Harry took a sip of his coffee, and Y/n saw him wince. She doubted the coffee was any good. Especially black. It was probably old and bitter and room temperature. But she appreciated that he was sitting with her and trying to fill the void of loneliness. Though she would have been fine to sit and eat her pancakes in silence.
“Bible belt. Nowhere,” she kept her eyes on her meal, drizzling the maple-flavored syrup over the top.
Harry laughed, “I see. Okay. So, why are you here in Nevada? Big dreams of becoming a famous dancer?”
Y/n shoved a forkful into her mouth and shook her head, putting her finger up as she chewed. Another sip of her orange juice and she finally responded, “No. I needed a change of scenery. I am a dancer. Well, I have a bachelor’s in dance. I’m not a professional or anything. It was sort of a whim, but a good one. There was nothing keeping me back home. What about you Harry? Where are you from? How did you get here?” She tried to change the subject from herself to him.
She ate while Harry told her his story. He was born in Manchester and got a business degree in London and then moved to California when he was in his mid-twenties after being offered a job at a private equity firm.
After a couple of years at the firm he and a close friend of his decided on opening up their own business, a startup. Which turned out to be quite profitable early on. Harry was a managing partner and owner of a wealth management group specifically for entertainment companies. Like burlesque clubs. Like Haute Baude. The owner, Richard, hired Harry as his wealth management agent years ago and they grew close.
Y/n knew next to nothing about the finance world so she just nodded and hummed along, “Wow. So, you’re doing well. A successful businessman,” she smiled and licked her fork clean.
Harry chuckled and tilted his head to the side, “I guess so. You’re impressive too, you know. It was brave to come out here all by yourself.”
There was a bit of quiet after he spoke those words. Y/n smiled down at her empty plate and then looked up at Harry. His coffee cup was empty.
“And you’re cute,” Harry spoke the words quietly but he kept his eyes on hers.
Y/n set her fork down and kept her eyes on the handsome man, squinting at him in question. She didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t really been flirting with her, that she could tell, but she was aware of the way he was looking at her. How when she’d take a bite he’d watch her lips move and he kept licking his own lips.
“Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” Harry said but he didn’t hide his smile well when he pulled his lips into his mouth, that reaction only drew his dimples in deeper and it made Y/n smile and laugh.
She shook her head and looked down. His eyes were getting to her. His intense gaze was alluring. Harry was charming and handsome. She didn’t know what his intentions were but he seemed nice at least.
When Harry remained quiet for a beat longer than was comfortable Y/n looked back up at him. She couldn’t help but smile back at his expression and she laughed, “It’s okay. You haven’t been obnoxious or anything. I just… I’m a mess and hearing that threw me off a bit.”
“What do you mean you’re a mess?” Harry asked.
“I mean, well, come on… you saw my car. And here I am buying $2.99 all-you-can-eat buffet pancakes at 2 am the moment I get a paycheck. I’m… down on my luck a little. But I think things are better now. For one, my tummy’s full,” Y/n smiled shyly. She hated that this successful man was privy to her misfortune, but he felt trustworthy.
Harry shook his head, “Not a mess. Just a victim of circumstance. Are you sleeping in your car tonight?” He raised his brows in question.
Y/n looked to the corner of the room and breathed out a huff of breath and pursed her lips as she nodded before looking back at Harry with a shrug, “Have nowhere else to go.”
Harry nodded and leaned in with his eyes on Y/n’s, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Y/n, I know you’re doing your best, but I think it’s dangerous for you to be sleeping in your car. You’re vulnerable to the crazies out there who don’t care who they hurt.”
Y/n frowned. She knew she’d get a lecture from Vinnie about this but not someone she barely knew. It was understandable, though. She was being risky but what choice did she have?
“Thank you for your concern, Harry. I don’t really know what else I can do, though,” Y/n turned and put her hand into her bag and pulled out the envelope with her check, “this is all I have. I can’t afford a place to stay. This meal, it’s something I’ve been fantasizing about for days now.”
Harry sighed and cocked his head to the side, “Would you be comfortable if I offered you a room in my condo?”
Y/n was taken aback. She hadn’t expected it at all but she shook her head, “Oh, Harry… I couldn’t do that. You are kind to offer but not only can I not afford to pay you back, I wouldn’t want to be a bother and you barely know me.”
Harry breathed out a laugh through his nose and smiled, “I wouldn’t accept your money even if you tried paying me. Why don’t you come and just take a look? I’ve got a lot of space and no one to share it with. I like you, Y/n. I think you and I could be good friends and I’m just offering you a safe place to sleep at night.”
Y/n bit her lip and looked down at her empty plate and then back to Harry, “I hate my situation, Harry. I’m sorry that you feel like you need to help me when you barely know me. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
This wasn’t what she wanted from life. She didn’t seek this adventure to be handed things. She needed to prove herself. She wanted to make her own way.
Harry reached across the table and took Y/n’s hand as he shook his head, “Hey… don’t think like that. I may not know everything about you but I can tell you’re trustworthy. Do you trust me, Y/n?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, “I think you’re probably a nice person. At least you are to me. I feel like you’re trustworthy, but… I just can’t accept the offer. It’s too much. And, not only do you not know me, I don’t know you, Harry. Not really.”
She hated this.
Harry frowned and let go of her hand, “Understandable,” he nodded and looked down at his empty mug.
~~
She regretted not at least taking Harry up on the offer for one night. A bed to lie flat in would have done her some good right about then. She rolled her body to face toward the seat and groaned. The backseat was uncomfortable and her car was tiny. She just longed to stretch her legs out and to have a comfortable mattress under her back. But at least she was fed.
It had been another week. She saw Harry again, but he didn’t stop at her car this time. She was a little disappointed by that, but it figured. He offered her something that put him in a vulnerable spot and she declined. So of course, he was avoiding her.
By the time she received her second paycheck, she knew which grocery store had the best prices and what food to get that was more nourishing than sugary granola bars and pop tarts. She still had to buy packaged foods that weren’t the healthiest but still. Her food situation was slightly better.
Saturday evening after the last show, she sat and waited at the bar for the main dancers to shower and leave the locker room. She was just happy to be off her feet. She sipped water and watched the patrons mill about, most leaving for the night. Then she spotted Harry with a dancer. One of the stars. Veronica.
Now, even though nothing had happened between Y/n and Harry she felt a wave of jealousy. Harry was very attractive. Anyone could see it. And it was obvious that Harry found Veronica attractive as well. The way he was stood so close to her, the dimples on his face, the way his eyes never left hers…
Y/n looked down at her water and closed her eyes. There was nothing to be jealous of. Harry wasn’t hers to begin with and just because he’d offered her a place to stay, that didn’t mean he had romantic feelings for her. And of course, he wouldn’t feel that way about Y/n. He barely knew her. A ridiculous idea from the start. Though, it didn’t stop Y/n from daydreaming to herself about Harry randomly every day. Even Vinnie had heard of Harry. Y/n couldn’t help but to mention him a time or two.
A half-hour later and before Y/n went into the locker room to shower and pack up she watched a freshly showered Veronica leave the front doors with Harry. Veronica grasped onto his forearm and laughed. It kind of made Y/n feel nauseated. But she had no claim on him. As far as she knew, Harry was a single man so he was free to do as he wished with anyone.
The showers were all empty, which was odd. Y/n plugged her phone in to charge it up and turned on one of the spouts to let the water heat up. She took her sweaty costume off and hung it on the space meant for her for the house to wash it (a nice little perk of working for a club, they washed her costume every week and it had it ready for her before the Friday shows).
When she put her fingers into the stream of water it was still cold. She frowned and stood for a bit longer, waiting for the water to warm up.
“Oh… the hot water got shut off fifteen minutes ago. We’ve got a leak and it’ll be fixed tomorrow morning. Sorry, hon,” Y/n heard the voice of Angelique and turned.
“Oh? Okay. Well. I guess I’ll just do a quick wash then,” Y/n laughed. She soaped her underarms and in between her legs and rinsed with the cold water. It wasn’t ideal but it was better than going without a rinse at least.
When she got to her car she saw Harry and Veronica leaning up against Harry’s car (which Y/n had become familiar with). Y/n kept her head down and unlocked her door quickly so she could get out of there and not witness anything she didn’t want to see.
“Y/n?” Harry’s voice was suddenly closer than she realized.
She lifted her head as she opened the driver’s side door to see Harry jogging toward her, “Hi, Harry.”
“Hey! You did great up there today. How’s everything going?” He stopped a few feet away and Y/n saw Veronica heading their way. Veronica didn’t look as happy as Harry.
“Thank you. It’s… going. Same situation but, ya know…” she trailed off. Not wanting Veronica to hear about her housing issue.
“Okay. Good to hear… Uh… here…” Harry reached into his inside-suit jacket pocket and pulled out a card. He stepped toward Y/n and held it out just as Veronica came to his side and saw what was going on.
Y/n took the card. A business card. Phone numbers, an email, and an address.
“S’got my cellphone on there. Call or text anytime you need anything. I meant to give it to you last time…” He tilted his head a bit. His eyes were soft on Y/n’s face.
Y/n smiled and nodded and then looked at Veronica who was frowning.
“Can I have one?” Veronica chirped suddenly as she looked at Harry.
Harry’s expression changed immediately, like surprise, almost as if he didn’t realize Veronica had seen the transaction. He turned to look at her and blinked a few times as he reached into his pocket, “Oh… sure…” he smiled at her and then looked back to Y/n.
Their exchange made Y/n curious. Perhaps they hadn’t been flirting, or perhaps it wasn’t Harry who was flirting with Veronica if she didn’t even have his card.
Veronica held the card up and grinned, “Gonna put this to good use,” she tucked the card away into her pocket and leaned into Harry, putting her arm through his as she looked up at him and then back to Y/n, her eyebrows raised.
Y/n knitted her brows together and pulled her lips into her mouth before looking away from how Veronica and Harry stood so close again, “Okay. Thank you, Harry. Um… I guess I’m gonna go now.”
Y/n hopped into her car, started it up, and drove out of the parking lot as quickly as was safe. She didn’t want to be witness to anything more intimate between Harry and Veronica. Maybe Harry just felt bad for her. Maybe that’s all that was.
. . .
With a few weeks of dancing burlesque on stage under her belt, she’d been given a few paychecks and it felt good to be working and getting paid. She was busy nearly every day of the week, gym, practice, gym, practice, on and on until Friday and Saturday where she did her best to improve her talent.
Sunday was a lonely day for Y/n. The club was closed, along with the studio for practice. She would go to the gym but her body needed the day to rest. She longed for a massage or a bed. But a nice walk outside and sunshine were relatively therapeutic as well.
Las Vegas was so different than where she came from. It wasn’t pretty unless you drove outside of the city. The main strip and the old part of the city were seedy, busy, loud, and full of anxious people. But there was plenty to see. She liked walking through the streets and people-watching.
Horns honking.
Music pouring out of storefronts, casinos, shops, restaurants.
Hot sun heating the pavement.
Greasy guys with greasy hair flicking cards with pictures of nude women on the street corners.
Soaring buildings.
Flashing lights.
Drunk tourists.
As lonely as a Sunday could seem, she couldn’t ever feel like she’d made a mistake. Perhaps things weren’t perfect but they were better. Always better than where she came from. Than where she was before.
Making her way back to her car she had the creepy feeling of being watched.
Turning to look behind her she saw no one.
The feeling grew more intense. A sense of dread. A warning.
She walked the long way to her car keeping her head on a swivel.
Yet no one was there.
There were no eyes on her.
No man dressed in black hiding in the shadows.
Not a single soul noticed her, followed her, cared about her.
It gave her an eerie feeling, though. Something seemed off. She kept her eyes and ears on alert for anything. Picking up the pace she tucked her hands into her pockets and continued the route. She was just being silly, she thought. But deep down she felt something. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
Once she was inside of her car she looked all around as she started the car up and backed out of the space where it was parked. No one seemed to be following her. No one was there.
She let out a sigh and turned her radio on as the sun began to set. The drive to the lot behind the mobile home park went by faster than she hoped. For some reason, she was really on edge. Something was giving her a warning. She didn’t know what it could be or why she felt but she felt it.
Parking her car in its usual spot, hidden from anyone who would drive past the lot, she kept her eyes on the entrance. Just to be sure. She had the sudden urge to call Harry. Perhaps just staying over at his for one night would be wise. But then she remembered how he had been with Veronica that night. And how embarrassing it would be to admit defeat.
To admit that she needed someone’s help.
She didn’t want to seem desperate. Her pride was still very much important to her. She put his business card back down in the drink holder and took a deep breath. She was just being silly, she reminded herself. There wasn’t a soul around. No one was following her. No one was watching. Why would they? No one wanted her. Not even her own boyfriend. Not even her own father.
. . .
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Y/n woke with a jolt at the noise of something tapping at the window above her head. She turned to see a man outside of her car. Making eye contact with the stranger she shook her head and pointed for him to leave. She hoped he could understand her gesture. She was most definitely not rolling down her window or opening her door for him.
The man put his hands flat on the window and brought his face close to the glass, peering in at her.
“Come on. Roll down the window. I just want to talk,” his voice was muffled but he was loud enough that she could hear him clearly.
Shaking her head, no, she sat up fully and moved the blanket off of her body, “No. Please leave.”
The scowl that took over his face suddenly caused Y/n to realize this man wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He smacked his palms against the glass loudly and Y/n jumped into the front seat as fast as she could in the tight space.
Her hands were shaking and her body was buzzing. She fumbled to put the keys into the ignition when the man had moved to the driver’s side window. She tried not to look at him as she twisted the key to start the vehicle but she couldn’t help when she noticed that he ducked down and when he stood back up he was holding a heavy metal wrench and a wicked smile stretched over his ugly face.
She pressed her foot onto the gas and her car jolted forward but she quickly realized something was wrong. Her steering wheel was pulling hard to the left and the car was clattering as she rolled forward. Her tire was flat. Or maybe multiple tires. She pulled her phone from her glove box and continued allowing the car to move forward and away from the man as she lifted Harry’s card out of the drink holder. She dialed the cellphone number and continued forward as she put the phone to her ear with trembling hands.
It rang and rang, and rang again, and then she heard his voice telling her to leave a message. The man was still walking toward her, now behind the car.
“Harry! There’s a man here and he’s slashed my tires and I’m stuck and in danger and I don’t have anyone else to call. Uh… I’m at the lot behind The Capri mobile home park off Wynn. And…” the man began to run as she looked in her rearview and gasped into the receiver, “oh god! It’s Y/n… Uh…” and then she disconnected. There was no use in saying anything further. She was in immediate danger and needed to figure out a way to safety.
She needed to call 911.
When the heavy wrench met the back of her car she screamed and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, causing her small car to bolt forward but she’d lost control.
Her phone flew from her hand.
The hood of her car made contact with the light pole.
Her face felt the burn of the rubber from her steering wheel.
Dark.
Silent.
. .
> Part 2 <
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s: athletic trainer Iwaizumi is a little too good at his job.
warnings: mdni 18+, slowburn smut, smut w plot, mutual pining, dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, slut-shaming, semi-public place, p in v, unprotected sex
w.c: 5.9 k
a/n: hihihi!! sorry i went ghost for a while i’ve just had a lot going on recently. buttt this has been in my drafts for a little bit and i finally finished it up. it’s a little longer but it was highkey worth it. anyway enjoyyy!! (he’s so yummy) 🫶🏾
* :✧･ﾟ༺♡༻ ✧･ﾟ: *
you were a professional dancer, out of college for about a year now. it'd been your thing since you were in literal diapers; a passion of yours you'd never grew out of. probably never would, either. it was just...you.
only thing was that after college, your body just...wasn't the same.
you'd always been flexible as a kid. unnervingly so, if you were being honest. it made dance a lot easier for you, so you never really cared. of course you still stretched and all that because you had to during class, but you never really took it seriously. but now you were getting older, and you just couldn't keep cruising like this.
long story short, your back had been killing you lately. you tried to manage during rehearsals and practice, but ignoring it only made it worse. your instructor, noticing this, advised you to just go to the athletic trainers back at the college. you hesitated, not wanting to bother them. they probably had other sports and people who were actually injured to worry about, not you.
but then again, you had a show coming up soon. and as much as you wanted to, you couldn't risk it. so you went against your will, hopping in your car and heading back to campus.
when you made it there you crawled out of your car, the ache in your back only worsened from the torturous ride there. but you somehow managed to stumble your way over to the office. you made it there quickly. after all, you'd been there too many times to count during your years there. you knew those halls like the back of your hand.
you knocked softly on the door before poking your head in. there were a few people already there, getting their wrists wrapped and legs taped or just getting ice. at least you weren't the only one. you closed the door with a soft snap, taking a few steps in. you didn't get far before seeing a familiar face.
Iwaizumi Hajime.
you two had kinda been hovering each other for years. you somehow went to the same high school and college, had mutual friends, always ended up at the same parties and hangouts. you two weren't exactly best friends or anything, but you definitely weren't strangers.
he looked up at the sound of the door opening, expecting to see one of his usuals. but instead, he was met with a face he hadn't seen in months. only in social media posts when he missed that cheeky little attitude of yours (despite you two never really being that close).
his eyebrow raised in surprise, heart stuttering slightly in his chest. god, he felt stupid. he quickly shook the thought away, focusing on you instead.
"y/n...what're you doing here?" he asks, voice gruff but nowhere near unkind. if anything, he sounded genuinely curious. maybe even a bit excited, too.
your expression softened a bit at the sight of him. it felt like it'd been forever since you'd seen him, if you didn't count the liking each other's posts and everything. you stepped further in, a bit more comfortable now that you knew atleast one of the trainers.
"hey Iwa. i just need some help..." you trail off, eyes wandering to the side bashfully.
something in his chest tightened at the familiar nickname. you were the only one who called him that. you had this thing with giving everyone nicknames because it was 'easier to remember', in your words. adorable. he'd never admit it though. just swallowed hard and tried to be more attentive to why you were here.
his arms crossed, leaning against the nearby wall. his eyebrow raised, asking curiously.
"with...?" he asks, gaze wandering over you to see if he could find the problem himself. you didn't even get the chance to answer before he found it, eyes locking onto the way your shoulders were hunched.
you blinked, completely caught off guard. you shifted your weight nervously, barley holding back a wince as you did. you ignored it, questioning him confusedly.
"...what?" you croak out, genuinely lost.
he just rolled his eyes—a weak attempt at maintaining his usual stubborn attitude. though, if you paid close enough attention, his voice was just a touch softer. he pushed himself off the wall, taking a few steps closer as he explained.
"your back. that's the issue, right?" he asks, eyes flickering to your stiff posture for just a second before meeting your eyes again.
you just stared at him like he'd grown a second head. how did he...? but honestly, you weren't surprised. not even close. he'd alway been overly observant, and he was literally trained for this. you sputtered for a second before just accepting it with a slow, almost sheepish nod.
"...yeah. 's killing me." you admit under your breath. he simply clicked his teeth like he knew it all along. he turned on his heel, walking to the rooms at back and beckoning you to follow with a single crook of his finger. you raised an eyebrow, but was quick to catch up. you trailed close behind, unable to help but ask.
"where we going, Iwa?" you ask, looking up at him through your lashes. you swore you saw his jaw clench for a second, but you didn't mention it.
and him? he just couldn't help it. not when you said his name like it was meant to be on your tongue. god, what was getting into him? he hardly even knew you. he was just supposed to help you feel better. that was it. but really, all he could think about was how good he could make you feel in another way. he just huffed before finally answering.
"i'm taking you back here so you don't have to wait for these slowpokes." he states like it's the simplest thing ever. he glances back, just to make sure you were following before looking back ahead. he stopped in front of one of the many open doors, making sure it was set before glancing back at you.
"you dance, right? can't have you grandma-ing around that stage." he mutters, barley keeping the amused smirk off his face.
your eyes widened, before letting out a small huff. but despite your feigned annoyance, you couldn't hide a tiny smile of your own.
"oh, shut up." you grumble, amusement seeping through. you followed him in, eyeing the room. it had the same setup as when you used to come, but a little cozier. a mini fridge for the ice, a massage bed, and warm lights that made you feel like you were back home. your expression softened a little at the sight, before glancing back at him.
he shut the door behind him with a soft click. he met your gaze, not missing your curious look. he simply gestured to the bed, mumbling under his breath to "sit" while he took a seat across from you. you nodded to yourself, climbing up on the table. you made yourself comfortable, though, you couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. why? you weren't sure. but you ignored it. or tried to.
he could tell you were a bit antsy, and honestly he didn't blame you. you two had been circling each other for years now. and now you show up here, looking all perfectly glowy and hot as hell despite being in pain. god, he needed to calm down. he sighed and spoke, eyes locked onto you a little too intently.
"relax. i don't bite." he utters, you were sure you heard him mumble something about 'unless you want me too', but maybe that was just your imagination. crazy. he continued, calm as ever. "tell me what's going on." he finally says.
you sighed, forcing yourself to just relax a little. you were stressing for nothing. he wasn't just some new guy, you knew him. the stubborn, observant, caring, hot, sexy trainer. damnit, what the hell was wrong with you? i mean you knew you were ovulating, but still. you swallowed thickly before finally getting it out.
"honestly, i'm not sure. i'm really sore and it honestly hurts to move. like i just feel really stiff and i don't really know what to do about it." you explain, looking absolutely anywhere but him.
Iwaizumi's expression softened a little at that. made sense why you looked so troubled about it—there was no way you could dance comfortably like that. he didn't miss the way you avoided his gaze either. weird. but he didn't mention it. just brought his hand up, covering his face in thought.
"have you tried heat therapy? maybe stretching more?" he asks after a beat of silence, brows furrowing in concern.
you shook your head slowly before admitting. "i stretch daily, but...honestly it makes it feel worse." you explain, watching his face grow even more concerned. maybe it was a bit more serious than you thought.
he sighed, already tired of this. not of you, but because of your probable injury. "idiot..." he mutters, shaking his head as he stood up. he caught your curious look, and answered before you could question him further. "calm down. 'm gonna help you out." he says, gesturing for you to lie back.
you hesitate, but only for a second before listening. you lay back slowly, settling onto your tummy. though you kept yourself propped up enough to see him. but he simply shook his head, voice softening just a little. "...all the way down, y/n." he mumbles, trying not to sound as harsh yet still sounding a bit deep.
you? you were focused on the undeniable tightness in your chest from his somewhat demanding tone. you knew he was trying not to sound so rough, but god you loved when he spoke to you like that—when he said your name like you were a goddess or something. you were so dazed you almost didn't register what he said. but after a moment you finally caught on, laying all the way down.
he didn't miss your little pause, causing him to raise an eyebrow at you. did he like, say something weird? he didn't know. whatever. he grabbed a spare heating pad from one of the nearby cabinets, letting it start to heat up. he came closer, standing at your side. his cheeks flushed just a little at what he was about to ask, but he had to.
"could you—um...lift your shirt a little for me...?" he asks, clearing his throat hard.
you froze. like, actually froze. but then you let out a small breath, forcing yourself to relax. you knew he was just trying to get to your skin. but damnit, all you could think about was how easily you'd rip this shirt off for him. or maybe have him do it for you. you felt your face warm. bashfully you hiked up your shirt, leaving the fabric bunched around your ribs.
"is that good..?" you ask as you laid back down, voice slightly unsteady.
he didn't miss the slight shake in your voice, but he forced himself to ignore it. his jaw clenched tight, eyes roaming over the smooth, supple skin before snapping back up to your face.
"yeah. that's enough." he mutters, voice drawn tighter than he meant it to be. he grabbed the heated pad, gently placing it over the span of your back. you winced a little at first, not expecting it. but you relaxed into the warmth within seconds.
"shit..." you breathe out, melting further into the bed beneath you. lwaizumi could hardly hide back a satisfied smirk. his fingers spread over the heating pad, gently pressing the cozy fabric against your skin. his hand was large, nearly covering the entirety of your back. all you could do was imagine those hands somewhere else. but he snapped you out of your thoughts, breaking the silence with his voice.
"yeah? that feel good?" he asks, tone lower than he'd ever meant it to be. but he couldn't help it. he also couldn't help the subtle amusement laced in his voice, which you simply rolled your eyes at. but still, you nodded anyway. there was no denying that it did.
"real good." you sigh, face burying in your arms. his smirk only grew further at your admission. good. he kept it there for a few moments, wanting to warm you up a little so he didn't hurt you with the massage.
after about five minutes he pulled it back, unintentionally coaxing a tiny whine from you. he visibly froze, staring at you with wide eyes like you'd grown a second head. if only he could pull that sound from you another way. something in his gut stirring at the mere thought of it. he swallowed hard, focusing on you instead.
"easy...not going anywhere." he huffs. he unplugged the heated pad, setting it on a nearby table. you just frowned slightly and lifted your head to look at him.
"but it felt nice..." you pout, hand reaching to rub at your achy back. he simply rolled his eyes, pretending he wasn't imagining those pouty lips wrapped around his leaky tip.
"yeah, i know. you'd feel even better if you quit squirmin' and let me take care of you." he grumbles under his breath. you just muttered something incoherent and laid your head back down.
Iwaizumi walked back over to you, stopping at your side. his hands reached but they paused mid-air, suddenly nervous. why? he wasn't sure. this was his job. he literally did it every day. so why were you different? he just sighed quietly before asking, sounding unusually soft.
"you don't mind if i touch you, right? i'm gonna feel around a bit so i know how to help." he explains, just barley keeping a shake out of his voice.
your breath caught for just a second, before relaxing again. he was just doing his job. nothing else. but god, you wanted those hands all over you. you nodded a bit too quickly, managing to scramble words out.
"i-...no! no i don't mind. go ahead." you stutter, clearing your throat hard. Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow at your awkward response, but didn't point it out. just nodded slowly before finally placing his hands on your back.
they were rough, calloused from years of volleyball and ruthless training. but nevertheless, they were gentle. warm, too. you tensed for a brief second at the touch, and he waited for you to relax before continuing. his hands slowly roamed, searching for the culprit of your pain. when he reached your lower back and felt you wince a little he knew he found it.
"there, huh?" he asks, expression softening a little. you nodded instantly, voice tightening with pain.
"yeah...hurts real bad." you manage to mutter, shoulders going tense. but he reached out, palm finding your shoulder through your shit. just fabric. not skin. but warm enough to ease you anyway.
"don't worry. i got you." he mumbles, sounding more like he was talking to himself than to you. his hands began to work, slowly rubbing at the sore patch of skin. you tensed again, flinching away from his touch.
"fuck...!" you squeak, squirming away. his eyes widened a little before softening, he didn't pull back though, keeping his hands gently on your back.
"i know...i know. it'll hurt for a bit then it'll get better, okay?" Iwaizumi soothes, thumbs gently caressing the soft skin. you hesitate, but nod anyway. he studies your face, making sure you were okay before starting again.
he found a knot instantly, brows furrowing as he worked it out with his knuckles and hands. he was trying to be as gentle as he could, but he knew he had to use a bit of pressure.
"damn, you're tight..." he mutters under his breath, jaw clenching when he realized how that might've sounded. your cheeks flushed, but didn't call him out on it. your mind was too distracted by how tight something else was—how desperately you were clenching around nothing, wishing it was him instead.
his hands continued to massage at your lower back, getting every taut muscle and knot out. and it wasn't long before that pain began to turn into relief and even a bit of pleasure. he rubbed just right, coaxing a soft, involuntary hum out of you.
"mmh...fuck.." you practically purr. his breath hitched at the sound, hands pausing. but only for a second before continuing, though, bit rougher than he meant to be. you weren't complaining though. not even close. if anything you seemed to arch into his touch a little, seeking more.
he felt his chest tighten, feeling you arch into his palm. something in his pants stirred at the sight. he tried to ignore it, but the thought of you arching onto his dick like that was imprinted in his mind. fuck, he was a mess. he let out a deep sigh, the sound low and gruff as he tried to control himself.
Iwaizumi's hands pulled away for just a second to ask, voice barely audible through gritted teeth. "if you want me to go lower i can. i'd just need to get on top of you a little, if that's fine." he somehow manages to utter without losing it completely. you were so dazed you didn't even think twice, nodding instantly.
"mhm...'s fine." you mumble. he hesitated, but only for a second before you felt the bed dip a bit with his weight. he settled on top of you, practically straddling the back of your thighs. his hips were lightly pressed against your ass—a compromising position. all you could think about was how easy it'd be for him to just...fuck you.
your thoughts were cut off by yet another perfect press, this time right where you needed it most. you moaned. actually moaned. quiet, soft, but a moan nonetheless.
Iwaizumi froze. his whole body stilled, eyes widening. pupils blowing wide, too. his hands tensed on your back, tightening ever so slightly before slowly pulling back. for a long moment he was silent, and so were you. his voice cut through like a knife, sharp and...a bit shaken?
"...y/n." he calls suddenly, and you could feel his gaze practically boring into the back of your head. you just looked up bashfully, swallowing hard before snapping.
"s-sorry...! i didn't mean to i swear i just-...i-...it just felt good..." you ramble on, voice growing increasingly high with your nervousness. but he cut you off with a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"stop." he utters, sighing loud and rough. a hand ran over his face in distress, though, not because of you. well, partially. after all, it was your fault that he was rock hard in his sweats now. he went quiet for a beat, then finally continued. "just-...shut up. it's fine. it means i'm doing well." he manages to grit out, trying to ignore how hot he suddenly felt.
you were still a bit hesitant, sheepish gaze lingering on him for a moment. but then you nodded slowly, wanting to just forget about it. "i-...yeah...yeah, you're right." you mumble under your breath, easing back down onto the bed.
after what felt like forever he finally resumed, thumbs and knuckles rubbing out the remaining tension at the small of your back. you were silent for a while, but it almost seemed like you were holding back. holding your breath, maybe. Iwaizumi noticed almost instantly, and wasn't having it. he shook his head in disproval, pressing with more of his weight so you'd really feel it.
your response was instant; another moan. longer this time—breathier, back arching into him. his expression eased, tiny smirk replacing the knit in his brows. he shouldn't feel so good about this, but he did. god, he did. he let out a soft hum of approval, hands smoothing over the skin.
"there...just let go." he breathes, mouth a little too close to your ear now that he'd leaned in closer. but you didn't mind. not at all. you just shivered at the sound of him so close, further melting into his touch.
his smirk widened when you eased into him. he continued massaging over your back, lips hovering right by the shell of your ear as he whispered gentle praise—just enough to keep you calm. to let you know it was alright to enjoy this.
though, only a few moments passed before Iwaizumi felt you tense a bit under him. you simply froze, falling completely silent before hesitantly asking.
"um...Iwa?" you trail off, clearing your throat before resuming. "could you take your phone out your pocket...? it's kinda poking me..." you explain, voice quieting. though, you had a feeling you already knew what it really was. and the thought made your heart stutter in your chest.
he froze, swallowing hard. he wasn't too surprised—honestly, he was more surprised you didn't feel it earlier; he was half-hard, pressed right against your ass. but maybe you were just so dazed you didn't notice it until now. and he wasn't sure how to feel. amused, maybe. even more turned on? definitely.
after a beat of silence he let out a quiet breath, deciding to go against his own thoughts. so, he pressed closer more deliberately this time, making sure you felt him for real. he let out a quiet, barley controlled breath as he muttered.
"not my phone, y/n." he admits, darkened gaze locked onto the back of your head.
you simply fell still, words dying on your tongue. you'd be lying if you said you didn't expect it, but it didn't fail to make something in you flip. but before you could even respond your body reacted before your mind, instinctively pushing back against him.
Iwaizumi's breath hitched the second he felt you push back against his hardness. shit, he didn't think you'd do that. he partially expected you to squirm away or get all flustered and red-faced when you realized he was hard. and yet here you were: rubbing against him without a second thought. or a first one, at that.
god, you were so damn needy.
and he loved it.
he bit back a groan, hand instantly sliding down to grip your hip. the other remained at the small of your back, thumb rubbing slowly while he held you in place.
"shit...you don't even care, do ya?" he huffs, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance. but his actions said completely otherwise as he leaned closer, pressing his hard-on right against your ass.
his head lowered, lips gently grazing the shell of your ear. "so damn needy..." he hums, voice deepening. growing more hoarse as he felt himself throb against the soft fabric of his sweats.
you weren't even sure what to say. what could you say? he didn't even attempt to hide it, but really, neither were you.
and if you were being completely honest, whatever this meant for you two could be dealt with later. it was a conversation for another time. because right now, all you could think about was the need in your tummy and the way his cock chubbed up against your ass. and how desperately you wanted him to fuck you.
a beat of silence, then? you whined. actually whined at the feel of him. or rather, from the mix of shame and pure need. you tried to push back to feel more, but his hand on your back held you still. he responded with a low grunt.
"uh-uh, pretty girl. hold still." Iwaizumi snapped softly, holding you in place. though, he wasn't angry. not even close. really, he was just trying to keep himself together. it proved to be increasingly difficult with the ache of his dick desperately wanting to be touched.
you shifted slightly, head turning to glance back at him. your breath was caught, body warm, and somehow relaxed and tense all at once. god, what were you getting yourself into? but your body reacted before you could even overthink, whining softly.
"ca-can't...need you, Iwa..." you breathe out, unable to hide the tiny, needy pout that'd formed on your lips.
Iwaizumi's gaze met yours instantly, intense in a way that made you shiver to your core. his free hand reached, gently grasping your chin to keep your eyes on him. nowhere else, only him. his thumb brushed over your puffy, jutted out lip, touch ever so gentle despite the desperation bubbling within. his other hand remained steady at the small of your back. his voice was low, almost hoarse when he spoke.
"not how it works, y/n." he grumbles, though his touch remains so, so soft. his eyes narrow down at you as he grunts out. "you come in here all pretty after months of radio silence acting all fuckin' needy...you're gonna take what the hell i give you." he huffs, grip tightening just the slightest.
and you? you just gawked back at him with a look that was equally greedy and submissive all at once. you reluctantly quieted down, doing just as he said. because when he spoke to you like that, why wouldn’t you? but your obedient silence didn't last long when you felt his hips push forward, giving one slow, agonizing grind against your plush behind.
a synchronized groan left the both of you, paired with quiet, heavy breaths.
you couldn't help it. your back arched up, hips eagerly searching for more friction. though this time, he made no attempt to stop you. if anything he encouraged it, grip shifting from something tight to guiding.
"shit...go ahead. good fuckin' girl." he praises as you begin to push back against him, that gravelly voice of his making you drip into your thin panties.
you don't hesitate, rubbing against him desperately. your lips parted, panting softly. god, when did it get so hot in here? but Iwaizumi didn't waste the opportunity, thumb slipping gently into your mouth. you froze, hips stuttering. your eyes widened, not sure how to react to the fact that he literally had his finger in your mouth. or really, not sure how to react to the fact that you actually sorta liked it.
he smirked, watching the confusion take over your face. pleasure mixed with disgust. it was hilarious, honestly. his fingertip settled on your tongue, voice a low drawl.
"cmon, baby. suck it. get it nice 'nd wet for me..." he hums, mouth hovering by your ear.
any earlier doubt you had fades instantly as you lick around the digit, the salty-sweet taste coaxing a soft, content whine out of you. you slowly start to suck at it, slow, needy pulls that slowly turn more and more greedy.
his eyes roll back in his head as he imagines you on your knees, sucking him down the same way. his tip twitches against your ass at the thought, and you swore you felt yourself grow a second heartbeat.
it's not long before Iwaizumi's had enough. he can't take this anymore; not being inside you.
he pulls his thumb out of your warm mouth abruptly, causing an erotic, wet pop that makes both of you moan. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look directly at him as he tries to focus enough to ask.
"t...tell me you want this too. fuck, y/n...need to hear it.." he begged commanded.
you nodded instantly, not even thinking about it. your pupils were blown wide, the darkness practically eating the color of your iris. but you didn't care. all you could think about was him. him, him, him, and more him.
"mhm...! n-need it, Iwa...need you. now." you whimper, brows creasing like a needy puppy.
that hopeless, desperate look is what finally breaks him.
he goes eerily quiet, only the sound of heavy, panting breaths echoing between you two as his hands dart to your hips. they grip hard, pulling you up until you're settled on your hands and knees.
your breath hitches, eyes widening. but you don't fight it. no, you let it happen. your fingers fist onto the soft massage bed, lip catching between your teeth as you fight to control yourself.
one of Iwaizumi's hands remains on your hip, the other tugging your pants down and your panties down together. you shift accordingly, helping him out.
he throws them somewhere carelessly and the second they're gone he's all over you. grabbing at your thighs, kneading your plush cheeks, even sliding his hands up under your shirt to squeeze at your tits over your bra. your eyes flutter for a moment, and the sound that leaves your mouth is a mix of a sigh and a moan. breathy and loud. too loud.
his hands stop at your waist and tighten a little. a silent warning. his voice follows,
"gotta be quiet, sweet thing...can't let them hear you being a little slut for me." he drawls calmly. way too calmly for someone who was saying such dirty things. and yet, you listened anyway.
you quieted down, nodding immediately. you didn't dare say a word, trying to keep your breath steady.
but it didn't last. not when his hand slid down your tummy and trailed down until his thumb found your clit, rubbing in tight, maddening circles. you couldn't help it. your mouth fell open, a soft squeak leaving you.
"n-nghh..." you purr, but quickly get cut off when his free hand clamps over your mouth to shut you up. your eyes go wide, sputtering behind his palm. but he ignores your weak protests, holding you there while his fingers trailed up and down your slit.
"told you to be quiet..." he huffs, scoffing in feigned annoyance. but from the way he was toying with you and grinding his hard-on against you without even really realizing said otherwise.
your cheeks flush sheepishly. you knew he told you not to make too much noise, but how? it was nearly impossible with his thick finger slipping inside and stretching you so perfectly. he doubled it with a second one, scissoring and curling them deep until your eyes were rolling back in your skull.
your hips stuttered, not sure if you wanted to squirm away or chase his touch. maybe both. but then he suddenly pulled his hand back, a nasty squelch sounding from your messy cunt as you clenched around nothing.
but not for long since he was already shifting, fussing with his sweatpants to push them down. the fabric pooled around his thighs as his flushed, leaky cock lolled out, giving a thick smack to his thigh.
your eyes widened at the sound, head snapping back to catch a glimpse. the sight made your mouth practically water; about seven inches, a happy trail, and a flushed tip that leaked pre at the slit.
Iwaizumi watched your reaction, a slow, almost smug smirk spreading on his face. he knew it was pretty. no doubt about it. you were just boosting his ego.
his hips gave a gentle push forward, sliding his length against your slick folds. then in one single thrust he pushed in, stuffing himself to the hilt.
your breath hitches, a choked gasp leaving you. his head falls back as he lets out a quiet groan. you squirm, pussy fluttering around him as you mutter into his palm. "f-fuck...! s' deep!" you whimper, the sound muffled into him. his teeth grit as he tried his hardest not to cum right then and there, eyes shutting for a moment as he steadied himself. "shhh, i know...fuck, i know..." he grunts out.
for a few moments he just stays there, buried in your warmth. his hands are steady on your waist, keeping both of you grounded. quiet, heavy breaths are exchanged. then slowly, only when he's sure he can without nutting instantly, he begins to move. just slow, gentle rocks at first.
but you whine, desperately pushing back onto him for more. he loses it completely, muffling a moan as he bites his lip. his grasp tighten as his hips begin snapping against yours repeatedly; quick, sharp ruts that made your legs shake.
slick dripped down your thighs, coating both his dick and the bed beneath you. your fingers dug into the cushion, trying your damn hardest to stay quiet. but he hit that spot over and over, making it practically impossible. tears prick at the corner of your eyes from how overwhelmed you are.
"good fuckin' girl...mm...take me so damn well." each word is punctuated with a thrust as he pulls out just to slam back in.
you're not sure when, but somewhere amidst the haze of being fucked like a toy you give up completely and just take it. moaning into his hand, drooling over his fingers, legs and hands trembling as they try to keep you upright.
the sight of you so fucked-out just does it for him. he speeds up, the bed creaking loudly beneath you. but he doesn't care. can't bring himself to. all he can do is hump against you like a bunny in heat while his dick twitches inside you.
the new pace has your moans sounding more like hiccups and whimpers, thrusting back to meet him again and again. and when his hand reached forward, flicking against your puffy, sensitive bud, you felt your vision go white.
you cum hard with a delayed moan, walls fluttering and squeezing at his girth as you gush around him. he can't help it. he cums too, unable to take the feeling of you so damn tight. his release spurts inside of you in hot, thick ropes.
all the while he never stops, prolonging it for both of you. but as he does your back arches hard, chasing him. and right there, in the heat of the moment, a loud crRRACK! rings out.
you freeze.
so does he.
but as you sit there, you realize slowly that the pain in your back is gone. disappeared completely like it was never there.
you're shaking, breathless, and left completely sensitive from how he was just pounding into you. you got so desperate for him you'd forgotten that your discomfort was the reason you came here to begin with. and yet, here you were; pain gone, and left with a sheen glow over your skin.
for a long moment you two just stared at each other, at a complete loss for words.
then? a tiny giggle. soft. breathy. confused.
he raises an eyebrow, but can't help it. your laughter is contagious, and he can't help but let out a quiet chuckle. gruff, but amused nonetheless. i guess you got what you wanted after all. he shook his head in disbelief. he was still buried deep, but he wasn't moving. just staying there. his hand had left your mouth to hold your waist instead, thumbs rubbing soothingly.
"fucking ridiculous." he mutters under his breath, sounding irritated. but the smile that inevitably tugs at his mouth tells the truth.
but the sweet moment doesn't last long, interrupted by a booming voice from the hallway.
"what the HELL is going on in there you fucking hornballs?!!"
His voice was a whisper, but his hands were steady. One pressed against the small of her back, the other smoothing back damp strands from her forehead. She was in the bathtub.
“It hurts,” she sobbed. “I can’t—Rafe, I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can,” he said, kissing her temple as her body seized again. “You’re already doing it. Just a little more. I swear to you, she’s almost here.”
They hadn’t planned this. Not the home birth. Not the bathtub filled with water and her giving birth in a way she didn’t even know was possible. Not Rafe—still in sweats and a white tee—delivering his own daughter in their dimly lit bathroom because she’d gone into labor too fast for the drive.
But somehow, when it mattered most, it was only him she wanted.
And God help him, it was the most terrified he’d ever been.
“Push for me, sweetheart,” he told her gently, gloved hands in place. “You’ve got one more in you, I know you do.”
Her fingers clawed at his shoulder as she sobbed into his neck, voice breaking in exhaustion. “I’m so scared.”
“I’m not.” He kissed her again, firmer this time. “Because it’s you. And you’re the strongest damn woman I know.”
With a final cry, she pushed—screamed—and Rafe caught his daughter in his hands.
The baby’s first wail split the quiet like light through clouds.
“Oh, my God,” Rafe choked, eyes wide, chest caving in. “Oh, my God.”
She was tiny. Red-faced and slippery, crying and perfect. He wrapped her in the soft cloth they’d warmed earlier and brought her to her mother’s chest, eyes glassy and lips trembling.
“You did it,” he whispered, brushing her tear-streaked cheek. “She’s here. She’s beautiful. You did it.”
She couldn’t speak. Just cradled her newborn against her chest and sobbed softly, overwhelmed.
Later—after they were cleaned up, the baby was asleep against her mother’s heartbeat, and the room smelled like lavender and sweat and something sacred—Rafe came back from the hallway with something in his hand.
A birth certificate form.
Temporary, handwritten. But real.
He cleared his throat, voice still soft. “You still want to name her what we talked about?”
Her lashes fluttered. “Paisley?”
He nodded. “Paisley Rose Cameron.”
A fresh tear rolled down her cheek. “Yeah. That’s her.”
He crouched beside the bed and gently filled out the line, his handwriting shaky. Then he showed it to her.
Name of child: Paisley Rose Cameron
Date of birth: July 15th, 4:26am
Delivered by: Dr. Rafe Cameron, MD
She smiled through her tears. “Doctor, husband, midwife… what can’t you do?”
Rafe pressed a kiss to her knee and looked at her like she hung the moon.
“I can’t stop falling in love with you,” he said. “That’s about the only thing.”
⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3
⤷ word count — 14.6k
⤷ based on this and this by my lovely anons
⤷ permanent taglist — open !
⤷ a/n — as promised, here it is, i fear this might be one of my best works yet… and definitely the longest. part 2? i’m already writing it as we speak. the last fight between heeseung and the reader was heavily inspired by moonstruck (iykyk), and i really poured so much into this one. enjoy reading, loves—i hope it hits all the right places in your heart 🤍
⤷ warnings — idol au, idol!heeseung, dancer!reader, slowburn, enemies to lovers trope-ish, emotionally awkward heeseung, emotionally constipated reader, cold!reader, loser!heeseung, whipped!heeseung, heeseung’s down bad, reader does not care that he’s famous, miscommunication (so much miscommunication), hurt/comfort undertones, fluff (eventually), heavy angst
✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as a rising dance prodigy, you're no stranger to idols—you’ve trained with them, performed behind them, and watched some fall from grace when the spotlight turned harsh. so when you’re cast as one of the dancers for enhypen’s newest comeback, you already know what to expect: long nights, hard work, and an idol or two trying to get in your pants. lee heeseung, you decide, is exactly that kind. smiles too easily. stares too long. he sees you once and falls all at once—messy, quiet, and stupidly soft. or, where you think he’s everything you should avoid, and he thinks you’re everything he’ll never deserve—but still wants anyway.
You were panting, chest heaving, sweat trailing down your temple as you leaned against the mirror—fingertips grazing the cold glass to keep your balance.
The song you’d been replaying for nearly an hour echoed faintly from the speaker still running in the corner of the room, but you’d long tuned it out. The only thing you could really hear now was your heartbeat and the silence that always came after giving everything.
It wasn’t even your scheduled session.
Not really.
With Le Sserafim on pause before their next comeback and your calendar suspiciously clear, you found yourself gravitating to HYBE’s third practice room on the fifth floor.
Same old lights. Same scuffed flooring. Same drawer in the corner where you kept your charger and your lip balm—your unofficial locker in a room that wasn’t really yours but somehow felt like home.
You pushed off the mirror with a sigh and padded across the studio, footsteps soft against the wooden floor as you reached the familiar drawer.
Your phone sat inside, screen lighting up with two messages from Yunjin and one chaotic selfie of Chaewon in the groupchat you never muted.
yunjin [8:00 P.M.]: tell me why i just heard you’re at the building practicing again, girl sleep
chaewon [8:00 P.M.]: we miss you bitch come downstairs after ur possessed dance session
You cracked a grin despite yourself.
Being under HYBE was never the dream—but dancing was. Always had been. And when Le Sserafim debuted and you got scouted as part of the core backup team, something clicked.
Not just because the girls welcomed you like you’d grown up with them—dinners after rehearsals, borrowed hoodies, inside jokes—but because for the first time, your work felt like it belonged to something bigger.
“Should’ve debuted,” people often said. “You’ve got the talent. The look. The stage presence.”
Maybe you did.
But the contracts? The rules? The never-ending line of expectations and media training and image polishing?
You loved the spotlight, not the cage it came with.
So you danced. You lived. You stayed free.
Grabbing your phone, you wiped the back of your hand across your brow, tying your hair back into a loose bun and tossing your water bottle from one hand to the other as you headed toward the center of the room again. Just one more run-through. You weren’t tired—you were wired.
You tapped the playlist again.
Until—the door clicks open.
You pause mid-step, halfway through a turn.
Your brows furrow, already annoyed. This room was empty for a reason—booked by staff, reserved for registered dancers. If someone forgot to check the schedule again, you were not in the mood.
But then the door swings fully open, and Lee Heeseung walks in.
Baseball cap, all black sweats, and a water bottle tucked under his arm like he owns the place.
You recognize him immediately, not because you follow ENHYPEN—god, no—but because you’ve seen him around enough. Stage rehearsals. Passing glances in the hallway. One of HYBE’s golden boys.
The second he steps inside and hears the track echoing through the speakers, he freezes.
Eyes wide. Shoulders stiff. Like someone just pressed pause on his whole system. His gaze slowly scans the room—until it lands on you.
And for a second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights.
You glare instinctively. “This room’s booked.”
“Oh,” he says, like he’s only now realizing you’re real and not part of some fever dream. His voice is soft, almost breathless—like you startled him more than you should’ve.
He doesn’t move.
You shift your weight onto one hip, fixing your posture as you cross your arms over your chest. His eyes follow every movement, slow and wide-eyed, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Your brow arches higher.
“…Are you lost?” you ask coolly, tone laced with dry amusement. “Or are you just staring for fun?”
Heeseung blinks again, visibly short-circuiting. “What? No—I mean—uh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was still using the room.”
You roll your eyes, unimpressed, turning your back to him as you stride toward the speaker setup. Your phone’s still tucked into the little drawer beside it. You tap the screen to shut the music off mid-chorus, and the room falls into a painfully loud silence.
From behind you, his voice comes again—hesitant, awkward. “You were… practicing, right?”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “No shit.”
He flinches slightly—not from offense, but from the sheer tone. Like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life. Like no one’s ever looked at him like that—like he was in the way.
His lips part, stunned. You watch his mouth open, close, open again like he’s buffering.
You sigh. “Do you need something?”
“I just—uh. I have practice. After this. With the group. Here.”
You stare at him flatly. “…Congrats.”
Your phone finally detangles from the charger and you tug it free, slinging your towel across the back of your neck as you gather your things without urgency. You don’t rush, but every move says this conversation is over.
Heeseung doesn’t move out of your way.
He just stands there, eyes tracing the motion of your hands as you zip your bag shut.
His gaze follows your every motion, like your movements are a routine he can’t quite catch the rhythm to. There’s something almost boyish in the way he stands—hands at his sides, weight shifting between his feet, unsure if he’s allowed to speak again.
You don’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
You feel his stare burning into your back, heavy and annoyingly curious, as if he’s trying to figure you out like a puzzle someone dared him to solve. But you’ve played this game before. With idols who smile too easily. With eyes that linger too long.
You toss your bag over your shoulder, grip your phone in one hand, and walk past him without a glance.
The scent of his cologne barely reaches you—a subtle, clean warmth—but you ignore it like you ignore everything else about him.
Heeseung turns slightly as you brush by, part of him wanting to say something—anything. Maybe an apology. Maybe a compliment.
But you’re already out the door.
And behind you, Lee Heeseung stands frozen in the center of the practice room, watching the space you left behind like he’s never been dismissed that fast in his life.
The steam from your ramen curled lazily into the air, untouched and slowly going cold as you sat hunched over the dining table, poking at the noodles with your chopsticks.
The soft chatter of your friends buzzed from your phone, propped up on a half-empty water bottle in the center of the table.
Yunjin was in her usual spot on her bed, animatedly talking with her hands as she ranted about the upcoming concept, while Chaewon nodded along beside her, munching on what looked like a rice cracker.
“…and if they make us do that choreography again, I swear to god I’m filing a complaint,” Yunjin groaned dramatically, falling backwards onto the mattress. “My knees weren’t made for this. I’m an idol, not a gymnast.”
“You’re just mad you have to wear those boots again,” Chaewon snickered.
Yunjin gasped, pointing at the screen. “Don’t expose me like that!”
You didn’t respond.
You barely even blinked—chin resting in one hand, the other absentmindedly swirling your chopsticks through the broth.
You weren't even listening, really. Your mind was still in that practice room, rewinding and replaying something you refused to admit got under your skin.
“…Hello?” Yunjin’s voice cut through your fog. “Earth to (Y/N)?”
Nothing.
“(Y/N),” she called again, louder this time, leaning closer to the camera. “Are you even with us right now?”
You blinked and finally looked up. “Huh? Oh—sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t—yeah.”
Chaewon tilted her head. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
You shook your head quickly, lips pressing into a thin line. “No, it’s nothing. Just… tired, I guess.”
Yunjin raised a perfectly sculpted brow, not buying it for a second. “That didn’t sound convincing at all. Spill.”
You sighed and dropped your chopsticks, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not even a big deal.”
“That’s what people say right before they drop the good shit,” Yunjin said, crossing her arms.
Chaewon chimed in, “Come on. You’re never like this.”
You hesitated, then finally muttered under your breath, “…I just—bumped into someone earlier.”
Yunjin perked up. “Who?”
You sighed, scrunching your nose as if the memory physically pained you. “That deer-looking member from ENHYPEN.”
Chaewon immediately burst out laughing, nearly dropping her snack. “You mean Heeseung-sunbaenim?”
Yunjin’s eyes lit up like a fire had been lit under her. “Wait—Lee Heeseung? That Heeseung??”
You groaned, dragging your palm down your face. “I didn’t even do anything. He just… walked in. Stared at me. Looked like he forgot how doors work. And then tried to talk like he wasn’t mentally glitching the whole time.”
Chaewon snorted. “That’s so specific.”
“I thought he was gonna pass out when I asked if he was lost,” you muttered, slumping forward dramatically. “Why do idols act like no one’s ever spoken to them like a normal person?”
Yunjin snorted. “Because they’re so used to everybody praising them and giving fake smiles. One real sentence and they malfunction.”
You laughed, dry and amused. “Amen to that.”
Chaewon, who’d gone quiet for a moment, suddenly spoke up. “Well… I mean, Heeseung-sunbaenim’s pretty notorious around here.”
You blinked. “What do you mean by ‘notorious’?”
Yunjin clicked her tongue and shot Chaewon a look. “Unnie.”
Chaewon just shrugged with a guilty smile, like she realized a little too late that she opened a door you were definitely going to walk through.
You narrowed your eyes. “What did she mean by that?”
Chaewon held her hands up innocently. “Nothing! I mean—I just meant… well, it’s really not my story to tell.”
You stared at her flatly. “You already started the story, might as well finish it.”
She sighed dramatically and leaned in closer to the camera, as if anyone was around to overhear. “Okay, fine. But lower your expectations—it’s just… you know how it is in the building. People talk.”
You nodded once, wordlessly. She took that as her cue.
“Well,” she began slowly, her voice dropping a little, “he’s kind of… known to be a—I don’t know—player, I guess?”
Yunjin shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt this time.
“There was this whole thing a while back,” Chaewon continued, eyes flicking down like she didn’t want to make it a big deal. “Rumors said he used to date one of the backup dancers from a different group. And, um… it didn’t end well.”
Your expression didn’t change, but your fingers stilled against your water bottle.
“Didn’t end well?” you echoed.
Chaewon bit her lip. “Word is he ghosted her after a few weeks. Left her totally heartbroken. Like—treated her like she never existed.”
You raised a brow. You weren’t one to believe in gossip, but… these weren’t just random trainees or building buzz.
These were your girls. They never lied to you. Never exaggerated unless it was for comedic effect. And they weren’t even speaking with drama in their voices—just quiet caution.
Yunjin finally sighed and folded her arms. “Look, we’re not saying he’s evil or anything. But just… be careful, okay?”
“Careful?” you scoffed. “Yunjin, I threatened his life with a single look. I think I’m good.”
“Still,” she said, chin propped on her hand. “Guys like that? They love a challenge.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You hated that they might be right. Hated more that part of you had noticed the way he looked at you—like you were choreography he couldn’t quite learn but desperately wanted to.
Chaewon tilted her head. “So… are you gonna see him again?”
You blinked. “God, I hope not.”
You reached for your water again, swirling the bottle absentmindedly. “I mean—I just bumped into him. Literally. Once. So yeah, I hope not. Let’s leave it at that.”
Yunjin leaned in closer on camera, resting her chin in her palm. “Well… you’re contracted to us. Technically. So unless Heeseung-sunbaenim suddenly joins Le Sserafim, I think you’ll be safe.”
You snorted. “Right? If he pops up in our choreography, I’m quitting.”
“Bold of you to assume he wouldn’t volunteer for that,” Chaewon said under her breath.
You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “Okay, can we not do this? He was barely in the room for five minutes and he was already glitching like I punched him with my eyes.”
Yunjin gave you a look. “You kind of did.”
You rolled your eyes, slumping back in your chair. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m ever gonna see him again. I’ve got enough going on.”
Yunjin tilted her head knowingly. “You’re only this defensive when something’s getting to you.”
“Getting to me?” you scoffed. “I’ve dealt with idols before. He’s not special.”
“Mm-hm,” Chaewon hummed, clearly not believing you.
“I’m serious,” you insisted. “He’s not even my type.”
You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up in this situation.
One minute you were running choreography drills for Chaewon’s solo part, and the next, you were seated stiffly in a cold conference room across the HYBE annex building, sipping on watered-down coffee like your future wasn’t being casually decided in front of you.
You sat silently as two managers—one from Le Sserafim’s team and one from ENHYPEN’s—talked over each other across the glossy table, voices overlapping in between manila folders and open schedules.
“We’re short one female dancer,” ENHYPEN’s manager said, flipping through pages.
“It’s a center piece too. A lot of exposure. We need someone who can hold their own without relying on the main members to carry the dynamic.”
“She’s perfect for it,” your manager added without hesitation. “She already has chemistry with the camera, she’s sharp, precise—and she’s worked alongside the girls long enough to adapt fast. She’s ready.”
They kept talking like you weren’t even there.
Your elbow was propped up against the table, chin resting on your hand as you tuned them out somewhere between “urgent casting call” and “we’ll handle the paperwork.”
All you could think about was this:
You were about to work with hormonal male idols. For a solid month.
And one of them just so happened to be the infamous deer-eyed flirt you had the misfortune of meeting barely 24 hours ago.
You’d heard the rumors. You weren’t new to this industry. You just never thought you’d be getting paid to be around them.
But god, the paycheck.
ENHYPEN wasn’t just big—they were everywhere. If you signed on, it would double your rate. Triple it, even. And it’d look good on your record. So good.
You sighed, finally tuning back in to the sound of your own name.
Both managers had turned to look at you, expectantly.
You blinked, eyes flitting between the two of them. Their faces were hopeful. It wasn’t like you had a million options.
You mumbled, “Yeah… I’ll do it.”
Cheers erupted immediately. The ENHYPEN manager clapped his hands together, standing to shake yours. “Knew you’d say yes. Great call—seriously. You’re saving us.”
You gave him a tight, polite smile, shaking both their hands with the enthusiasm of someone who just signed a deal with the devil. You adjusted your blouse, brushing invisible wrinkles from your skirt as your manager smiled at you.
“You can go now,” she said warmly. “We’ll finalize the transfer.”
You bowed slightly. “Thanks.”
As the door clicked open, your shoes echoed lightly against the tiled hallway floor—and you stopped short.
There they were.
Seven heads turned the moment you stepped out. ENHYPEN, all seated against the wall outside the conference room like they’d been waiting for their turn—or your decision.
You didn’t even let your gaze linger long enough to tell. You simply dipped your head in a short bow and kept walking, barely glancing their way.
But you felt it.
The same eyes from last night locked on your back again like a magnet—quiet, unblinking, and far too curious for your comfort. You pretended not to notice, walking right past like he was part of the wallpaper.
As soon as the door swung closed behind you, the hallway fell into silence.
Jake leaned over, nudging Heeseung with an elbow.
“Hey,” he said casually. “What was that?”
Heeseung blinked like he was just coming out of a daze. “Huh? Sorry—yeah. What?”
Jake raised a brow. “You good?”
Heeseung cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Jake didn’t believe it for a second, but he let it slide, leaning back against the wall with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right. Tired.”
Heeseung only smiled in return—soft, distracted—and fiddled with the rings on his fingers as if his thoughts were too loud to sit still.
His thumb brushed over the silver band on his index like it could help him, but it didn’t help much. Not when his mind was still stuck on you.
The manager’s voice called out, sharp and professional, “ENHYPEN, let’s go. We’re starting the prep meeting.”
Heeseung stood, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans before quietly following the others into the room—head down, heart louder than it should be.
You, on the other hand, were on the verge of a very quiet breakdown.
Your steps echoed through the hallway of the HYBE building as you made your way toward Le Sserafim’s practice room. You pushed the door open a little too fast, and the moment it swung wide, five sets of eyes snapped toward you like you’d triggered some kind of alarm.
“Whoa,” Yunjin blinked. “You good?”
You ran a hand through your hair and didn’t answer. Instead, you walked straight past the mirror and started pacing near the center of the room, your brows furrowed in thought.
Kazuha stood up first, moving toward you with a gentle hand reaching for your arm. “Unnie… are you okay?”
You blinked down at her, lips parted, and then forced a tired smile as you licked your lips and sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—I have another schedule right after this stage, so…”
The girls exchanged glances, the air shifting with curiosity.
“What do you mean?” Eunchae asked, already scooting closer beside you on the floor like she was preparing for a full story.
Kazuha guided you to sit in the middle with them, and you gave in, sinking onto the practice mat as you exhaled again, hands resting on your thighs.
“I was offered something,” you said slowly.
Chaewon’s eyes narrowed slightly, protective by nature. “Offered what?”
You looked at her, then glanced down. “I was hired… for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback.”
A chorus of squeals and gasps broke out instantly.
“Unnie, what?!”
“No way—”
“That’s huge!”
“You’re gonna be in the center??”
Sakura clapped her hands together. “Isn’t that a great thing? That’s such a big opportunity!”
You gave her a pout. “Unnie, won’t you miss me?”
She laughed, crawling over to drape her arm across your shoulder. “Of course I will! But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud.”
“You’re gonna kill it,” Yunjin said, pointing at you with certainty.
“I mean, we’re still in the same building,” Eunchae added with a small giggle. “It’s not like you’re moving countries.”
You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically as you let your hands fall into your lap. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be working with Heeseung.”
Sakura blinked. “Is that… such a bad thing?”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.
You just slowly turned your head and sent a pointed look toward Chaewon, one brow raised like a silent accusation.
Chaewon raised both hands in mild defense. “Okay, well—she bumped into him last night! Practically had him shaking in his boots. What was I supposed to do, not say anything?”
Yunjin leaned back on her palms, letting out a low sigh. “To be fair, it’s just a rumor. About Heeseung-sunbaenim, I mean. No one really knows what happened with that backup dancer. It could’ve been blown out of proportion.”
Sakura sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was the only adult in a room full of unhinged daughters. “Still… Heeseung-sunbaenim? That’s not exactly the kind of name I like hearing next to yours.”
You exhaled loudly, falling back onto the wooden floor with a light thud. “What am I even gonna do?”
“You’ll survive,” Chaewon said, grinning down at you as she leaned forward on her knees. “You hate male idols. So I’m guessing you’re safe.”
You gave her a flat look from where you were sprawled out. “I do.”
Yunjin shrugged. “She really does.”
“I mean,” you went on, dragging your hand over your face lazily, “they’re loud. They reek of fabric softener and expensive cologne. And most of them only train hard when a camera’s on.”
“Damn,” Eunchae muttered with a small laugh.
“And they all flirt like it’s their job,” you added for good measure, removing your hand off your face and staring at the ceiling. “Which, I guess… it kind of is.”
Chaewon raised a hand in mock prayer. “May the gods protect Heeseung-sunbaenim.”
You sat up slowly, shoulders sagging. “I mean, it won’t be that bad. Right?”
Kazuha patted your back gently. “That’s the spirit.”
“Exactly,” you nodded. “I’ve worked with guys before. I can be civil. Just gotta stay professional.”
But beneath all the teasing, all the nervous tension, and the semi-unfounded panic, you were trying your best not to wonder what working beside him would really be like.
Because no matter how much you insisted otherwise—the look in his eyes—the way he’d stared at you like you were some kind of glitch in his system.
You remembered it a little too well.
You sat cross-legged on the polished floor of the massive HYBE practice room, surrounded by six other girls—all dancers like you, all chatting quietly as they stretched, refilled water bottles, or scrolled through their phones between warmups. Despite only meeting earlier this week, you already liked them.
Maybe it was the familiarity in movement. Maybe it was the shared exhaustion.
Or maybe it was the way everyone kind of understood how tiring it was being in the shadows of the spotlight without actually resenting it.
You leaned back on your palms, listening to one of the girls, complain about her past contract. “I used to be assigned to TXT for their last few comebacks,” she sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.
“But with ENHYPEN blowing up like this? I couldn’t even breathe during rehearsals.”
Another dancer, laughed. “Girl, be serious—it’s not even TXT’s fault. You just like sleeping.”
The group chuckled and you smiled, nodding along. “No, I get what she means though. These kinds of projects get intense. One delay and everything collapses.”
“Exactly,” One of them said, holding up a triumphant finger. “See? She gets it.”
Even one of the choreographers nearby, who was mid-conversation with another coach across the mirrors, looked over and grinned. “She couldn’t survive another world tour. This is her redemption arc.”
That earned more laughs from the dancers, and the room softened with warmth again.
Then a new voice piped up from your right. “So, (Y/N), who did you used to work with?”
You glanced over. Another dancer, tilted her head curiously. “Like… which group?”
You shrugged, casually stretching your arms. “Ah—I was with Le Sserafim.”
Immediately, someone gasped. “Wait, really? Is it true they’re super kind? Like, off-cam too?”
You smiled automatically, fondness slipping into your voice before you could filter it. “Yeah. They’re honestly the sweetest. Super hardworking. It was… fun working with them. Like, really fun.”
“Aww,” someone said, and another sighed dreamily. “See, I knew they were angels.”
You laughed under your breath, tucking your hair behind your ear—just in time for the door to swing open with a solid click.
The entire room paused.
And in walked the seven boys you were assigned to work with for the next four weeks.
The same boys you’d passed in the hallway. The same ones from all the stages, the headlines, the insane fan energy. And the same group that just so happened to include him.
You stood automatically with the others, muscles tight from both habit and something else.
“Good morning!” their manager called behind them.
“Good morning!” the dancers and choreographers chorused back, all polite smiles and tiny bows.
The boys followed suit, each dipping into a respectful bow before scattering around the mirrored room—bags being dropped, jackets shrugged off, water bottles set down with practiced ease. You bowed too, forcing your body to stay neutral.
Your eyes found him immediately.
Lee Heeseung.
He moved like he belonged in the center of the room. Not because he demanded attention—but because his presence pulled it. Effortless, fluid, camera-ready even in joggers and a hoodie.
His hair was silver now.
Freshly dyed. Still glinting slightly under the overhead lights, strands catching the soft fluorescent white like moonlight turned solid.
He was scanning the room—just like you were—and the moment your gazes met, it was instant.
Sharp. Heavy. Lingering just one second too long.
You blinked.
So did he.
Then he quickly looked down, fumbling with the strap of his bag like it suddenly became a Rubik’s cube. You rolled your eyes to yourself and turned away, muttering under your breath as you took a step back toward the center.
“Well. This is gonna be great.”
You muttered it mostly to yourself as you adjusted the hem of your loose tee, tucking it into your joggers while quietly making your way to stand beside the other dancers near the wall.
The mirrors across the room stretched from end to end, reflecting the hum of quiet excitement as both groups began gathering in clusters.
And even from across the room, Heeseung’s ears burned. Because even if you weren’t looking anymore—he still was.
You stuck beside one of the girls you’d spoken with earlier, both of you choosing to hover just slightly farther from the others—close enough to listen, far enough to not be the center of attention.
Not yet, at least.
“Alright, let’s get started,” Jungwon’s voice rang out gently over the low murmurs, ever the natural leader. “Hyung, they’re all here.”
One of the choreographers clapped his hands together in the center of the mirrored room, stepping forward with a wide smile. “Perfect. Good morning, everyone!”
A chorus of polite greetings echoed back.
“We’re all here today to begin blocking for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback performance,” he continued. “Congratulations to the group, by the way—this one’s big.”
Everyone clapped.
The dancers. The choreographers. Even a few stylists and managers along the back wall clapped and grinned, nodding toward the boys with pride.
You clapped too. Briefly. Quietly. No emotion behind it—but polite enough.
“Let’s start with greetings,” the second choreographer said, motioning toward the group. “Boys first. Formalities matter, okay?”
With that, Jungwon took half a step forward, his signature dimple flashing as he smiled like it was second nature. “Okay, okay. One, two—connect!”
The rest of the group snapped in sync: “We are ENHYPEN!”
It earned a few amused reactions from the dancers around you—some cooing at the professionalism, others just watching with quiet admiration. They really were idols through and through.
“I’m Jungwon,” he said warmly. “I’ll do my best to keep up.”
“Jay,” came the next, a sharp bow and his eyes flickering briefly toward you and the other girls. “Thank you for working with us.”
“Jake,” the third one chimed in with a sunny smile, gaze drifting playfully to the back of the room. “Nice to meet everyone.”
“Sunghoon,” said the next, voice cool, expression unreadable.
Then came: “Sunoo! I’m looking forward to dancing with you all.” followed by his signature grin.
“Ni-ki,” the youngest nodded, already swaying slightly like he couldn’t stand still. “Please take care of me.”
“…Heeseung.”
You didn’t realize you’d turned slightly until your eyes locked on him—and once again, he was already looking.
Hard.
You could see the tightness in his jaw, the awkward twitch of his fingers as he bowed slightly, his voice just a pitch softer than the rest. “Nice to meet you.”
Heeseung’s eyes trailed after you long after the boys stepped back into line.
His ears were burning.
He couldn’t even pretend to look somewhere else. Not when you were standing like that—posture sharp, head high, exuding confidence like it was woven into your skin.
The way you carried yourself—like you already owned the room. And maybe, maybe that was what made him feel like he forgot how to stand.
“Your turn, girls,” one of the choreographers said, gesturing toward your side.
The girls began one by one. Bowing politely, offering soft greetings.
“Hi, I’m excited to be here.”
“Looking forward to working with everyone.”
“Hope we’ll all get along well.”
You stepped forward, just enough. Bowed once—sharp, respectful, effortless. When you lifted your head, your voice was even, steady.
“I’m (Y/N),” you said. “Please take care of me.”
Simple.
Straight to the point.
And Heeseung was gone.
He stared—eyes wide, lips parted ever so slightly. Your name hit him like it echoed, like it attached itself to his spine and rewrote his posture.
“(Y/N),” he mouthed, almost unconsciously.
His fingers moved without thought—tugging at the top of his ear where the skin felt like it was on fire. He rubbed the shell of it, trying to focus, to breathe, to not look like a complete idiot.
But it didn’t help.
Jay, standing next to him, leaned in just enough to whisper without breaking formation. “Dude.”
Heeseung blinked. “Huh?”
“You’re staring like you’ve never seen a girl before.”
“I’m not—”
Jay snickered, looking ahead again. “Your ears are literally red.”
Heeseung didn’t respond. Just kept fiddling with his earring, swallowing once. Twice.
Then, like even that felt too revealing, he let his hand drop to his side and instead started tugging at the sleeves of his oversized sweater. The cotton bunched in his fingers as he pulled them low—hiding his hands, letting the ends fall just enough to brush against his palms.
His gaze never found you again. Not directly.
He kept his eyes somewhere safe—like the mirrors. Or the floor. Or the vague corner of the room that wasn’t currently occupied by the girl who now had a name. A name that rolled around his head on loop like a song he couldn’t shake off.
You raised a brow at his odd behavior.
Heeseung wasn’t exactly subtle. It was like watching a deer try to pretend it wasn’t cornered.
Before you could dwell on it, one of the choreographers clapped their hands sharply, recentering everyone’s attention.
“Alright! Let’s jump in,” she said, spinning back toward the room’s center. “We’ll be starting with the title track first—‘Bite Me.’”
There were a few audible reactions to that.
Jake nodded, lips quirking.
Sunghoon crossed his arms, unreadable.
“Oh no,” he whined, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s another dark concept. I was made for cuteness!”
One of the other choreographers laughed. “You’ll survive, Sunoo.”
“Barely,” he muttered.
“We’re leaning heavy into the vampire theme,” the choreographer continued, pacing slowly as she spoke.
“Dark, dramatic, a little seductive. Think… elegant, but dangerous. Intense, but controlled. It’s a visual-heavy piece, so expression work is just as important as the movements.”
Another coach jumped in, voice sharper, more technical. “Blocking and formations will start today, but we’ll ease in. Dancers—you’ll be working close. Touching will be part of this. We’re not going cutesy here.”
You blinked, processing.
“Did she say seductive?” one of the girls whispered beside you, stifling a laugh.
You sighed, arms crossing as you tried not to react, eyes flicking briefly toward the group across the room.
Heeseung was still fiddling with his sleeves. Still avoiding your gaze. Still pretending to be very, very invested in the floor.
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
“This comeback’s all about energy,” the choreographer said firmly. “That tension between danger and desire. We want chemistry. We want heat. If it doesn’t feel electric, it’s not working.”
Fantastic, you thought dryly.
Someone from the staff behind you quietly passed out water bottles and printed choreo maps.
“Partners will be finalized in a few minutes,” the head coach added. “But today, we’re just learning formations. Take mental notes of who moves where—chemistry’s part of the selection process.”
You nearly flinched.
Because just the word partners sent something uneasy crawling up your spine.
You didn’t know if it was nerves or dread.
You exhaled slowly, reaching up to move your hair from your shoulders, pulling it back into a loose ponytail as if the movement would also push away the anxiety building in your chest.
“Alright,” Jungwon clapped his hands once, the sound clean and polite. “Let’s find space so we can stretch first. Coach said to keep it light for now.”
Around you, everyone shuffled into place.
The music started low, steady from the mounted speakers—an instrumental beat pulsing soft but cold, fitting the vampire concept too well.
You padded toward a space near one of the other dancers, taking your mark as your arms loosened at your sides. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement.
Jay and Heeseung stepped into the spot diagonally across from you.
A few feet away.
Just far enough to notice.
Silver hair. Pale under the lights. A tall frame you could not ignore if you tried—and you really, really tried.
Heeseung moved precisely, even when doing something as simple as a forward fold. Every stretch, every posture, even the subtle turn of his wrist as he reached upward, had the kind of practiced grace that only came from years of muscle memory.
And fine, maybe the way the hem of his sweater rose a little to reveal the curve of his waist was—not an eyesore.
He bent forward, long legs folding in near-perfect symmetry, and you hummed to yourself in thought as you copied the motion, fingertips brushing your sneakers as you leaned into the stretch.
You closed your eyes briefly.
He’s not ugly, your brain offered helpfully.
But it wasn’t about looks. Never was.
You didn’t trust the type. Not the idol charm. Not the carefully curated appeal. Not the ones who knew they were beautiful and acted like it was a favor to the world.
Still, you found yourself peeking again, through the fall of your lashes, just in time to see Heeseung adjust his sleeves and glance up—and this time, his eyes nearly caught yours.
You turned away before they could.
You reached upward on cue as Jungwon led the next stretch, voice light and encouraging from the center.
“Arms up,” he said, demonstrating. “Inhale, and—fold. Let’s warm up your legs and lower back.”
You followed the rhythm, letting your body fall back into instinct.
Jungwon’s voice carried steady through the room as he guided the group through the last stretch. “And exhale slowly—come back up.”
Everyone rose from their positions in a wave of motion, quiet exhalations filling the space like a shared breath.
The choreographers moved to the front again, clapping once to gather attention.
“Alright, now that everyone’s loosened up,” one began, “let’s talk a bit more about the concept before we get into teaching.”
You rolled your shoulders back, settling into a comfortable stance, arms crossed loosely as you listened—nodding every so often, even if most of it passed over your head like background noise.
“‘Bite Me,’” the head coach repeated. “We mentioned earlier—vampire concept, but we’re going deeper. Think power. Think seduction. There’s a desperation to the choreography, like you’re drawn to each other, pulled in and pushed away again.”
You blinked slowly.
“Now, before we assign partners,” another choreographer chimed in, “we’re going to teach the first part of the chorus. Just to see how the movement flows. Chemistry matters—and it’s easier to feel that when we see you do it alone a few times first.”
Alone.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Everyone, shift to formation, please,” the head choreographer instructed. “We’ll teach the base steps first, no pressure, no full-out yet.”
You moved into place with the other dancers, falling naturally into a slot near the right. The ENHYPEN boys were mirrored on the other side of the room—learning the same steps, taught by a different coach with half the mirrors angled toward them.
The music started again.
Slower this time. Stripped. Just beat and breath.
And then the first movements were demonstrated—an arch of the back, a turn on the heel, a downward drag of your hand down your neck and chest. A flick of the wrist. A step forward with intent.
You weren’t a stranger to dancing in close contact—but this was different. Every move screamed tension.
Everything about it screamed closeness, heat, the kind of near-touch that burned more than actual skin-on-skin.
Still—you adapted fast.
Even without a partner, your movements flowed smoothly. The twist of your body, the precise lines of your arms, the slight drop of your head when instructed to lean back with your neck exposed—
“Nice, (Y/N),” one of the choreographers called out, eyes sharp as she passed you. “Try leaning your head back just a bit more. Let it feel surrendered.”
You nodded quickly, making the adjustment as you repeated the movement again from the top. Fingers ghosting your collarbone, chin tilted higher this time, lips slightly parted with the breath it took to move like that.
You caught your own reflection in the mirror.
And for a moment, even you did a double take.
You hummed under your breath and went back to hitting the formation, silently wondering how the hell you were going to do this with actual physical contact involved.
And across the room, Lee Heeseung was spiraling.
He couldn’t look away.
Not really.
He tried—god, he really tried—but you were in his peripheral vision like gravity, like something pulling him in every time you moved with that sharp, fluid control.
There was no faltering in your rhythm. Every drag of your hand, every arch, every twist of your body—it was like your bones knew the beat before the music even dropped.
And it was doing things to him.
His jaw clenched. So did his hands, tightening into loose fists at his sides as the choreographer called out the next set of steps.
Heeseung had a half-mind to listen. The other half was firmly rooted in the sight of you dragging your palm over your throat with your eyes closed.
Jake, next to him, didn’t even look up as he sighed. “Stop acting like it’s the first time you’ve seen a girl besides your mom,” he muttered under his breath.
Heeseung whipped his head toward him with a scowl, voice low. “Shut up.”
Jake raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re being so obvious right now.”
Heeseung glared for another beat before turning back toward the mirror. He adjusted his footing, shook out his arms, and tried to fall into formation again—but it was impossible.
Because now the music was picking up, and the choreographer’s voice cut across the room sharply—
“Focus! Don’t just mark it—move like it means something.”
He bent his knees slightly, timed the flick of his hand to the beat. But then came the next count—hips sliding forward, one arm curling behind the neck as if gripping something—or someone.
And his eyes flicked to the other side of the room.
To the way your neck tilted back like surrender. The way your lips parted ever so slightly with the breath it took to dip into the move. The sheer ease of it.
He blinked.
His thoughts were so loud he nearly missed the cue to step again. He silently begged the universe to make it stop.
Or not.
He didn’t know what he wanted anymore—does he want to be paired with you or not?
Because, on one hand, if he was—he’d combust. On the spot. Sweaty palms. Shaky voice. Couldn’t make eye contact for days.
On the other hand—if he wasn’t, he might die anyway.
The thought made him exhale sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his face as the song faded out and the choreographer’s voice came in again, too chipper for the tension in his bones.
“Alright,” they said. “I think we’re ready to try that with partners now.”
A collective groan passed through the room.
Everyone drifted from their positions, regrouping in the center of the studio. The casual chatter returned—water bottles uncapped, someone fixing a hair tie, another adjusting the waistband of their sweatpants.
“Actually,” the assistant choreographer interrupted, stepping forward, “line up by height first. Let’s just get a visual.”
Sunoo blinked. “Are we back in high school?”
You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as a few dancers giggled around you.
But when you realized where you were standing once the line shifted into place—right at the front—you frowned almost instantly.
You exhaled slowly, arms folded over your chest as the choreographers paced the length of the line, murmuring notes between each other.
Occasionally, one would glance up, pointing briefly at a pair as if mentally bookmarking the duo. Once they reached the end of the line, the head coach nodded.
“Alright, back to the side please. We’ll start pairing off.”
Everyone shuffled away again, some more eager than others, some already whispering guesses. You stayed quiet.
“Let’s get this over with,” the choreographer continued, scanning the clipboard in their hand. “The sooner we find working chemistry, the better. We’ll try each pairing for a few counts, take notes, and go from there.”
You leaned against the wall, towel over your shoulder, fingers nervously tracing the hem.
“Heeseung.”
Your head turned.
He stepped out from the crowd smoothly, all quiet confidence and long strides. His silver hair glinted faintly under the studio lights, and despite the way his sweater clung to his back with sweat, he moved with ease.
He stood in the center of the room like he was born there, and maybe he was.
The choreographer tilted their chin. “Let’s see the male part from the top. Just walk us through it alone.”
Heeseung nodded, rolling his shoulders out as the music cued.
He moved like water—sharp but fluid, clean but emotional. Every movement was deliberate, every beat executed with the kind of skill that only came from years of muscle memory. You couldn’t deny it.
He was good. Really good.
The choreographers scribbled something down as he finished the last beat, chest rising and falling lightly.
You hummed under your breath.
“(Y/N).”
Your eyes flicked up. You pushed off the wall without a word, making your way toward the center as Heeseung stepped aside instinctively, giving you enough room to take your mark.
You dropped your towel, exhaled, and rolled your wrists once.
Your steps hit beat-for-beat with the track. Smooth twists, steady isolations, a sharp flick of the wrist here, a dragged palm across your jaw there—every motion etched in muscle and instinct. When you tilted your head back for that final count, eyes fluttering shut, it felt like electricity humming down your spine.
Even Heeseung blinked.
The choreographers paused. Whispered again. “Heeseung. Step in.”
He did. Hesitantly. Carefully. At least three feet away from you.
Laughter erupted from the other side of the room.
Jungwon scoffed playfully. “Hyung, what is that? A long-distance relationship?”
Heeseung scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, the tips of his ears already red. “Just… giving space.”
“You won’t be giving space when you’re doing the actual choreo,” one of the choreographers said dryly. “Move closer.”
Heeseung inched forward—half a step. Barely noticeable.
“Closer.”
Another half-step.
Heeseung’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “…Right.”
You nodded once, sharp and simple, then turned your attention to the choreographers. You needed to keep it together—focus. You’d done harder routines than this. You’d worked with idols before.
But none of them had stood next to you like this.
None of them had made your skin crawl in a way that felt more like heat than discomfort.
You barely registered Heeseung fidgeting again, fingers tugging at the ends of his sleeves like they might hide the way his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. You didn’t even look at him.
The choreographers, clipboard in hand, were murmuring something. Their voices low, but not low enough.
“She’s a full foot shorter, but I think it looks great on camera.”
“Yeah, there’s contrast—but not awkward. They match. Perfectly.”
“I think this could work.”
You said nothing and let it slide.
Because if you were going to do this—you had to act like Lee Heeseung’s existence didn’t crawl up your spine like static. That his height didn’t make you feel cornered. That the word match didn’t make your stomach twist uncomfortably.
You straightened your posture.
Heeseung cleared his throat softly beside you.
The choreographer clapped once, “Alright. Let’s walk through it slowly first—no music yet. Get into your first position.”
You both nodded. You stepped back into formation, facing each other with about a foot of space between. Heeseung took one breath in—then another. You didn’t dare look at him.
“On my count.”
One. Two. Three.
You started slow, like instructed—bodies circling, moving around each other.
The first few steps had you moving away from him, then pulling close again. As the count hit, you slid your hand up—just under his chin, fingers hovering at the edge of his jaw. Your eyes flicked up briefly, catching the slightest flicker of hesitation in his.
Heeseung inhaled—shallow and sharp.
Still, he leaned in, just like he was supposed to. The distance between your faces cut down to mere inches. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of cologne and fabric softener and nerves.
You dropped down—one knee softly touching the floor.
Your hands moved slowly up from his hip to the hem of his shirt, grazing the fabric there, before trailing higher, across his abdomen, tracing a path to his chest.
His jaw clenched, but his arms remained at his sides like he was afraid to move too early.
You heard the choreographer’s voice again, distant but present.
“Nice. That’s good. Keep going.”
Heeseung finally reacted—just in time for the next cue.
He moved his hands to your waist, gentle but firm, fingers curling against your sides as you rose slightly from the kneel.
The contact startled you more than it should’ve, even though it was expected. You glanced up instinctively—only to find him already looking at you.
His gaze dropped immediately, like he got caught.
You cleared your throat and placed both hands on his shoulders, grounding yourself, letting the last beat echo in silence between your bodies.
You could hear everything—the beat of your own pulse, the slight shift in his breath. His fingers still rested on your waist, not too tight, not too loose. Just there.
Holding you like he was still figuring out if you were real.
The choreographers finally broke the silence.
“Alright, not bad. Let’s do that one more time. Try to make the connection feel more intentional.”
Heeseung beat you to a response.
“S-sorry,” he muttered quickly, bowing slightly. “That was on me.”
The second choreographer chuckled under her breath. “You’re being too careful, Heeseung. This is a dance, not a bomb you’re diffusing.”
Heeseung gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Got it.”
His ears were already red.
You just raised a brow at the way he looked everywhere but at you.
“Places,” the coach clapped once.
You rolled your shoulders, exhaled through your nose, and stepped into formation again. Heeseung followed, a breath deeper this time.
The beat kicked in, and this time—he was different.
Gone was the awkward fumbling. Gone was the frozen posture and hesitant touch. He moved with rhythm. With ease. With intent.
Every shift of his body matched yours, every brush of his fingertips felt steadier. More confident. The moment your hand ghosted up his chest again, his jaw clenched—but not from hesitation.
He arched into it this time. Deliberately.
When you circled him, he matched the pace with a slight smirk playing on his lips, eyes sharp. There was no sign of the awkward boy from five minutes ago.
Only the performer. The idol. The center.
Your hands slid across his shoulders. His gripped your waist—not tentative, not light—just firm enough to make your breath hitch for half a second.
You weren’t expecting that. You were not expecting him to suddenly be good at this.
The last beat hit. Your chest close to his. Breaths heavy. The song faded out.
And just like that, Heeseung stepped back. Not far. Just enough.
Enough to breathe again. Enough to stop looking at you like he forgot how to speak.
The choreographers clapped slowly.
“That,” one of them said, beaming. “That was it. Excellent. You two have great chemistry. This might be a breeze.”
You nodded politely, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Thank you.”
Heeseung did the same, his voice calmer this time. “Thank you.”
But when you turned to walk back to the side of the room—Heeseung followed.
Not close enough to be weird, but close enough for you to hear him exhale softly when he caught up. Close enough for your skin to still remember the imprint of his hands on your waist.
You sat down without looking at him.
Lee Heeseung was everything you didn’t like about male idols: too pretty, too confident, too adored. You’d heard the whispers, the quiet little stories shared in half-jokes around company dinner tables.
The dancer he used to date.
The heartbreak. The ghosting. The way she supposedly cried in the hallway of the studio one night before switching agencies altogether.
You shook your head. You had no business even thinking about the way his grip had felt—firm, steady. Like he’d done it a thousand times but had only now started to mean it.
You didn’t care how steady his hands were. Or how he watched you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your silhouette.
You didn’t care.
Except he was still looking.
You could feel it—his gaze hot on the side of your face. Not cocky, not smug. Just curious. Like he didn’t understand what just happened either.
From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Sunoo plopped down next to Heeseung with all the grace of a cat, glancing between him and you like it was nothing.
Then, casually, he patted Heeseung on the back.
“Hyung, you didn’t trip,” he said, voice light. “Proud of you.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, barely registering the words. His reply came on a delay. “I, uh. Yeah.”
You kept your expression unreadable. Your towel still pressed to your neck. The choreography hadn’t even reached the hardest part yet, and already—your limbs felt heavier than usual.
This was going to be a long month.
It had been two weeks.
Two weeks of long rehearsals. Late nights. Sweat-slicked skin and sore muscles. Two weeks of fine-tuning footwork and syncing counts to the breath.
Two weeks of him.
Two weeks of Lee Heeseung glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Two weeks of him acting like you’d shatter if he so much as stepped too close.
Two weeks of slow, stuttering hands on your waist when the choreography required it—and apologies mumbled under his breath every time your eyes met.
You were in the middle of running through his solo transition in the second verse—just before the chorus kicks in again. It was one of the more intimate moments in the choreography. One that required connection. Chemistry. Conviction.
Which was currently nonexistent.
You stood in position, the rest of the dancers fanned out behind you in a wide semi-circle as the music paused.
In front of you, Heeseung exhaled hard.
His hand fell from where it should’ve rested on your hands, and the choreographer clapped once to cut the tension.
“Heeseung,” one of them sighed. “Focus.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his palms on his sweats. “I just—can we run it back one more time?”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Barely.
The choreographer waved a hand at the sound tech, who restarted the instrumental from the top of the chorus.
As everyone began shifting back to position, you crossed your arms and turned to him.
“Are you okay?” you asked, voice flat but biting.
Heeseung flinched at the way your words landed—like ice across his skin. Your voice wasn’t harsh, but it held no warmth either. No softness. Just clean, sharp indifference.
Heeseung blinked at you, startled. “What?”
You stared at him for a beat longer. His silver hair was tied up today, loose strands sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he was mid-marathon instead of just missing a step.
“Because I’m not going to carry this part on my own,” you added, voice still calm. Cold. “This is your choreography.”
He blinked, jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I never said you had to.”
“Then act like it.”
That made something in his face shift—like the words cut deeper than intended. His smile dropped entirely. A faint frown formed between his brows as he looked down at his shoes.
But you were already walking back to your mark, not sparing him another glance. Ignoring the way his eyes followed you.
Jay nudged him lightly with an elbow, “You’re overthinking it, bro.”
Heeseung didn’t answer. Just inhaled. Exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.
The music started again—bass thumping low, count-off syncing everyone back into motion.
He moved with more control this time. You could tell he was trying. His footwork was cleaner. Timing sharper. But the second verse solo was his moment. And he knew it.
So when the cue came—the one where you stepped behind him, hands skimming lightly down the length of his arms—he stepped forward too early.
Not by much. Barely half a beat. But it was enough to throw off the rhythm. Enough that your hand missed his shoulder completely and hit air.
The head choreographer raised a hand, halting the music mid-beat.
“Take five,” they said, sighing as they turned to the sound tech.
Everyone scattered instantly, water bottles and towels in hand. Some of the other dancers stretched quietly in the corner, a few whispering about the mistake under their breath.
You pressed your lips together, jaw tight as you reached for your towel.
Heeseung hadn’t moved from his spot.
Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. It’s fine.”
But Heeseung didn’t look relaxed. Hands on his hips, sweat lining his jaw, hair a mess from the constant movement—and still, his eyes flicked to you.
Just once.
Just long enough to catch the way your gaze slid past him like he didn’t even exist.
He swore something cracked in his chest.
Heeseung looked at himself in the mirror—chest rising and falling, expression pulled tight with something he couldn’t name. Was it disappointment? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, it felt heavy.
He walked away slowly, grabbing his phone off the floor and padding out of the room with barely a sound. His head hung low, lips slightly parted as he exhaled shakily.
He turned the corner and made his way to one of the vending machines stationed near the end of the floor. Neon lights flickered faintly above as he crouched slightly, scanning the QR code on the machine’s screen with his phone.
A soft beep.
A second later, a familiar thunk as the bottle of banana milk slid down the chute.
Heeseung grabbed it, twisting the cap with one hand. He took a long gulp, only to cough right after—choking slightly from the rush of cold liquid.
“Are you seriously an idol?”
He turned, startled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You were leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The pale gray concrete made your figure stand out sharper, fiercer.
“Uh—” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean. I guess. Practice kept getting held up because of me so I just—needed a break. I’m… sorry.”
You scoffed, pushing off the wall with one shoulder.
“Stop apologizing and focus,” you snapped. “You’re dragging everyone down with you.”
He blinked, stunned by your bluntness—still unused to anyone speaking to him like that. Not his members, not the managers, never anyone outside his circle.
“I’m trying, okay?” he muttered, voice lower now, like the words hurt to admit.
Your brow twitched.
You stepped toward him—slowly, purposefully.
Heeseung tensed, eyes wide. You stopped just a few inches away, close enough that he could see the slight sweat sheen on your cheekbones, the fire in your gaze.
Heeseung was tall, but the way you looked up at him made him feel small.
“Then try harder,” you bit out. “People are just trying to do their jobs. People who actually care.”
He opened his mouth to defend himself—but the words caught in his throat as your finger jabbed into his chest.
“I don’t care if you’re tired, or nervous, or whatever this is,” you snapped. “If you’re gonna be in the center, then act like it. Earn it. Not just for yourself.”
You stared at him a second longer. Heeseung didn’t even breathe. And then you pulled away with a scoff, shaking your head as you turned on your heel.
He didn’t say a word. He just stood there—silent and still, banana milk cold in his hand.
And only when you were completely gone—your footsteps echoing down the hall—did his head drop again, shoulders slumping like the weight finally cracked through.
He blinked fast, hoping to stop it. But his eyes were already stinging.
Jaw tight, thumb absently fidgeting with the plastic bottle cap as his other hand wiped at the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie.
Heeseung sniffed once.
He was the center of the comeback. And he was falling apart over one dancer who probably hated his guts.
And yet, all he could think was—you’re right.
Heeseung sniffed again, the burn behind his eyes finally dulling as he blinked rapidly and wiped at them with his sleeve. Another shaky exhale. Then another.
Until he felt composed enough to not look like he’d just had a breakdown beside a vending machine over a girl who barely said two nice words to him.
He dragged himself back to the practice room, the hallway suddenly feeling too short, too bright, the hum of the aircon too loud in his ears.
The moment the door slid open, all heads turned.
Heeseung kept his gaze down, refusing to meet any of their eyes. Not Jay’s. Not Jake’s. Not yours.
Especially not yours.
He padded in quietly, setting his half-finished banana milk and phone down beside his bag like nothing happened. His face was mostly hidden behind the sleeves of his sweater again, his silver hair falling slightly over his forehead, damp with sweat.
“Positions, everyone!” one of the choreographers called out cheerfully, clapping their hands twice as they stood near the mirror.
You watched him move.
He didn’t hesitate this time.
He stepped into the center of the room, right where he belonged. His jaw was set now. Shoulders straighter, feet firmer, like he was holding himself together with everything he had.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as you took a step forward, trailing behind the others who were getting into position. Your eyes didn’t leave him.
Not once.
You watched as he stood there silently, hands flexing and unflexing by his thighs. Like he was waiting to be told what to do. Like he was afraid to mess it up again.
And then his eyes flicked up—just briefly. Not even a full second.
But they met yours. Red-rimmed and soft.
Your heart twitched against your will.
“Alright,” the choreographer said, clapping again. “From the top of the chorus. Everyone ready?”
You nodded along with the others and moved into place, still watching him.
Still unsure why it suddenly felt like you couldn’t breathe right.
As the music began to hum from the speakers again, you shifted forward, placing yourself behind Heeseung—just like the choreography required. You noticed the slight tremble in his fingers. The way he inhaled through his nose like he was bracing himself.
And maybe it was stupid. Maybe you shouldn’t have felt anything at all.
But you leaned in slightly and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, “Don’t mess this up.”
It wasn’t mean. Not sharp. Not scolding.
But Heeseung didn’t lift his gaze. Didn’t say anything in return.
Just gave the smallest nod—like he was afraid even that would be too much. His eyes fixed straight ahead, shoulders rigid but steady, jaw ticking faintly as the music started again.
And this time, he didn’t stumble. He remembered the counts. The shifts. The way your hand was supposed to trail across his chest, the way he was supposed to hold your waist just tight enough to keep the tension.
Heeseung danced like he had something to prove. Like proving it would mean something to you.
The second the last beat hit, a wave of cheers erupted from the room.
“Nice! That’s it!”
“That’s the energy!”
But not a single sound came from Heeseung. Not even the usual, breathless laugh he let out when he nailed a routine. Not even the bright smile that usually curved his lips when he got praised.
Instead, he let go of your waist slowly, barely brushing your arm as he stepped back.
Eyes still downcast, expression unreadable.
He reached for the hair tie at the back of his head, quietly tugging it free. His silver bangs fell into his eyes again, and he swept them back absently with one hand, a habit so practiced it didn’t even look intentional.
Then he turned without a word.
Heeseung walked across the floor, sneakers making barely any sound on the hardwood as he crouched beside his things.
He grabbed his phone, sat down with his back against the mirrored wall, and stared at the lockscreen like it would give him something to focus on.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you watched from a few steps away, towel still hanging from your neck. The cheers died down, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were still on him.
Not because he was Heeseung, but because he looked—small.
Small in a way that didn’t make sense on someone so tall. Small in the way someone looks when they’re trying not to feel something too loud.
And you hated it.
You hated the way your hands twitched at your sides. You hated that he wasn’t smiling. That he wasn’t doing that dumb, nervous laugh anymore. That he didn’t even look proud of himself for finally getting it right.
"Why does he have to look like a kicked puppy," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes before wiping at your face with your towel.
Because you didn’t feel bad.
You didn’t, right?
“Alright, take five and we’ll break down the transitions,” one of the choreographers called. “If anyone needs water, now’s the time.”
You made a move to walk toward your own bag, but your eyes—again—betrayed you.
Heeseung was still sitting. Same spot. Same posture. Thumb hovering over his phone but never typing anything.
Jungwon passed by him with a water bottle and a small pat on the shoulder. “Good job, hyung.”
Heeseung looked up with a tight smile. “Thanks.”
He didn’t smile for real, and that’s what got you.
Because Lee Heeseung always smiled.
Until now.
And it was all because of you.
It was nearly midnight.
The halls of the HYBE building had gone still, that hushed kind of silence reserved only for the end of long days and overworked idols.
You were curled into one side of one of the couches in the lounge area, legs folded underneath you, your bag slumped beside you like it was just as tired.
Your phone glowed in your hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly through Instagram. Not liking anything. Not even looking, really. Just passing time. Trying to breathe.
The last two weeks had been a lot. And you didn’t know how to feel about any of it anymore.
You were about to shut your phone off when someone cleared their throat gently nearby. You looked up, blinking at the figure that stood in front of you.
Sunoo.
Ginger hair bouncing lightly, a hopeful, careful smile on his lips.
“Hi,” he said, his voice sweet and just a little unsure. “Can I sit here?”
You blinked once. Twice. Then nodded, gesturing to the empty space next to you. “Yeah. Of course.”
He plopped down beside you with a soft huff, his hoodie sleeves slipping down to his hands as he leaned back into the cushion.
“Hi, (Y/N)-noona,” he greeted, brighter this time. “How are you?”
You couldn’t help but smile a little—his energy was just that infectious.
“I’m fine,” you answered, voice softer than usual. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at the dorms? It’s late.”
Sunoo laughed, brushing a bit of his hair from his forehead. “I stayed behind. Had to re-record some of my lines for Karma. I think I messed up a vowel or something—Jake-hyung said it sounded like I was crying.”
You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. “Well, at least you got it done.”
He nodded. “Barely.”
For a moment, it was quiet again. Your phone dimmed in your lap, screen turning black.
Sunoo glanced at you from the corner of his eye, fingers fidgeting with the ring on his thumb. And then—very softly: “Noona… can I ask you something?”
You turned your head to look at him. His brows were drawn in slightly, lips pressed into a pout that made him look younger than he already did.
You nodded. “Sure.”
He hesitated.
“Do you hate us?”
The question landed like a pin drop in a silent room.
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
He looked at you this time. Really looked at you. “Me. The guys. Heeseung-hyung especially. You kind of… look like you do.”
“I mean,” Sunoo rushed to explain, hands flailing slightly, “it’s not that we want you to like us or anything! Well—I mean—it’d be nice, I guess, but—”
He huffed. “I just mean that you always look like you’re ready to run the second practice ends.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“I don’t hate you,” you said eventually. Quiet. Honest. “I just don’t know you.”
Sunoo nodded slowly, looking like he was trying to understand. “And Heeseung-hyung?”
You paused.
Then shook your head. “I don’t know him either.”
“But you… don’t like him.”
You let out a breath, turning your gaze away. “I don’t trust him.”
Sunoo’s mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to ask why—but something in your expression must’ve warned him off. Instead, he just tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie and nodded slowly.
“That’s fair,” he said. “I just… I think he really wants you to.”
You looked at him, startled. “Wants me to what?”
“Know him,” Sunoo said, shrugging. “He sucks at it, obviously. Like really, really bad. But I’ve never seen him get so quiet around anyone before.”
You didn’t say anything.
Not because you didn’t have anything to say—but because you didn’t know what to do with that.
“Heeseung-hyung’s usually…” Sunoo twirled a finger in the air, searching. “I don’t know—composed? Effortless? He walks into a room and owns it. Like, even when he’s being a dumbass, he’s a confident dumbass.”
You snorted quietly despite yourself.
“But with you?” Sunoo tilted his head. “He gets all… careful. Like he’s afraid he’ll breathe wrong and piss you off more than he already has.”
Sunoo offered a small, almost sheepish smile. “I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
He let that settle for a second, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve before he added, “But… it’s weird. Seeing him so hung up over something somebody said.”
You glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was just gazing ahead, voice softer now.
“I thought he let go of that since I-LAND, you know?” Sunoo continued.
“All the doubts, the overthinking. He’s worked so hard to be… sure of himself. Confident in what he does, who he is. But you—” he paused, almost amused, “—you say one sentence and he looks like he’s about to rewrite his whole personality.”
You still didn’t say anything, because… what could you say to that?
Sunoo looked at you now, not accusing—just honest, open, like someone who’d seen the best and worst of the people around him and still chose to believe the best anyway.
“I just hope you let him in soon,” he said, voice steady. “And us too.”
You blinked.
“Heeseung-hyung’s really nice if you get to know him,” Sunoo added.
“A little dramatic. Kinda dumb sometimes. But he’s not the person people make him out to be.” Then, a small laugh escaped him. “You should see how many playlists he makes for songs he never finishes. Or how he hums when he brushes his teeth. It’s stupid.
You smiled despite yourself.
Sunoo tilted his head, smile gentler now. “Just… don’t write him off too quick, noona. He’s not perfect. But I think he’s trying.”
And for a moment—you didn’t feel like arguing.
“Anyway,” Sunoo said, standing slowly and brushing imaginary lint off his pants, “thanks for letting me sit here. I’ll see you tomorrow, noona.”
You nodded wordlessly, watching as he offered you one more smile before turning and walking off down the hall.
And when he disappeared around the corner, you leaned back against the couch and stared at your phone again.
Only this time, you weren’t scrolling.
Just sitting there. With your heart beating too loud in your chest.
And wondering why Lee Heeseung—of all people—wanted you to know him.
You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair and sinking further into the cushion behind you, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling.
Sunoo’s words echoed in your head.
“I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
You didn’t mean to scare him.
You just didn’t know him.
All you knew was the rumor mill: that he toyed around with backup dancers. That he used to date one. That he left her crying and never looked back.
You knew he was a damn good performer. A strong voice. A face that pulled attention. A body that moved like water.
But who was Lee Heeseung when he wasn’t on stage?
You didn’t know. And you hated that not knowing was starting to bother you.
“Ugh,” you groaned, frustrated with yourself, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.
You just needed air.
You paced down the hallway, letting your footsteps echo through the emptying building. The elevators were at the far end—but you slowed when you passed by another open lounge area, tucked to the side.
Three familiar voices. One unmistakable.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” It was Heeseung, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “Like—seriously. I feel like I’m ruining the entire choreography.”
“Hyung, you’re just stressed—” Sunghoon began, but Heeseung cut him off.
“It’s not just the choreography,” he snapped, quieter this time. “It’s her. I can’t even look at her properly without feeling like I’m gonna throw up. Or say something stupid. Or trip on my own damn feet—!”
There was a thud. Probably Heeseung slumping back onto the couch.
“She probably thinks I’m a joke,” he mumbled. “And maybe I am. I don’t even know why I care this much. But every time I see her, I just—”
A pause. A shaky breath.
“I feel like I’m messing everything up. And she hates me for it.”
You stood there, frozen, lips parted slightly as your fingers hovered over the strap of your bag. You knew you shouldn’t be listening. But you couldn’t move.
“Hyung…” Jay’s voice was quieter. Gentler.
“It’s not that deep—”
That was your cue.
You reached for the white AirPods hanging from the keyring on your bag, shoved them in like muscle memory, and walked—like you hadn’t just overheard the guy who’d been dragging his feet around you for two weeks quite literally crumbling over your mere existence.
The soft mechanical chime of the elevator landing saved you from having to hear anything else.
You pressed the button—twice, even though it was already lit up—and stared straight ahead, pretending you didn’t notice the way all three heads turned toward you as you walked past.
Heeseung sat up straighter in his seat, hurriedly wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. He didn’t even try to hide it.
Jay and Sunghoon just looked between him and you silently, Sunghoon with a slow, barely-there shake of his head.
You didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.
But Heeseung’s stare burned at your back—like he was silently willing you to turn around.
You didn’t.
You stepped into the elevator when it dinged and let the doors close in front of you.
But even as the floor shifted beneath your feet and the numbers ticked downward, you couldn’t shake the image of Lee Heeseung—shoulders hunched, eyes red, voice raw—murmuring that he was the reason everything was going wrong.
And all because of you.
It was barely past ten and the practice room was already flooded with artificial lights—white bleeding in, casting long stripes across the mirrored walls and polished floors.
The speakers hummed softly with the instrumental of ‘Bite Me’, looping from the top as you stretched in the center of the room. Your arms raised above your head, your body bending gently from side to side.
The black crop top you wore shifted with every breath, exposing brief slivers of your waist before you pulled at the band of your white sweatpants to fix it.
Your neck rolled to the side, hair slipping over your shoulder as you exhaled and let your muscles relax.
The door opened.
Your eyes flicked to the mirror.
Lee Heeseung.
Black oversized tee, light gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed his face in a rush. But more than anything, you noticed the puffiness around his eyes—still red, slightly swollen. As if sleep had been a stranger to him last night.
He looked at you.
Just for a second.
And then immediately looked away.
Your mouth pressed into a line as he walked to his usual corner, dropping his duffel bag onto the ground with barely a sound. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched down and pulled out his phone like it held the meaning of life—eyes glued to the screen, thumbs unmoving.
Not even pretending to scroll.
Not even pretending to scroll.
Then let out a quiet breath and shook your head.
“He doesn’t even say hi anymore…” you muttered to yourself, barely audible over the light beat in the background. “God, he’s really that sensitive to me being in the room?”
You shook your arms out and turned away.
It stung. You weren’t gonna lie.
Not because you wanted him to talk again. Not because you needed him to smile at you.
But because now you knew. Now you’d heard it—his voice, raw and trembling, saying your name like it hurt to speak.
And still, he said nothing.
You shifted your weight to one leg, crossing your arms as you glanced at the mirror again. He was still sitting there. Same position. Same phone. Same silence.
It was almost pitiful.
Like a kicked puppy in sweatpants.
And you hated the fact that your chest twinged a little at the sight.
Your jaw tensed. You looked away again.
Because you didn’t know what to do with the version of Lee Heeseung who didn’t smile. Who didn’t joke. Who didn’t even pretend to look okay.
And a few feet away, Heeseung exhaled quietly—his shoulders sagging with the weight of something that didn’t seem to lift no matter how long he sat there.
He finally unlocked his phone. But he didn’t scroll. Didn’t tap any apps. Didn’t open messages.
Just stared at his homescreen like it might offer him answers.
The soft hum of the speakers continued. His gaze flickered—briefly, hesitantly—to the mirror across the room.
To you.
You weren’t looking at him.
Of course you weren’t.
You were stretching again, arms over your head as you twisted at the waist, back arched. You looked so calm. So unbothered. So… indifferent.
Like he didn’t exist.
Like you hadn’t told him off. Like you hadn’t jabbed a finger into his chest and practically told him he was worthless. Like you hadn’t shattered him with one glare and a scoff, then walked away like he was nothing.
And still, he looked.
Still, he watched you.
Heeseung swallowed the lump rising in his throat and leaned his head back against the wall, his phone still lit in his palm. A notification came in—a text from Sunghoon probably, or Jay—but he didn’t bother reading it.
He ran a hand over his face. Fingers pressing into the skin beneath his eyes.
He wanted to talk to you.
He wanted to explain.
But how the hell could he explain what even he didn’t understand?
Why your voice stayed in his head like a loop.
Why he couldn’t sleep until two a.m. replaying that moment in the hallway.
Why he felt like the air disappeared the moment you looked at him like that—like he was just another arrogant idol who didn’t care.
He bit the inside of his cheek.
And still, you didn’t even glance his way.
The tension in the room hung thick and unmoving until the studio doors creaked open again.
The two choreographers walked in—smiling, laughing about something that died the moment they caught sight of their two lead dancers. You, standing in the center, eyes distant. Heeseung, sat by the wall, eyes lower.
But both of you bowed anyway.
You straightened your posture and offered a polite greeting. “Good morning.”
Heeseung scrambled upright at the same time, tripping slightly over the strap of his gym bag before stumbling into a clumsy bow. “Ah—g-good morning!”
One of the choreographers blinked at the awkwardness before grinning, pretending not to notice. “You two look awake at least.”
They walked toward the mirrored wall, settling their tablets and notes on the low table. One of them looked up and waved a hand toward both of you. “Come here for a second?”
You nodded, not sparing Heeseung a glance as you walked over. He hesitated, then followed behind you. You could hear his footsteps. Could practically feel the distance he was keeping behind you. It was like his shadow didn’t even want to touch yours.
The four of you stood in a half-circle. You to the left, Heeseung on the right. Silence stretching so tightly between you, it might’ve snapped.
But the choreographers didn’t seem to notice. “How’s progress?”
You answered without hesitation.
“It’s going well,” you said calmly. “We’re still polishing the transitions, especially around the solos. Some of the blocking needs tweaking, but otherwise, everyone knows their parts and is keeping up.”
They nodded, taking notes on the screen of one of the tablets. “Good. And you, Heeseung?”
You didn’t look at him. But you heard the way he shifted his weight.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I’m okay. Just tired. Sorry.”
That awkward laugh of his was barely a breath.
Both choreographers chuckled kindly. “Tired’s normal,” one of them said, smiling. “But that’s not what we wanted to talk to you both about.”
You blinked, waiting.
They glanced at each other. “So, we’ve been reviewing the recordings. And while your initial chemistry was great, things have been feeling… well—tense.”
You froze. Heeseung did too.
“We just want to ask—are you both okay?”
“Yes,” you said immediately, not even letting Heeseung open his mouth.
Your voice was even, firm. Almost mechanical. “We’re just both equally tired. I want to apologize if that’s been noticeable.”
The choreographers didn’t seem entirely convinced, exchanging a quiet look before one of them tapped on the screen again. “We believe you. But we also had a small proposal we wanted to run by you both—especially before filming starts.”
You lifted your eyes. Heeseung did too—slowly.
“If it’s alright with both of you,” the choreographer began gently, “we’d like to request recorded video updates. Just the two of you. Every three to four days.”
Your heart stuttered once.
Heeseung blinked. “Just us?”
“Yeah,” the other said. “Not the group. Not the others. Just your partnership parts. The lifts. The proximity work. The stuff where chemistry matters.”
Your lips parted, but no words came out.
“Again,” they added quickly, “only if you’re both okay with that. It’s just that Heeseung’s got a lot of center time, and your blocking overlaps more than anyone else’s. If you two are more aligned—it’ll elevate the whole comeback.”
You stayed quiet.
Heeseung nodded after a beat. “Understood.”
Of course he’d agree.
You exhaled slowly and muttered, “That’s fine with me.”
One of them smiled. “Great. Then let’s aim for the first clip at the end of the week. You can find a free room or ask staff to reserve the small studio downstairs.”
They moved on, discussing timing and files and where to upload the clips, but you weren’t listening anymore.
Because out of the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung’s head dip lower again—like the weight of his thoughts was pulling him into the floor.
And suddenly, it was you who didn’t know what to say.
You stood side by side. Silent. Cold. Strangers.
But at least now, you were strangers who had to see each other every three days.
Just the two of you.
And not even the floor could swallow you whole fast enough.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The Bluetooth speaker let out a soft chime as you connected it to your phone, the dim lights of the small HYBE practice room casting long shadows on the polished floor.
It was past nine—long after most of the building had emptied out—and yet here you were, standing in the middle of the room with Lee Heeseung, the soft hum of your phone against the speaker being the only thing cutting through the tension.
Heeseung stood off to the side, stiff, fidgeting. His fingers pulled at the hem of his oversized black shirt, head ducked, silver hair messy and falling over his eyes like it had something to hide.
You sighed, fingers still hovering over your screen. “Do you still need to stretch?”
His shoulders jolted slightly at your voice, as if it startled him. He shook his head. “No—I’m good,” he mumbled.
You nodded wordlessly, walking to the center of the room. The mirror reflected both of you in silence—your posture poised, his shoulders tight.
You turned to face him, standing a few feet away, but it was close enough to feel the strange energy bouncing between you two like static.
“The choreographers want the clip by tomorrow,” you reminded, voice even. “So we’ll start from the chorus and end right after your solo, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Heeseung said quietly, nodding, eyes still trained on the floor.
You pressed play, the faint bass of ‘Bite Me’ bleeding through the speaker.
A few seconds before the pre-chorus hit, you bent down and hit record on the phone set up on a tripod near the door. You stepped back into position beside him. Neither of you said anything more.
When the music started, instinct took over.
You grabbed his wrist gently—guiding, not harsh. His hands ghosted over your waist, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your cropped shirt. He mouthed his lines, lips moving in sync with the playback. But he never once looked at you. Not once.
His eyes flicked up toward the mirror instead, fixated on some invisible spot beside your shoulder.
His jaw clenched when the choreography demanded he pull you closer—still not touching, still hovering like you were something fragile.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t break character. You simply moved.
Your hands ran smoothly down his arms as his solo started. His breath hitched—barely noticeable, but you felt it. His weight shifted forward, leaning into your space but never filling it. His fingers twitched against your hands, uncertain.
You hated how rehearsed it felt. Not the dance—he was still Heeseung, precise and sharp and painfully good. It was the distance. The wall he still held up between the both of you, even when the routine demanded that wall be torn down.
You didn’t look at him.
He didn’t look at you.
And the mirror watched it all unfold—two people dancing together, with nothing tethering them in place.
As the chorus faded into the next section, you stepped back—retreating to the side of the room, chest rising and falling as you shook out your hands. The music played on. You stood quietly, watching from your place near the wall.
Heeseung didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did, but he didn’t dare let it show.
He moved sharply—every step hit clean, every spin crisp. The silver of his hair caught the overhead lights as he moved, jaw tight, hands curling and releasing like he was trying to keep control. He landed the last beat perfectly, and yet—
As the final note echoed off the mirrored walls and disappeared, Heeseung just stood there.
Like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Back to that stance from earlier—shoulders tight, legs firm but uneasy, hands nervously tugging at the hem of his shirt again. He panted softly, chest rising and falling as sweat lined his neck and forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin.
You sighed.
Crossing the room in a few quiet steps, you leaned down and pressed the red circle on the screen of the phone, ending the recording.
Heeseung stepped a little closer.
Not enough to be beside you.
But enough to watch over your shoulder.
The recording finished playing with a quiet click. And then:
“…Again,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “Please.”
You nodded—wordless.
You both moved back into place, footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. He took his position beside you, not too close, but closer than before—like maybe the space didn’t scare him as much now. You could still feel the ghost of his breath when he turned toward you.
Heeseung stood beside you again—not too close, but closer than before. Maybe the gap didn’t scare him as much now. Maybe he was just tired of being scared.
You sighed as the beat dropped and moved like you were taught, muscle memory taking over. Heeseung followed beside you, gaze locked on the floor. He didn’t look at you—not once—but he hit every beat, every count, every breath.
It was cleaner.
But it didn’t feel natural.
Everything—from the way your fingers ghosted across his frame to the way he rested his hands on you—felt stiff. Forced. Like two people pretending they weren’t holding back an entire war between them.
But neither of you said a word.
As the final note faded and the room fell back into silence, Heeseung went still—then slack again, like he always did. Shoulders dropping. Jaw clenching. Eyes cast down.
You walked over to the phone and pressed the red button.
The video stopped recording.
You stared at the screen, watching the last frame freeze—both of you caught mid-movement, frozen in a pose that looked closer than the reality ever was.
“…It’s better than the other one,” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.
Heeseung nodded once. Still not looking at you.
You turned your head. “Are you okay with this for today?”
There was a pause. He hesitated. Then nodded again, more slowly this time, fingers catching the hem of his shirt like he was trying to tear it in half just to keep his hands busy.
You nodded too. “Okay.”
Silence blanketed the room again as you saved the video and uploaded it into the shared iCloud folder that the choreographers had created earlier that week. The little blue bar filled up slowly, and all the while, Heeseung stood where he was—still refusing to meet your eyes.
You sighed softly and said, “It’s best if we pack up and get some rest, yeah?”
“…Yeah.” His voice was quiet, just a breath. He turned away, moving to where his things were neatly placed by the wall. He slipped his phone into his bag, capped his water bottle, and zipped it shut with trembling fingers.
You didn’t say anything as you grabbed your own phone, shoving it into your sweatpants pocket.
He glanced at you then.
Just once.
Noticing how fast you always packed up. How quick you were to leave.
Then, quietly—without a word—he padded over to the door. He opened it and stood there, holding it open, eyes cast toward the ground but his presence heavy with anticipation.
Waiting.
Waiting to see if you’d take the silent offer.
You stared at him for a second.
Just one beat too long.
Then you walked past him, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.”
Heeseung only nodded, shoulders stiff as you stepped through.
Neither of you spoke as you made your way down the empty hallway, shoes echoing against the linoleum floors of the ground building. You scanned your fingerprint on the security pad, and the door clicked open.
He followed behind you.
You turned to him at the threshold, the soft whir of city wind brushing against your face.
Your voice was flat—but your eyes burned into him like they had weight. Like they had things to say that your mouth wouldn’t.
“Let’s do this again. There should be some improvements by next time.”
He nodded, but his eyes didn’t move from your figure.
Not even as you turned and disappeared into the night.
And when you were finally out of earshot—just gone far enough that he didn’t have to pretend anymore—Heeseung exhaled. The kind of breath that left with his shoulders.
His hand dragged through his hair, a frustrated sweep of silver strands falling over his eyes.
“…Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “Improvements.”
Still watching the door you vanished through.
He turned slowly then, walking past the main lobby toward the side of the building—toward the back exit he was supposed to use from the start. But instead, he walked with you to the front.
Even if you didn’t notice.
Even if you didn’t ask him to.
He just wanted to be near you for a little longer.
holland march who is obsessed with stripper reader. like he is convinced they are in love and are endgame, but reader tries to tell herself it’s just work and a customer/employee relationship, even though she knows deep down she also loves him too 😛
yes yes YES. we all know that holland is a delusional mf who does really think the stripper is in love with him (and this time, she really is even though she pretends not to!!)
GO-GO DANCER, QUEEN OF THE NIGHT - h.march x fem!reader - 1.3k words
"Your boyfriend's here." Cookie, one of the newer girls, calls to you as she walks by, her fingers grazing your arm.
Cookie had quickly become your friend when she started dancing at the Desire Club. she was one of those girls who could talk to anyone—which meant she was quick with the men. it was truly your favorite part of the night to see her holding a big wad of hundreds. A grin would spread across her face and she'd wink at you with a chuckle.
The boyfriend she's referring to, who isn't actually even your boyfriend, is the eccentric detective that frequents the club. 'Frequents' is actually an understatement. He's at the club almost every night, scrambling to wave in your direction, and following you around like a puppy with his wallet outstretched.
He started coming in two months ago. You remembered the first time well— because he'd accidentally spilled his whiskey on you. The sticky amber liquid had drenched the satin wrapped around your body. His jaw had dropped in horror and spluttered so many apologetic words they blended together in gibberish. It was such a drastic difference from any other time one of the Tom's spilled something.
It was endearing.
He almost bumped into someone when he turned to grab you napkins. If you had counted, you were sure he'd said sorry at least three hundred times. In the span of three minutes. You tried to reassure him, saying that you could change your outfit, only for him to hand you a hundred dollar bill with a sheepish grin.
The ghost of a grin twitches at your lips. It wasn't embarrassment rising in your chest, no, you weren't ashamed of the fact he was enamored with you. It was more than understandable. You were hot, for goodness sake!
The better word was bashful. He had become a running jab between you and the girls. If you weren't already out on the floor to see him, they'd inform you. It was all in good fun. The girls had even said they were jealous of you—it wasn't everyday a dancer got a Tom who showed up just to say hi. And not even look at the other girls roaming around in their scant clothing.
"Where is he?" You ask, looking over your shoulder.
The redhead juts her chin in the direction of the door leading out of the dressing room. "He's at the bar. Been asking for you—Darling's about to refuse to serve his ass."
Warmth spreads through your chest. It makes your heart skip a beat, throwing off it's regular rhythm. "Okay, I'll get him."
Cookie waves you off. She turns on her heel towards the rack of costumes, her hand already reaching out to leaf through the outfits on the hangers that belong to her.
You walk off, heels clicking softly against the floor. Desire Club vibrates with disco music like a pumping heart. Bodies are moving beneath strobe lights, bumping and grinding. Your eyes sweep across the floor to find who you're looking for.
Girls are dancing on their stages, men crowding around them throwing dollar bills. Some are leading Toms towards the back for a private dance. The bar is located on the far side of the right wall. And leaning against it on his elbow, dressed in a suit that's slightly crumpled, is just the man you're looking for.
Poor Darling has that blank expression on her face. Lips pressed into a line, a thousand words rattling in her mind you can see from across the room. Cookie wasn't lying. She seriously looks like she's about to take his drink away.
He's got a half empty margarita.
You weave through the crowded room. Some guys try to talk to you and reach out, but you keep going. Completely ignoring them. You're a woman on a mission.
"Holland." You interrupt him talking, pausing at his side.
Darling shoots you an appreciative look. Then decides to take her leave, turning and walking to the other end of the bar to serve.
Holland turns, sparkling blue eyes falling on you. His eyes widen. It's gentle the way he surveys you—savoring the time it takes him to look at you from head to toe. He notes how your makeup is done to perfection.
His eyes sweep down the curve of your jaw, the slope of your neck, and down to the curve of your breasts. It doesn't make you uncomfortable. He looks quickly, letting his jaw drop slightly as he takes in the outfit you're wearing tonight.
A black lace and pink satin body suit hugs your curves. The straps leading to the cups are black, little gems embroidered down the length of them. It's a sweetheart neckline that pushes your breasts up in a way that—surprisingly—doesn't hurt. The bodysuit ends in a black lace mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. Satin pink bows rest at the bottom that connect to guarders.
It's your newest outfit. Which quickly became your favorite when you put it on. You looked hot and felt powerful in it—which was the best reason to wear it.
"Wow." He breathes out, quickly snapping his eyes back up to your face. "You—you look…wow."
You feel your neck warming at his words. It was sweet the way he got all starstruck. His reaction was always welcomed—because for the most part he was innocent about it.
"I heard you've been bothering miss Darling over here." There's a sarcastic accusatory tone wrapping your words, leveling him with a pointed look.
Holland glances down at the bar counter top, inhaling a breath before speaking. He fiddles with his fingers for a moment. "Well… bothering is a big word. Very big. A word that means a lot—a lot of something I wasn't doing. I just asked her where… you were." He glances back up at you with a goofy grin. "You're here now."
"I don't know." You mutter, glancing over where Darling was still hiding out. "She seems pretty bothered."
"I just wanted to see you." He admits, peering at you with a coy smile curling across his crooked mouth.
"You're were here last night for that very reason."
"Yeah, but that was yesterday."
You can't fight the snort that bulldozes out of your body. He was so serious in saying that—not even the slightest hint of a joke.
"m'serious." Holland grabs at his drink and takes a leisurely sip. "Please, baby—I'm askin' you again. Go out to dinner with me."
This was why he was really here.
Every night he asked the same question. To go out to dinner with him. He swears that one date will change your mind about him totally—as if you had bad reservations on him.
"Holland, it's never gonna work." You huff out, the words coming out the same like they always did.
"We're meant to be. You'll see." He grins, moving his hand to gently grasp onto yours. "I swear."
You let him hold your hand. Letting yourself feel the warmth of his hand dwarfing yours. Holland was persistent—he knew what he wanted. And, honestly, it was slowly starting to work on you.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles once.
"I love you."
"You're drunk!" You laugh, feeling a warmth course through your veins.
There was just something about the way he was looking at you. Like you're the only person in the entire world.
"Yeah." He grins, reaching into his pocket to grab his wallet. He drops a twenty on the counter top, along with a five for Darling. "I gotta get my daughter to bed. Hey—think about it. Tonight. I'll be back tomorrow."
"You'll get the same answer." You say quietly, watching him with a small smile.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Goodnight, Holland."
He winks at you clumsily, "Goodnight, sweetheart."
summary : becoming a dancer for one of the biggest stars on the planet was meant to be your big break—not the beginning of a confusing situationship. between his constant attention, sweet gestures, and habit of seeking you out, you’re left with one important question: does he act like this with all of his dancers, or are you in trouble?
genre : fluff, oblivious romance
warnings : none
it’s distracting.
dangerously distracting.
because if he’s really interested in you, it could change everything.
but if this is simply the way he treats everyone, then maybe you’re the one reading too much into it.
but how are you supposed to find out? come up to the household name and ask “hey, do you offer to drop off or pick up every dancer on set?” “so nice to see you again, would you mind telling me the intention behind asking the choreographer for my number?” no, that’s beyond stupid.
he’s kind. too kind. sometimes you look at him and have a maternal instinct, how has this angel of a human being in survive in such a cruel and selfish world? however you can’t help but wonder..
whether it’s lingering compliments, thoughtful gestures, or the way he always seems to seek you out, his attention is becoming impossible to ignore. as rehearsals continue and the lines between professionalism and something more begin to blur, it makes you feel worse. no way in hell will an artist ask out their backup dancers if they don’t see them as one of the “groupies”. which is definitely, what you did NOT want to be.
so, you carried on, each day feeling more and more tortured as the signs became harder to ignore.
the other day, for example, you were practicing the opening choreography for thriller for what felt like the two-thousandth time. then again, what could you do? michael was a perfectionist. that’s how he’d gotten to where he was. maybe you should’ve taken notes.
as rehearsals continued, you, the dancers, and michael suddenly noticed the temperature in the room dropping. fast.
what had started as a cool breeze quickly turned into freezing air blasting from the vents. within minutes, everyone was shivering.
“okay, what is going on?” someone complained, rubbing their arms.
a technician eventually rushed in and explained that there was a problem affecting the entire building. apparently, the air conditioning system had malfunctioned and couldn’t be shut off for another four hours.
four hours. and cancelling rehearsal wasn’t an option. time was money. so everyone adapted.
people grabbed spare jackets, blankets, towels—anything they could wrap around themselves for warmth while waiting for the next run-through. you were doing your best to survive with your arms wrapped around yourself when, almost instinctively, michael turned toward you.
before you could even ask what he was doing, he slipped off his jacket. his jacket. the jacket. the one everyone associated with him. your eyes widened.
“michael, what—”
he stepped closer and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. then, to your horror, he carefully adjusted it around you, straightened the collar, and zipped it up.
zipped it up. your face immediately warmed despite the freezing room.
“you really don’t have to do that,” you laughed nervously. “i’m fine.”
he only chuckled. “i know you say that.”
his hands briefly rested on your shoulders as he made sure the jacket sat properly. “but i think you should take better care of yourself.”
you stared. he smiled. then gave your shoulder a gentle pat.
“don’t worry about me. all the dancing will keep me warm.”
and just like that, he walked away.
leaving you standing there in his jacket while every other dancer in the room looked at you with expressions that suggested they had just witnessed something life-changing. yeah.
you were never beating the allegations.
or how about last week?
you and a few friends had gone out for drinks to celebrate landing the biggest project of your career, with hopefully many more opportunities to come. the evening was perfect. everyone was laughing, sharing stories, and enjoying themselves far more than they probably should have.
then the waiter approached your table.
“excuse me,” he said politely. “i just wanted to let you know that the gentleman at table seven has already paid for your meal and drinks. enjoy the rest of your evening.”
the entire table fell silent.
“what?”
“who?”
“you’re kidding.”
confused, you immediately stood up and looked around the restaurant.
and there he was. sitting a few tables away.
the one and only.
wearing his aviators despite being indoors, a small smile visible beneath them. as if he could feel your stare, he looked up and gave you a little wave.
a casual wave.
like paying for an entire group’s celebration was the most normal thing in the world. your jaw nearly hit the floor.
slowly, you lifted your hand and waved back. he smiled wider. then returned to whatever conversation he’d been having.
meanwhile, your friends had completely lost their minds.
“was that—”
“THAT WAS HIM.”
“oh my god.”
you sat back down, still staring at the table in disbelief. sure, the prices here weren’t exactly cheap. after all, this was a celebration.
but then again…
it was michael jackson.
for him, the bill probably cost less than the sunglasses on his face. which somehow didn’t make the gesture any less ridiculous.
or any less sweet.
and how were you supposed to hate any of this when he was so unbelievably sweet?
he was gentle in a way that almost didn’t feel real, like some kind-hearted soul you’d stumble across on the path to an enchanted forest. there was something naturally warm about him, something that made it impossible to stay annoyed for long.
and the worst part?
he seemed to genuinely enjoy making you smile. whether it was a compliment, a thoughtful gesture, or some silly joke he’d been waiting all day to tell, he was constantly finding little ways to get a reaction out of you.
a laugh. a giggle. a blush creeping across your cheeks. anything.
and every time he succeeded, that bright smile of his would appear, looking entirely too pleased with himself. as if making you happy was an accomplishment he’d been aiming for all along.
honestly, it was becoming a problem.
today, as you sat peacefully in the makeup chair while the set buzzed with preparation for the music video shoot, you had absolutely no idea what was about to happen. none of this could’ve prepared you for it.
your eyes were closed as the makeup artist carefully applied eyeshadow and eyeliner. around you, people chatted, moved equipment, and rushed from one task to another. then the trailer door opened. almost immediately, you heard a chorus of greetings.
and you knew exactly who had just walked in. a smile tugged at your lips. “hello,” you muttered without opening your eyes. the room seemed to grow slightly quieter. after all, everyone was wondering the same thing.
what exactly was michael jackson doing in the dancers’ trailer? you heard footsteps approaching. loafers against the floor. then came the familiar scent of his cologne.
(the same cologne he’d started wearing almost every day after you’d casually complimented it once.)
the realization still made you want to throw yourself into traffic. he stopped beside your chair.“hey, (name),” he said softly. “i just wanted to come by and ask you something.”
you hummed, still smiling.
“you know i need to ask beforehand and all…” he continued, suddenly sounding nervous. “but i was wondering if you’d be free to come to my family’s dinner tonight?”
your eyes opened so fast it almost hurt.
apparently everyone else’s did too.
even your makeup artist froze mid-application. the entire trailer went silent. you stared at him through the mirror. he stared back. a few painful seconds passed.
“i mean—” he quickly added. “there’s no pressure. if you already have plans or don’t want to—”
you immediately started waving your hands. “no, no! everything’s fine!” he stopped talking. “it’s just…” you laughed nervously. “a little unexpected.”
“really?” he asked. the genuine confusion on his face almost made things worse.
you couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he genuinely didn’t understand why being invited to michael jackson’s family dinner was a shocking experience.
“but i think i can come,” you said.
instantly, his entire face lit up. “great! amazing!”
people around the trailer slowly returned to work, though several of them were very obviously still listening.
“i’ll meet you near the entrance after filming then.”you nodded.
“okay.”
“okay,” he repeated with a grin.
for a moment he just stood there, practically bouncing on his heels and fidgeting with his hands like an excited kid. then, after one last smile, he turned around and left.
the second the trailer door closed, every single person inside looked at you. you looked back.
“…don’t.” nobody listened.
throughout the entire painfully long filming process, michael seemed happier than ever. seriously. it was almost concerning.
while everyone else was slowly losing their minds after hours of retakes, bright lights, and repeated choreography, he somehow had enough energy to power the entire set by himself. he bounced from person to person, chatted with crew members, joked with dancers, and somehow still managed to perform every take perfectly.
it was ridiculous. and unfortunately, you seemed to be his favorite person to bother.
every chance he got, he wandered over.
“what did you think of that take?”
“did that move look alright?”
“should we redo that section?”
after the tenth time, you were starting to suspect he was doing it on purpose.
“they know best,” you told him politely one time, gesturing toward the directors and choreographers.
to your surprise, he frowned. “but i want your opinion.”
your heart did an embarrassing little flip. which you immediately ignored.
because no. absolutely not.
there had to be another explanation. there was simply no way. so, throughout the day, you conducted what you considered a very important investigation. you casually questioned the other dancers.
casually. very casually.
“hey, does michael do this with everyone?”
“do what?”
“you know… this.”
they all looked at you. which was not helpful.
“he’s nice?” one of them offered.
“exactly. why?” the dancer blinked.
“because that’s michael.” that wasn’t an answer. that only raised more questions. the more people you asked, the worse it became.
apparently he’d always been kind. always polite. always thoughtful. which should’ve reassured you. except it didn’t.
because nobody could explain why he kept seeking you out specifically. or why he kept finding excuses to stand next to you. or why he’d invited you to a family dinner.
by the end of the day, you were no closer to solving the mystery. all you knew was that michael jackson was either the sweetest man alive…
or a direct threat to your ability to think rationally.
so the next time you caught his eyes searching for you across the set, you did the only reasonable thing possible. you ran. not literally, mostly.
the moment you saw him smile in recognition and start making his way toward you, you suddenly found yourself very busy. sometimes you pretended someone was calling for you. sometimes you struck up a conversation with another dancer.
sometimes you conveniently remembered that you needed to use the bathroom. and once, embarrassingly enough, you spent nearly ten minutes hiding behind a lighting setup because you saw him heading in your direction.
it wasn’t that you disliked him. quite the opposite. that was exactly the problem. every interaction felt overwhelming.
you’d barely recover from one sweet gesture before he was doing another. one minute he’d be complimenting your dancing. the next he’d be draping his jacket over your shoulders. then he’d invite you to dinner with his family as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do.
it was exhausting. emotionally exhausting. which is why whenever you saw him approaching, your survival instincts kicked in. unfortunately, michael seemed to notice. because after your third successful escape attempt, you heard a familiar voice behind you.
“(name)?” you froze.
slowly turning around, you found him standing there with his hands in his pockets.
“have i done something wrong?” your heart immediately shattered.
because somehow, out of all the possible reactions he’d could’ve had, that was the worst one. he genuinely looked worried.
and suddenly pretending to answer an imaginary phone call felt a lot less clever.
your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
because what exactly were you supposed to say?
sorry, michael, i’ve been actively avoiding you because every time you’re nice to me i forget how to function?
yeah, absolutely not.
“what? no!” you said a little too quickly. his eyebrows lifted.
“really?”
“yes.” the answer came out so fast it sounded suspicious even to you.
michael stared. you stared back.
“…then why do you keep running away from me?”
there it was. the question you’d been dreading. you immediately looked anywhere but at him. the floor, the wall, the ceiling, a nearby plant—anything.
“i’m not running away.”
“(name).”
“i’m not.”
“(name).”
“okay, maybe a little.”
“a little?” he repeated, clearly amused. you groaned and covered your face.to your horror, he laughed. actually laughed.
“i thought you were mad at me.”
your hands dropped immediately. “what?”
he shrugged.
“i don’t know. after the family dinner invitation, and today, and every time i come over you somehow disappear.”
oh. auddenly you felt awful.
while you’d been overthinking every interaction between the two of you, michael had apparently been overthinking too.
just in a completely different direction. “i’m not mad at you.”
“good.”
the relief on his face was instant. way too instant. it made your stomach do something embarrassing.
“then why are you avoiding me?” asking reasonable questions. you hated reasonable questions.
“because you’re weird.” the words escaped before you could stop them. michael blinked.
“i’m weird?”
“yes.”
“how?”
you stared at him.
“you bought dinner for me and my friends.”
“you were celebrating.”
“you gave me your jacket.”
“you were cold.”
“you invited me to dinner with your family.”
“because i wanted you there.”
the words hung between you. both of you froze. the hallway suddenly felt much quieter.
“…oh,” michael muttered.
“…yeah.” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for the first time during the entire conversation.
and somehow, seeing him nervous was far more dangerous than seeing him confident.
“well,” he said with an awkward little laugh, “i guess that didn’t really help my case.”
you couldn’t even answer. because unfortunately, it helped his case a lot.
i let out a breathy laugh, lowering my gaze to the floor. after a few seconds, i heard him do the same.
the silence between us wasn’t awkward anymore. just… embarrassingly honest. still refusing to look at him, i quietly spoke.
“i’m sorry. really.” i rubbed the back of my neck with an awkward smile.
“i’m so stupid.” another nervous laugh escaped me.
“i just… i asked the others how all of this works. you know… with you.”
i finally glanced up at him for half a second before immediately looking away again, my face growing warmer by the second.
“i didn’t know if you were just naturally this nice or if i was reading too much into everything.” i sighed.
“so i started overthinking.” that was an understatement.
you’d practically built an entire conspiracy board in your head trying to decode every smile, every compliment, every little gesture. when the answer had been standing right in front of you the whole time.
he wasn’t oblivious. he wasn’t just being polite. and he certainly didn’t go around inviting every dancer to family dinners or draping his jacket over anyone who looked cold.
he just liked someone enough to pay them a little extra attention. and unfortunately for your rapidly beating heart, that someone seemed to be you.
you looked up at him once more, expecting… honestly, you didn’t even know what.
an awkward laugh. confusion. or something that would make you more embarrassed than you already were.
instead, you were met with an expression that made your heart flutter.
his gaze was impossibly soft, carrying a warmth that told you everything you needed to know without him saying a single word. a small smile rested on his lips, barely there, while his wide eyes searched yours with quiet affection.
no. this definitely wasn’t the way he looked at everyone. the two of you simply stood there for a moment, neither willing to break the silence.
then, slowly, he stepped closer. without saying a word, he lifted his hand and gently cupped your cheek. your brain stopped working.
“you know,” he said quietly, “i wanted to ask you to be the leading lady in the film. the date.” he let out a small laugh, shaking his head.
“but then i noticed you avoiding me every chance you got.” his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek.
“i thought maybe you’d be uncomfortable with it.”
your heart sank. another missed opportunity.
“…oh.” it was all you managed to say. he chuckled softly.
“but i think that can be fixed.” his smile grew just a little. “i’ll forgive you…” he paused just long enough to make your heart race.
“…if you go on an actual movie date with me.” the world seemed to stop. “what do you think?”
your face burned almost instantly. you could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks as your breathing grew uneven. out of every possible outcome you had imagined… this one had never crossed your mind.
and somehow, that made it even harder to answer. you gulped, a shy smile creeping onto your face.
“well…” you could already feel your cheeks growing warmer beneath his hand.
“i would’ve loved to… but maybe after the dinner? if you’re still inviting me, that is.” a quiet laugh escaped you.
his smile only widened.
“how about we skip all that boring stuff?” he teased. “would you really be interested in hearing about jackie’s first-ever game of seven minutes in heaven? i don’t think so.” you couldn’t help but laugh.
“let’s just go straight to the cinema instead. snacks are on me, of course.” for a second, all you could do was stare at him. then another laugh slipped out.
“there is one problem, though,” he added dramatically. “you’ll have to be seen with a man wearing a terrible fake beard and boring office clothes, because i can’t exactly show up as michael jackson.”
you immediately pictured the disguise in your head and burst into laughter.
“okay,” you nodded, trying to catch your breath, “i think i can survive that.” his expression softened the moment he heard you laugh.
slowly, he brought his other hand up, gently cupping your second cheek until your face rested between his palms. your heart nearly stopped. before you could process what was happening, he leaned in, closing the distance between you.
everything around you disappeared. for about five seconds, the world seemed completely still. you were fairly certain you forgot how to breathe. you weren’t even sure if you’d remembered to close your eyes. when he finally pulled away, you stood there frozen, letting out a tiny, nervous giggle.
he grinned, giving you a playful wink.
“come on,” he said, already taking a step backward. “let’s get back to dancing. i’ve got so much adrenaline right now.” and before you could answer, he turned and hurried off down the hallway. for the second time that day, he looked seconds away from skipping with excitement.
you, meanwhile, remained rooted to the spot.
completely motionless. “…i think i need to sit down.”
okay i pull up 🆙(i’m not the biggest fan of this work and it was rushed but..you ought to appreciate)
