seen from China
seen from Belarus
seen from India
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from China
seen from Belgium
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Japan
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
Quiet Does Not Mean Empty
Chris: The quietest person in the room may still be carrying most of it.
THE GHOST WHO NAPS FOR MILLENNIA (aka: Young Justice accidentally adopts a sleeping eldritch cuddle-god)
Danny has recently discovered an unfortunate side-effect of becoming half-ghost: he can stay awake for weeks… sometimes months… but when the exhaustion finally hits?
He has to sleep for one to three thousand years.
No exaggeration. That’s the actual number.
Clockwork and Danny eventually figure out why. See, Danny once shoved the Time Amulet directly into his core (long story, very “teen hero makes choices”). His core—still growing—decided it was a snack, and started absorbing its power. His main core is still ice, but now it’s also merging with temporal energy.
Results: • Danny becomes basically immune to most time weirdness • His core gets a huge upgrade • His body needs absurdly long ghost-form rest cycles or he destabilizes
And Danny, being a family-oriented menace, refuses to lose centuries every time he goes down for a nap. So he and Clockwork come up with a workaround.
Whenever Danny is due for his big Sleep™, Clockwork sends him to a dimension where time runs differently. Danny gets a hidden bunker made of timeless materials—pillows, blankets, everything enchanted to never rot.
Also? They repurpose some of Pariah Dark’s Skeleton Army as caretakers. They tidy him, clean the bedding, set out snacks for when he stirs, and defend the room. Very respectful undead valets.
Unfortunately… the locals of that dimension eventually find the chamber.
They immediately start a cult.
They carve a hole in the ceiling to drop offerings down. The Skeleton Army allows it because the offerings include food and comfort items (“offerings” = “caretaking supplies”). All is peaceful.
Until the cult throws Bart Allen down the hole.
Directly onto Danny’s bed.
Intended as both a sacrifice and a living alarm clock.
When Wally finally arrives (ready to scoop Bart up and yeet them both to safety), he finds the Skeleton Army trying—very gently—to pry Bart out of Danny’s arms.
Danny, deep in his thousand-year coma, has adopted Bart like a teddy bear.
Wally: “…Uh.”
Bart, whispering: “I think they’re trying to save me? I guess the god cuddles?”
Wally: “Why don’t you just phase out?”
Bart: “What if I wake him up and he comes looking for me?! We need a replacement snuggle item!”
Cue Wally, sprinting around the world, bringing back armfuls of giant stuffed animals. None of which Danny accepts.
Bart, meanwhile, is having a surprisingly decent time. The Skeleton Army feeds him. The cult tossed video games down the hole. The bed is Top 10 Comfiest Surfaces In Known Reality.
He texts the Young Justice group chat.
And that’s when the chaos truly begins.
Young Justice decides that they will find a stuffed animal worthy of replacing Bart. They fail. Repeatedly.
Eventually they create a rotation system.
One member at a time becomes the Official Cuddle Substitute while Danny hibernates. They bring in a TV. Training equipment. Half-finished inventions. Snacks.
Danny’s sleeping chamber becomes an unofficial Young Justice hideout.
And then, one day, Danny wakes up.
Not dramatically. Not godlike.
Just… gets up.
The member on cuddle-duty is actually asleep, curled against him. Danny slips out carefully, follows the smell of coffee to the makeshift kitchen, and shuffles in like a grim reaper who hasn’t had his morning brew yet.
He gets handed a mug.
They chat.
It takes TEN FULL MINUTES before anyone realizes:
“OH WAIT. You’re… awake?? You’re NOT supposed to be awake—?
Danny: “Why is my bedroom a teen superhero clubhouse?”
Young Justice: “Okay but listen—
Readmore
✦ ALL OVER AGAIN ✦
02. FLATLINE
→ for three minutes, you were gone
theme: loss 💔
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ ZORO ✦
Zoro didn’t register Chopper’s voice at first.
He only heard fragments—too fast, too sharp. “No heartbeat—” “I’m trying—” “three minutes—” and then nothing made sense anymore except the sight of you lying still on the ground like the world had simply decided to stop holding you.
His hand stayed on his sword, but he wasn’t fighting anymore. Not the enemy. Not the war. Just the unbearable idea that the last time he’d spoken to you might’ve been the last time you ever heard him.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ SANJI ✦
Sanji was already moving before he realized it.
One second he was kicking someone across the field, the next he was on his knees beside you, blood on his gloves, hands shaking as Chopper yelled for space. The battlefield noise collapsed into something distant and unreal.
All he could hear was the absence of you. No breath. No reaction. Nothing. And the worst part wasn’t the silence—it was remembering the last thing he said to you before everything went wrong. Something sharp. Something panicked. Something he would’ve taken back a thousand times if he’d known there wouldn’t be a next moment.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ LUFFY ✦
Luffy didn’t understand what “no pulse” meant.
Not until he saw Chopper’s face. Not until he saw everyone freeze. Not until he grabbed your shoulder and shook you once—then again—then harder, like sheer force of will could restart something the world had already taken away.
“Hey,” he said, voice too quiet for someone like him. “Stop joking.”
But you didn’t. And for the first time, Luffy just… stopped moving too. Like if he stayed still enough, you’d decide to come back on your own.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ LAW ✦
Law didn’t panic easily.
He had seen death too many times to waste emotion on it. That was what he told himself—until he was the one checking your pulse and finding nothing but wrongness under his fingers.
“Again,” he ordered, voice flat. Controlled.
He tried again. Nothing changed.
And for a brief, terrifying moment, Law understood something he hated: knowledge didn’t protect him from fear. It just made it sharper. Because he already knew what three minutes meant. And he knew most people never came back from it.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ ACE ✦
Ace laughed at first.
Not because it was funny—but because his brain refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. “That’s not—hey, that’s not funny,” he muttered, stepping closer, grin cracking at the edges.
Then he saw Marco’s hands. Saw the stillness. Saw the way nobody was breathing with you anymore.
And the laugh died in his throat so completely it felt like something was ripping out of him. Because for three minutes, Ace Portgas D. Ace believed he had lost someone again—and this time, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ SABO ✦
Sabo arrived late.
That was the first thing he thought when he saw the crowd. Then he saw you. And suddenly time didn’t feel like something moving forward anymore—it felt like something collapsing in on itself.
He dropped to his knees beside you, calling your name once. Then again. Quieter the second time. Like saying it softly enough might fix it.
But there was no answer. Just silence stretching too long, too heavy, too final—until Koala finally said the words that made his breath stop too: “I got it back… I got a pulse.”
And Sabo realized he had been holding his breath like you were already gone.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
✦ YOU ✦
You don’t see it.
Not the screaming. Not the shaking hands. Not the way someone almost broke down right beside you while fighting to bring you back.
All you know is darkness—then noise—then air tearing into your lungs like punishment.
And when you finally open your eyes, everyone looks like they’ve been holding their breath for a lifetime…
like three minutes nearly became forever.
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
← previous: 01. LEFT BEHIND
✦ masterlist ✦
next → 03. DISTANCE
✦ ━━━━ .°• ♔ •°. ━━━━ ✦
Sweet meets the Family - Foxy (1/3)
Ash:
The Family tree is labeled.
Some people still walk face-first into the branches.
Note: The Ask box is open if you want to interact with the characters or influence the story.
[[ Bluepony belongs to @asksweetdisaster ]
until we dock
miles morales x blackfem reader | summer cruise AU
wc: 2.4k
lost? click previous chapter here!
a/n: sorry 4 late post guys i got distracted watching tonight's love island ep while writing...
resource tags // @cafekitsune // @honeyluvsw
somewhere between uno and lunch, your exit strategy disappears completely. one game became three and three soon became six. and somehow the one hour you'd promised to your mom had quietly turned into an entire afternoon.
"absolutely not." Miles slid a card onto the table dramatically. "nope. not happening."
"What are you talking about??" Naomi asked, poking her head out slightly.
"teams."
"there are no teams in uno." Amir chimed.
"okay well it is now, as group leader." Miles bickered, both of his hands flattening out his shorts.
you watched the argument unfold from beside him, trying not to laugh because you don't feel that in-place yet.
trying, and failing.
"Me and her."
"What?" you perked up.
"We're a team, partners." he said, scooting even closer to you. "you don't want to be partners with anyone else, they suck." his hands hovered over yours to see the deck of cards that you were holding. "may I?"
"okay so this is cheating—" Amir interrupted.
"we're strategizing." He reasoned, not even bothering to meet his eyes but intensely focusing on your cards like they were the holder to your secrets. his hand brushed briefly over yours as his scent got more familiar. "no no no no no—" he whispered beside you, "don't play that one." he suggested, gently tucking the card to the bottom of your deck. "okay so—we should save those, just in case—always save the skips." He whispered delicately, only for you.
"whatever you say.." you whisper back, staring at the cards like you understood what was going on, knew how to strategize an uno game...like match the colors/numbers and call it a day.
three turns later..
"BOOM." Miles slapped his hand on the table triumphantly as you placed the draw four exactly when he told you to.
the table erupted into groans and gasps.
"THAT'S NOT FAIR—"
"WTF???????!!!"
you just sat there with a shy smile on your face but you were definitely fighting back the biggest grin of your life, because you like to win just as much as he does, you're just more humble.
Miles slid his hand towards yours for a high five? dap? you couldn't tell, you just gulped and lightly pressed your hand onto his. immediately his hand slapped yours followed with a join of fingers.
"too easy."
and by the end of the third game you knew everyone's names.
Naomi, Kiara, Samira, Elias, Mateo, Amir, Jules, Elena and Miles of course.
Naomi was loud in a comforting way, the type of person who made friends with cashiers and would give you a pep talk in the club bathroom when you're seconds away from drunk calling your ex boyfriend. you liked her a lot.
The boys somehow managed to argue over absolutely everything and used one of the girls to break ties to justify their pointless arguments.
after that very intense uno tournament everyone just lingered around the table scrolling on their phones, occasionally looking over each others shoulders and sending each other videos even though they were an arm's length away from each other until Miles announced—
"im starving." he groaned, his arms extending along the headrests of the couch, his head lolling back in dramatic exhaustion.
"you always are, fatass." Mateo quipped, slapping his exposed Adam's apple playfully from behind.
Miles yelped and clutched his throat protectively, "its literally noon—how am i a fatass?!?"
"you're always the first one to get hungry, all you talk about is your next meal."
"psh—whatever. IM hungry so IM gonna eat." he murmured before his eyes softened meeting yours. "you hungry?"
to be honest you've been starving for the past hour, clutching your stomach every time it threatened to growl but didn't want to say anything out of anxiety.
you shrugged. "i could eat."
everyone ended up at one of the casual restaurants overlooking the water, floor to ceiling windows framed the endless blue ocean.
you couldn't help but notice the ridiculous size of Miles' burger, literally the size of your head.
"wow." you could've sworn you said that in your head.
"what??" He said, his hand palming the burger on both sides adjusting his grip as he decided what position should be the best bite.
"thats huge"
"protein." he quipped before taking a generous bite.
before you could even answer Naomi came back from the bathroom. "oh my god wait." she pointed at your shorts, "those are so cute."
you looked down instinctively. "these?"
"yes those."
"thanksss" you said shyly.
"where are they from??! i need them."
that somehow became a 20 minute conversation over pasta and apple juice. shorts became tops, jewelry, and then hairstyles. interactions like these always reminded you of how much of a social butterfly you could be once brought out of your shell.
you guys ended up exchanging socials and now just complimenting each other back and forth.
"oh my gosh this picture of you looks so good wtffffff, sickening." she gasped softly.
"yeahh i love my digital camera, i use it for pictures more than my phone."
"what camera?? Don't gatekeep, the quality is amazingggggg i love the orange flash thingy." she begged, looking over your pictures for the millionth time.
"the g7x, i got it as a gift."
"i want the g7x so baddddddd" she whined animatedly before lighting up with a thought, "do you have it on you!??"
"uhhh not right now but it's charging in my room." you said with a soft sigh feeling her disappointment. "but i can get it later—"
"REALLY??" she squealed happily.
Miles raised his eyebrow mid bite and tipped towards you both. "what are you guys screaming about??"
"camera." you both said in unison.
"you have a camera?" his finger pointed to you.
"not right nowww." you explained.
"HER PICTURES ARE SO CUTE" Naomi interrupted, shoving your instagram page in his face. his eyebrows softly raised as his hand slowly gravitated towards Naomi's phone.
he stared and snooped for a good minute.
longest minute of your life.
his lips slowly formed a big smile, still not looking up yet.
"these are niceeeee" he said softly. "really nice." he repeated, softly, almost to himself.
eventually someone suggested the pool, the answer was immediate.
"YES."
the group started moving almost instantly, but you hung back, not because you wanted to.
your phone buzzed.
Mom: alive?
You smiled.
You: yes :)
Mom: did you survive
You: shockingly yes
Mom: friends???
You: i think so actually
Three dots appeared immediately.
Mom: OH MY GOD
You laughed.
You: don't make it weird
Mom: too late
You: mom.
Mom: IM PROUD OF YOU
You were so distracted typing that you didn't realize the group had disappeared around the corner.
"Everything okay?"
You looked up.
Miles.
"Oh."
"okay—that's twice now."
"what?"
"you saying 'oh' when you see me. im starting to think you don't want me around you." he teased with a playful pout.
"no its not—"
"it definitely is."
He slowed his pace until he was walking beside you in unison. "you good?"
"yeah."
"sure?"
you nodded reassuringly. "just texting my mom."
"cute."
you laughed softly. "she wanted updates."
for a moment none of you said anything.
then,
"you know how to swim?"
you looked over. "enough to survive."
He blinked.
"what does that— either yes or no."
"It means if i get thrown into the pool i probably wont die."
"probably?"
"no promises."
He looked horrified.
"That's concerning." he said looking genuinely baffled. "that's a vital survival skill, you cant just halfass it! you never know!" He walked with his hands on his hips now, lecture ready. "but no worries, i was a lifeguard."
you looked over. "really?"
"mhm." he said proudly. "even saved a kid once. im a hero." he beamed.
you giggled lightly. "did you have to give cpr?"
"i mean—yeah, you HAVE to be cpr certified for any lifeguard job."
"hm. what else do you do?" you asked, your phone forgotten in your hand.
"i can do flips." he said, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to bring it up.
"oh brother."
"im serious. i can do a handstand underwater and everything!"
He pointed at you. "i could teach you."
you blinked.
"i'm a great teacher. you'll be in good hands."
you rolled your eyes. "the ego is insane."
"not ego, its confidence, and the confidence is very much earned, thank you." he sassed.
"sure."
"it is."
"sure."
"it is."
you laughed.
again.
The pool deck was chaos, music blasted from overhead speakers, kids ran through puddles, people claimed lounge chairs even though nobody owned them.
The boys immediately launched themselves into the water. no discussion.
splash.
chicken fights, someone nearly went blind from chlorine, the boys choking on water one too many times.
meanwhile— you and Naomi occupied two lounge chairs near the edge of the pool.
"your tan lines are insane."
she looked down proudly. "i work very hard for these." her torso bent to the side getting something out of her tote bag, a bottle of tanning oil. "THEEEE holy grail."
"those really work?"
"you see the credentials!" she said displaying her tan lines again. "you can use some girl, no problem."
"really?—you sure."
"yes of course! turn around ill get your back" she said carelessly positioning herself, beginning to lather the warm oil on her hands.
"this friendship is moving so fast." you chuckled.
"yes. i love it." Naomi said, her chin briefly resting on your shoulder affectionately before rubbing the oil on every crevice of your back for the most crisp tan lines and the afternoon settled around you two easily.
music, sunshine, and conversations.
you talked about college, music, clothes. just life.
Naomi told stories about cruise culture like an anthropologist documenting rare species.
"the cruise flirting is insane."
you laughed. "really?"
every once in a while you caught Miles looking over. not staring, just looking, sometimes he'd smile or do an over excited wave before getting slammed into the pool by one of his friends or yell something across the water.
the strange thing was it didn't feel awkward, nothing today had.
Earlier this morning these people had been strangers, now Naomi was your soul sister.
"a guy did like 20 pull ups on a random bar for my number yesterday." she chuckled out.
"did you give it to him??" you asked as you rubbed the remaining oil on your chest and legs.
"nah."
you both erupted in laughter.
ꔫ Something like you ꔫ
pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader
After moving into a new apartment, you (a pediatric doctor) get pulled into your neighbor Jungkook’s life when his toddler daughter Ellie gets sick late at night. Jungkook immediately recognizes you as his gentle ex from years ago, while it takes you longer to see past the tattoos and the strong single-dad version of the boy you once dated. What begins as helping with a fever slowly turns into shared meals, park walks, late-night talks, and quiet domestic moments. Ellie quickly becomes attached, reaching for you first and even calling you by name. As the days pass, you and Jungkook fall back into each other — this time slower, deeper, and far more intentional. The love is mature, sensual, and so easy it feels almost scary. Even when your ex Yeonjun reappears hoping for another chance, your heart already knows where it belongs: across the landing, with a man who refuses to let you go again and a little girl who chose you from the very first night.
ꔫ genre: exes to strangers to lovers · single dad au · fluff · angst · smut · found family · slow burn
ꔫ warnings: explicit sexual content, smut, penetrative sex, oral sex, fingering, praise, soft dom, strong language, past family loss/grief, single guardian, child illness, light jealousy, found family, toddler being irresistibly cute
ꔫ author’s note: she makes it so easy to fall, he thinks. And this time they’re not rushing; they’re choosing. (The continuation story featuring Yeonjun will be posted separately soon.)
ꔫ song: From The Start — Laufey
You’ve been here two weeks and the place still smells like fresh paint and the green iced tea you keep in the fridge—extra lemon, always, because anything less feels like a betrayal.
You’re left-handed, so the smudges on the canvas propped against the living-room wall are exactly where they should be. It’s a half-finished night scene: streetlights blurred by rain, the kind of nostalgic blur you chase when the hospital pager isn’t screaming. You hum along to an old Olivia Dean track playing low from your phone, the one that always makes you feel a little too much. I could be the twist, the one to make you stop…
Your eyes are heavy. The kind of sleepy that comes after a twelve-hour shift and too much chocolate from the corner store. You love that sleepy feeling—it’s honest. You used to be louder, brighter, a little chaotic when happiness hit. Now you’re calmer, steadier. But when the rare free evening stretches out and the music is right, that old crazy-happy version of you still peeks out, dancing alone in socks across the wooden floor like no one’s watching.
You’re wiping a streak of blue from your left thumb when the knock comes.
Not the polite daytime knock, no this one is urgent, three sharp raps that cut straight through the rain and the song.
You glance at the clock—12:17 a.m. Your hair is twisted up in a messy knot, paint on your oversized sweater, bare feet cold on the floor. You open the door anyway.
The man standing there is tall, shoulders filling the frame, black hoodie damp from the rain. Raindrops cling to dark hair that falls across his forehead. His arms are crossed tight like he’s holding something back, and the ink peeking from his sleeves—full sleeves, bold lines, no hesitation—catches the hallway light. He looks strong. Solid. Nothing like the boy you remember from seven years ago.
But his eyes.
Those eyes hit you first. Wide, dark, frantic.
“Hi,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’m sorry—it’s late. I wouldn’t… I heard rumors. The new neighbor in 5D is a kids’ doctor?”
You nod once, professional even at midnight. “Pediatric resident, yeah. What’s wrong?”
He exhales like the words have been choking him. “My daughter. Ellie. She’s two and a half. The fever started fast—really fast. She’s burning up, coughing and won’t settle. I gave her the usual stuff but it’s not coming down and I—” His jaw flexes. “I’m across the landing. 5C. I know it’s late but I didn’t know who else—”
Something in the way he says Ellie tugs at a memory you can’t quite place yet. You grab your bag from the hook by the door—stethoscope, thermometer, the small kit you always keep ready. “Let me get shoes. Two minutes.”
He waits in the hallway, shifting his weight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. You notice the tattoos again—delicate script on one wrist, something bolder climbing toward his elbow. Strong. Changed. Not the lanky twenty-year-old who used to laugh quietly at your bad jokes.
You step out, lock the door, and follow him across the landing. The hallway light flickers once.
Inside 5C the apartment is warm but tense. A small night-light shaped like a cloud glows in the corner. Toys are scattered in neat baskets—someone keeps order even when the world tilts. On the couch, under a soft blanket, is Ellie.
She’s tiny, cheeks flushed bright red, dark lashes fluttering against fevered skin. Her breathing is too fast, a little raspy. She clutches a stuffed bear like it’s the only steady thing left.
You kneel beside her immediately, left hand gentle on her forehead. Hot. Too hot. “Hey, sweet girl,” you murmur, voice soft the way it always gets with little patients. “I’m here to help, okay?”
Ellie’s eyes open—big, glassy, the same shape as the man hovering behind you. She doesn’t cry. Just watches you with that quiet toddler trust that breaks hearts.
You work fast but calm: temperature, ears, throat, lungs. “103.8. Sounds like an ear infection brewing on top of a virus. We need to bring this fever down safely.” You glance up at him. “Do you have children’s ibuprofen? Cool cloths? I can walk you through—”
He’s already moving, handing you the medicine bottle like he’s been holding it ready for hours. His hands are steady but his eyes are raw. “She’s never been this sick before. Not like this.”
You dose her carefully, help him cool her with damp cloths. Ellie leans into your touch without hesitation, small fingers curling around your left wrist like she’s claiming it. The calm version of you stays in control, but something warmer flickers underneath— that old crazy-happy spark, quiet for now, but awake.
Ten minutes later the fever starts its slow drop. Ellie’s breathing evens out. She drifts, still holding your wrist.
Only then do you really look at him again.
He’s crouched on the other side of the couch, elbows on knees, watching you both. The tattoos, the broader chest, the jawline sharpened by years—you tilt your head.
Something clicks. Slow. Like a song you haven’t heard since you were eighteen.
“Wait…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Jungkook?”
His eyes meet yours and the relief in them is immediate, almost painful. He knew the second he saw you in the doorway. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “It’s me.”
You sit back on your heels. The boy you dated for one soft, sunlit year at the very end of your teens—the one who used to trace invisible patterns on your palm and say he was always calculating how to make you smile—is now this man. Inked. Strong. Carrying the weight of a sick toddler and a life that clearly didn’t go easy.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I recognized you the day you moved in. The way you hum when you’re unlocking your door... I didn’t say anything because… well, it’s been seven years. And Ellie was already sick yesterday. I figured I’d just… stay out of your way.” A small, tired smile. “Then tonight happened.”
Ellie makes a soft sound in her sleep, fingers tightening on your wrist.
You swallow. Nostalgia hits like the rain outside, steady, impossible to ignore. “You look… different. Good different. Stronger.”
He shrugs one shoulder, but his gaze stays on you. “Life does that. You look the same. Still sleepy-eyed. Still beautiful.” The last part slips out like he couldn’t stop it. He clears his throat. “Thank you. For coming. I didn’t know who else—”
“You don’t have to explain,” you say, calm again, but your heart is doing something complicated. “I’m glad I was here.”
The rain keeps tapping. Olivia Dean is still playing faintly from your apartment across the landing, the chorus drifting through the cracked door you left open. ’Cause I make it so easy to fall in love…
Jungkook hears it too. His eyes flick toward the sound, then back to you. Something soft and wondering crosses his face.
You close your apartment door behind you with a soft click that sounds way too loud in the quiet hallway. The rain is still going, softer now, like it’s decided to mind its own business. Your sweater smells faintly like Jungkook’s apartment—warm laundry and that faint baby-powder scent that clings to sick toddlers. You lean your back against the wood for a second, bag sliding down your arm to the floor with a dull thud.
“What the hell just happened?” you mutter to the empty room.
Your voice comes out half-laugh, half-groan. You drag a hand down your face, left thumb still smudged with blue paint, and shuffle straight to the fridge. The green iced tea is waiting—extra lemon, the slices floating like little life rafts. You take a long sip straight from the bottle because glasses feel like too much effort right now. The cold hits your teeth and wakes you up just enough to laugh again, this time properly.
Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook. With tattoos. And shoulders. And a daughter.
You sink onto the couch, the half-finished canvas staring at you like it knows you’re distracted. Seven years. You were eighteen and he was twenty, the kind of young where love felt like staying up until 3 a.m. sharing earbuds and laughing at nothing. Gentle. Easy in that teenage-end-of-adulthood way. It ended because life pulled you in different directions,your scholarship, his family stuff, both of you too soft and too scared to fight for it. No drama, no scars. Just… faded.
And now he has a kid.
Ellie.
You stare at the ceiling, tea bottle cold against your chest. “He has a daughter now,” you say out loud, testing how it sounds. It sounds ridiculous. And kind of… nice? No. Weird. Definitely weird. “Guess he got married. Or… something. People do that. Grow up. Have babies. Get tattoos that look really good—wait, no, brain, stop.”
A snort escapes you. You’re tired, nostalgic, and a little bit giddy in that confusing post-midnight way. The calm version of you wants to file this away neatly: helpful neighbor moment, done. The old crazy-happy part—the one that used to blast music and dance in socks—is already replaying the way his voice dropped when he said “You look the same. Still beautiful.”
You groan and reach for the half-eaten chocolate bar on the coffee table. Dark chocolate with caramel swirls. “You win some and you lose some,” you tell the chocolate like it’s your therapist. “He’s probably married. Or has a partner. Hot single dad with a sick kid at midnight? That’s someone’s whole fantasy. Not mine. I have shifts and paint and this tea that cost too much. Moving on.”
You take a big bite. The caramel sticks to your teeth. Nostalgia hits harder than expected—memories of him tracing patterns on your palm, calling you “lefty” in that soft voice, the way he used to hum along to whatever song you played even if he didn’t know the words. He looked different tonight. Stronger. Like life had pressed on him and he pressed back. The tattoos suited him. Made him look… safe. Capable. The kind of man who’d knock on a stranger’s door at midnight because his baby was sick.
You shake your head, laughing quietly at yourself. “Get it together. You’re a doctor. You helped a kid. That’s it. Tomorrow you’ll probably never see him again except awkward hallway nods.”
But your left wrist still feels warm where Ellie held it. And the song from earlier is stuck in your head, you hum a few bars, off-key on purpose, then switch to something louder and sillier just to shake the feeling. You end up dancing a little in the middle of the living room, socks slipping on the floor, chocolate in one hand, iced tea in the other, laughing because this is ridiculous and your heart is doing stupid fluttery things it has no business doing.
Eventually you collapse into bed, paint still on your hands, mind a messy swirl of fever checks, dark eyes, and the quiet fear in Jungkook’s voice when he talked about Ellie. Sleep comes fast, but it’s full of half-dreams: small hands, rain on windows, and a man who used to be a boy looking at you like seven years hadn’t happened at all.
The next day is a long shift—crying babies, worried parents, the usual chaos that keeps your hands busy and your mind mostly focused. Mostly. Every quiet moment your brain wanders back to 5C. Ellie’s flushed cheeks. Jungkook’s tired shoulders. The way he said your name like it still fit in his mouth.
By the time you get home it’s past nine at night. Your feet hurt. Your scrubs smell like hospital. You stopped at the 24-hour pharmacy on the way, picking up a bottle of children’s fever medicine, the good kind, the one with the little syringe for accurate dosing. You also grabbed a small pack of those honey-lemon cough drops that are gentle on tiny throats. Practical. Neighborly. Not because you couldn’t stop thinking about them. Definitely not.
You stand in front of 5C for a long minute, bag in hand, debating. Just leave it. Knock? No knock. Knocking feels like opening a door you’re not sure you want open. Leaving it feels… safe. Polite.
You crouch down, left hand steady, and set the small paper bag right against his door. A quick note on the back of a pharmacy receipt: For Ellie — fever reducer + gentle cough drops. Dose is on the box. Hope she’s feeling better. — 5D
You straighten up, brush your hands on your scrubs, and whisper to the door like an idiot, “Night, little one. Get better.”
Then you slip back into your apt, lock the door, and immediately go for the chocolate again. One square. Two. The green iced tea joins you on the couch while you put on the same song, volume low. You stare at the half-finished painting and try not to smile at how your heart feels lighter than it should after a twelve-hour shift.
“He has a daughter,” you remind yourself again, softer this time. “Probably married. Or dating someone really lucky. You’re just the nice doctor neighbor now.”
But the thought doesn’t land as heavy as it did last night. Instead it feels… curious and warm.
Two days slip by in a quiet haze of shifts, half-finished canvases, and the familiar comfort of green iced tea. You keep the volume low while you paint, the lyrics wrapping around thoughts you refuse to examine too closely.
You don’t see them. You tell yourself that’s fine. Normal, even.
Until the afternoon you decide you need new painting supplies.
The little art store two blocks from the building is your happy place—shelves of brushes, tubes of color that smell like possibility, the kind of calm that makes the hospital feel far away. You load your basket with cadmium yellow, a new set of brushes, and a heavy pad of thick watercolor paper that costs more than it should. By the time you step outside, the bag is digging into your left shoulder, your right hand balancing another smaller one. The sky is gray but not raining yet. Your stomach growls once, reminding you that skipping meals for extra sleep or a long bath is a habit that’s catching up to you.
You’re adjusting the strap when a voice comes from behind, low and familiar.
“Here—let me take that before it snaps your arm off.”
A hand reaches past you, gentle but sure, lifting the heavy bag from your shoulder. You turn, startled, and there he is.
Jungkook.
He looks different in daylight—black t-shirt stretched across broader shoulders, tattoos fully visible now, curling up both arms in bold, deliberate lines. A small silver chain rests against his collarbone. His hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times. In his other hand he holds a small shopping bag of his own—probably something for Ellie.
He offers a small, almost shy smile. “Hey. 5D.”
You blink, the weight gone from your shoulder leaving you oddly lighter. “Jungkook. Hi.”
“I saw you from across the street. That bag looked like it was winning.” He nods toward the art store. “Painting stuff?”
“Yeah. Watercolors. I… paint a little when I have time. Which isn’t often.” You rub your left shoulder absently, still processing how easily he just stepped in. “Thanks for the rescue. I always overestimate how much I can carry when I’m in there.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and low, nothing like the frantic tone from two nights ago. “No problem. Least I can do after you showed up at midnight like some kind of miracle doctor.” His eyes meet yours, direct and sincere. “Ellie’s doing a lot better. The medicine you left helped bring the fever down faster. She slept through the night. I… I can’t thank you enough. Really.”
You feel heat creep up your neck, a mix of professional pride and something softer. “I’m glad. Ear infections can sneak up fast on little ones. How’s she been since?”
“Grumpy but eating again. She keeps asking for the ‘nice lady with cold hands.’” He shifts the heavy bag to his other hand like it weighs nothing. “She’s two and a half going on thirty. Already has opinions about everything.”
You laugh despite yourself, the sound lighter than you expected. “Sounds about right for that age. They’re tiny dictators with the best hearts.”
There’s a small pause, comfortable but charged. People walk past on the sidewalk, carrying their own bags, living their own afternoons. Jungkook glances toward a restaurant just down the block—a cozy place with big windows and outdoor tables, the kind that always smells like fresh bread and herbs. The sign says “Luna’s Table” and you’ve heard coworkers rave about their food being stupidly good.
He clears his throat. “Look, I know it’s sudden, but… would you let me buy you lunch? As a proper thank you. They have crazy good pasta and salads here. Nothing fancy, but it’s honest food. My treat. You helped my daughter when I was losing my mind, It’s the least I can do.”
You hesitate, mouth opening on instinct to say no. You’re one of those people who would rather sink into a hot bath with music playing or steal an extra hour of sleep than sit down for a proper meal when time is tight. Your shift starts in a couple of hours. You already planned to skip lunch, maybe grab something quick later if you remembered.
But then Ellie’s voice cuts through the moment.
From behind Jungkook’s leg, a small head peeks out. She must have been standing there quietly the whole time, holding onto his jeans with one hand, her stuffed bear dangling from the other. Her cheeks are still a little pink from the leftover fever, but her eyes are bright and focused—on you.
“Nice lady,” she says, clear and serious for such a tiny person. She tugs Jungkook’s hand once. “Lunch. With nice lady.”
Jungkook looks down at her, surprised but softening instantly. “Ellie-ya, we don’t have to—”
She nods like the decision is already made, then looks straight at you with those big, trusting eyes. “Please? Appa says you make fevers go away. You come eat too.”
The words hit like a gentle nudge from the universe. You glance at the time on your phone. You do need to eat something real before the shift or you’ll be running on fumes and chocolate again. Saying no to a sick toddler who just asked so politely feels… impossible. Like it was written that you’d end up here.
You exhale a soft laugh, shaking your head at the absurdity and the warmth blooming in your chest. “Well… if Ellie’s asking, how can I say no? Lunch sounds good. But only if it’s quick—I have a shift starting soon and I’m terrible at remembering to eat when I get busy.”
Jungkook’s face lights up with quiet relief, the kind that makes the tattoos and the strong frame seem less intimidating and more… human. “Quick it is. Promise. And thank you. Again.”
The three of you walk the short distance to Luna’s Table. Jungkook carries your heavy bag without complaint, Ellie holding his free hand and occasionally glancing back at you like she’s making sure you’re still there. Inside, the restaurant is warm and inviting—wooden tables, soft lighting, the smell of garlic and fresh basil wrapping around you like a hug.
You slide into a booth across from him. Ellie climbs up beside her dad, bear in her lap, watching you with open curiosity.
Jungkook hands you a menu. “Their carbonara is ridiculous. Or the lemon chicken if you want something lighter. Whatever you want.”
You order the lemon chicken—something bright and easy—while he gets pasta for himself and a small kid’s portion of plain noodles with butter for Ellie. Conversation starts slow but flows easier than you expected.
“So… painting,” he says, nodding toward the bag he set beside the table. “You always had that creative side. I remember you doodling on napkins during lectures.”
You smile, a nostalgic flicker warming your cheeks. “Still do. It’s my way of unwinding. Hospital days can get heavy. What about you? Those tattoos are new. They suit you.”
He glances down at his arms, flexing one hand almost self-consciously. “Got them over the last few years. Each one means something. Life… got complicated after we lost touch. But they remind me I can carry things and still keep going.”
You nod, understanding more than you let on. The food arrives quickly. Ellie pokes at her noodles with a fork that’s too big for her, but she eats steadily, occasionally offering a piece of buttered noodle to her bear.
Jungkook watches you for a moment, then says quietly, “I didn’t expect to run into you like this. Or at all. But I’m glad. Really glad.”
You take a bite of the lemon chicken, and feel that pull again. The mature version of whatever you once had. Not the light teenage rush. Something deeper. Steadier. Like two adults who know how heavy life can get, but sitting here makes it feel lighter.
Ellie suddenly pushes a noodle toward you on her fork. “Try. Good.”
You lean in and take the bite she offers, making an exaggerated happy sound that makes her giggle. The sound is small but bright, cutting through the restaurant noise.
Jungkook’s eyes soften as he watches the exchange. “She doesn’t do that with just anyone.”
The meal passes too quickly—easy talk about shifts, his work from home in tech, how Ellie loves watching rain on the window.
When it’s time to go, Jungkook insists on paying, then carries your supplies all the way back to the building. Ellie waves at you with both hands as they head toward 5C.
You step into 5D, heart doing that confusing, fluttering thing again. Lunch. With your ex from seven years ago and his daughter. Because a toddler asked.
You laugh to yourself, already reaching for the iced tea, again.“This is getting ridiculous.”
But the smile stays longer than it should.
And for the first time in a long while, skipping a relaxing bath doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.
The lunch lingers in your mind longer than it should.
Not the food—though the lemon chicken really was stupidly good—but the way Jungkook carried your heavy supplies without making a big deal out of it. The easy way he listened when you mentioned a tough case from your shift last week. How Ellie kept sneaking glances at you over her noodles, like she was quietly adding you to her small list of important things.
You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia doing its thing, justlike... like old connections resurfacing because of a midnight fever scare and a random sidewalk meeting. Nothing more.
But two evenings later, you’re proven wrong again.
You come home from your shift exhausted, the kind of tired that makes your hand feel clumsy when you try to unlock your door, and all you want is a long, hot bath with music playing low and maybe one square of chocolate before sleep claims you. You’re already picturing it—steam, JVKE humming through the speaker, the calm version of you finally winning the day.
Then you hear it.
Soft crying from across the landing. is not dramatic, just the small, hiccuping sound of a toddler who’s had enough.
You pause, key halfway in the lock. The crying stops for a second, then starts again, quieter. A man’s voice murmurs something soothing—Jungkook. You can’t make out the words, but the tone is tired, patient, edged with worry.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you cross the landing and knock lightly on 5C.
The door opens almost immediately. Jungkook looks wrecked in the softest way—hair messy, t-shirt rumpled, one shoulder of it stained with what might be spit-up or tears. Ellie is in his arms, face buried in his neck, her small body still shaking with leftover sobs. Her eyes are puffy, nose running, and she’s clutching her bear like it’s the only thing keeping her together.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Sorry if we’re loud. She’s been… off since the fever. Teething on top of everything, I think. Nothing’s working tonight.”
You don’t hesitate. “Can I come in for a minute?”
He steps aside without question.
Inside, the apartment is dimly lit, the cloud night-light glowing again. You set your bag down and wash your hands quickly in the kitchen sink out of habit. Ellie peeks at you from Jungkook’s shoulder, her crying slowing to sniffles when she recognizes you.
“Nice lady,” she mumbles, reaching one small hand toward you.
Your chest does something complicated. You take her hand gently, left thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Hi, Ellie. Rough night?”
She nods solemnly, then holds her bear out to you like an offering. “Bori sad too.”
You take the bear with both hands—your left one steady as always—and press a soft kiss to its worn head, the way you’ve learned little kids sometimes need. “There. Bori feels better now. See?”
Ellie watches with wide eyes, then leans forward, arms out. Jungkook transfers her to you without a word, and suddenly you’re holding a warm, sniffly toddler who tucks her face into your neck like she belongs there. She smells like baby shampoo and faint medicine.
Jungkook rubs the back of his neck, watching the two of you. “You’re good at this. Really good. I’ve read every book and I still feel like I’m guessing half the time.”
You sway gently with Ellie, the motion automatic from years of pediatric work. “Books help, but sometimes they just need to feel safe. She’s had a lot this week—fever, new teeth, new neighbor showing up at midnight.” You smile softly. “She’s allowed to be overwhelmed.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. We both are.”
Ellie’s sobs taper off completely as you hum a low, wordless tune—the same melody that’s been stuck in your head for days. She relaxes against you, small fingers playing with the collar of your scrubs. The calm version of you stays steady, but that old spark of crazy-happy flickers again, quiet joy at how easily she trusts.
Jungkook leans against the counter, arms crossed, tattoos shifting with the movement. “I keep thinking about that lunch. How you said yes even though you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else. Ellie basically guilted you into it.”
“She’s very persuasive,” you say, still swaying. “And the food was worth it. I usually skip meals when I’m tired—prefer a bath or sleep. But… it was nice. Really nice.”
His eyes linger on you a beat longer than necessary. “It was. For me too.” A pause. “Listen, I know you just got home and you’re probably dead on your feet. But if you’re not in a hurry… stay for a bit? I can make you that green iced tea you seem to live on. Extra lemon. I noticed the slices when you were here the other night.”
You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things,” he says simply, no flirtation, just honest.
The words land soft but heavy. Mature. Like he’s not playing games anymore—he’s a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to say the small truths out loud. The way life hit him hard enough to leave tattoos and tired eyes. The way you’ve both changed but somehow still fit in the quiet moments.
Ellie makes a small, contented sound against your neck, her breathing slowing.
You nod. “Tea sounds good. Just for a little while. Then I really should soak in the tub before I pass out.”
He moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, slicing lemons with the kind of care that says he’s used to doing things precisely. You settle on the couch with Ellie, who has gone almost completely limp, trusting you to hold her while her dad works.
When he brings the glass over—perfectly sweetened, extra lemon floating on top—he sits on the other end of the couch, giving you space but not distance. The tea is exactly right. Cold and refreshing in a way that cuts through your exhaustion.
“Thank you,” you murmur after the first sip. “For this.”
Jungkook watches you over the rim of his own water glass. and glances at Ellie, then back at you, voice lower. “I thought about you a lot after you moved in. Before the fever night. Wondered if you’d remember me. If you’d want to.”
You take another sip, the tart lemon waking you up just enough. “I did remember. Eventually. You look… different. Stronger. Like you’ve carried a lot and came out the other side.”
“I have,” he admits quietly. “Ellie’s mom—my brother’s wife—passed with him in an accident. I became her guardian overnight. It changed everything. Made me grow up fast. The tattoos… some are for them. Some are for her. Reminders that I can keep going.”
The confession sits between you, honest and raw but not heavy in a way that demands fixing. You reach over and squeeze his hand once—left hand, paint still faintly under your nails. “You’re doing it. She’s lucky to have you.”
He turns his palm up, fingers brushing yours. The touch is simple. Steady. “And now you’re here. Across the landing. Making fevers go away and letting my daughter guilt you into lunch.” A small smile. “It feels… easy. In a way I didn’t expect. Like it doesn’t have to be complicated this time.”
Your heart does a slow, deliberate flip. Not the giddy teenage rush. Something deeper. Warmer. The kind of mature pull where two people who know life isn’t always gentle still make the hard parts softer just by existing in the same space.
Ellie stirs slightly, murmuring “nice lady” in her sleep before settling again.
You don’t pull your hand away.
The tea is cold by the time you finish it. The bath can wait a little longer tonight.
Because right now, sitting on his couch with a sleeping toddler in your arms and the man you once loved looking at you like you make everything simpler, falling feels less like a risk and more like the most natural thing in the world.
Weeks pass in the gentle rhythm that only new routines can create.
Mornings start to feel different. You still wake up to the soft hum of your alarm, still reach for the green iced tea first thing—extra lemon slices always ready in the fridge—but now there’s the occasional sound of small footsteps and a low, patient voice from across the landing. Ellie has taken to “patrolling” the hallway some mornings, her bear tucked under one arm, calling out “nice lady?” in her tiny, determined voice if your door opens even a crack.
Jungkook always apologizes when he catches her, but his eyes smile more than his mouth does these days.
One Saturday morning, three weeks after the midnight fever night, you’re painting in the living room with the window cracked open. The canvas is finally coming together—a rainy street scene with warm window lights bleeding into the gray. Your left hand moves steadily, smudging just enough to feel right. Olivia plays low in the background, the same songs looping because it matches the quiet ache in your chest you can’t quite name yet.
A knock interrupts the brushstrokes.
You open the door to find Jungkook holding two paper cups and Ellie standing beside him in a bright yellow sweater, bear dangling from her fingers.
“Delivery,” he says, lifting one cup. “Green iced tea. Extra lemon. I asked the café guy to make it exactly how you like it—told him it was for the doctor who saved my daughter from a meltdown.”
Ellie holds up her own small cup with both hands. “Juice. For me.”
You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been in days, and step aside to let them in. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” Jungkook replies simply. He sets the cups on your table, careful not to disturb the paint supplies. “Also, Ellie insisted we check if you were painting today. She’s been talking about ‘colors on paper’ since the art store.”
Ellie toddles straight to your canvas, stopping a safe distance away like she knows not to touch. She points with one small finger. “Pretty rain. Like outside.”
You crouch beside her, left hand still holding the brush. “Yeah, baby. It’s supposed to feel like the rain we had last week. Want to see how I mix the gray?”
She nods solemnly. You let her watch as you blend colors on the palette, explaining in simple words. Jungkook leans against the wall, arms crossed, tattoos shifting as he watches the two of you. There’s something soft and wondering in his expression—like he’s still getting used to how naturally you fit into their mornings.
Later, while Ellie sits on the floor carefully arranging your spare brushes by size (her new favorite game), Jungkook helps you clean a few palettes in the sink. His shoulder brushes yours once, warm and solid.
“You’re calmer than I remember,” he says quietly, not looking at you. “Back then you were all bright chaos—dancing in the dorm kitchen at 2 a.m., dragging me to late-night food stalls. Now… you seem settled. In a good way.”
You rinse a brush under the water, left hand steady. “Life taught me to slow down. Long shifts do that. But the crazy-happy part still comes out when I have time. I danced around the living room last week after a good painting session. Almost knocked over the tea.”
He smiles, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’d like to see that sometime.”
The words hang between you, easy and heavy at the same time.
The weeks keep unfolding like that—small, overlapping moments that build without anyone forcing them.
Some evenings Jungkook knocks with leftovers because “I made too much again.” Ellie always brings her bear and insists on sitting next to you on the couch. You start keeping extra chocolate in a bowl on the table because she’s discovered she likes the caramel kind “a little bit.”
One Thursday night after your shift, you come home to find a small package outside your door: new lemon slices pre-cut in a container and a note in Jungkook’s neat handwriting. For your iced tea stash. Ellie helped pick the lemons. — 5C
You stand in the hallway smiling like an idiot, the calm version of you melting into something warmer.
Another afternoon, you run into them at the small park nearby. Ellie is on the swings, Jungkook pushing her gently. When she spots you, she demands “push with Appa!” so you end up on one side, Jungkook on the other, both of you laughing as Ellie squeals with delight. Her laughter is small and bright, cutting through the autumn air like the best kind of song.
Later, sitting on a bench while Ellie collects leaves, Jungkook leans back, stretching his inked arms along the backrest.
“I think about you a lot,” he admits, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Not just because you’re across the landing. Because you make things feel… easier. I’ve been carrying a lot since my brother and his wife—Ellie’s parents—were gone. The guilt, the fear I’m not enough for her. But when you’re here, even just for tea or a walk, it feels lighter. Like I can breathe.”
You look at him, really look—the strong line of his jaw, the tattoos that tell stories he hasn’t fully shared yet, the quiet strength in how he watches his daughter. “You are enough, Jungkook. She knows it. I see it every time she reaches for you.”
He turns his head, eyes meeting yours. “And you? Do you know how easy it is to fall with you? Not the young, messy way we were before. This feels… mature. Real. Like two people who’ve seen harder days still choosing the soft ones together.”
“I feel it too,” you say softly. “It’s scary how easy it is. But good scary.”
Ellie runs back then, arms full of colorful leaves, demanding you both admire her collection. The moment breaks, but the warmth stays.
That night, after they’ve gone back to 5C and you’re alone with your canvas and iced tea, you put on Olivia Dean again. The lyrics feel different now, less like a memory and more like a promise.
You dance a little in the living room, socks sliding, that old crazy-happy spark flaring brighter. Laughing at yourself because this—neighbor knocks, toddler leaf collections, quiet confessions on park benches—is becoming your new normal.
The weeks had settled into something quietly beautiful, but one Thursday evening cracked it open wider.
You had come home from a long shift, the kind that left your shoulders tight and your mind replaying tiny patients’ faces. Instead of heading straight for the bath like usual, you found yourself knocking on 5C after hearing Ellie’s soft giggles mixed with Jungkook’s low laughter drifting into the hallway. The door opened to warm light and the smell of something simple cooking—ramen with extra vegetables, probably.
Ellie spotted you first and ran over on unsteady legs, arms up. You scooped her up without thinking, left hand supporting her back as she tucked her face into your neck like it was the most natural place in the world.
Jungkook stood by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, watching the two of you with that soft, wondering look that had become more frequent lately. “Perfect timing. We were just about to eat. Stay?”
You did.
After dinner—Ellie proudly feeding her bear a single noodle—Jungkook put her to bed while you cleared the table. When he came back, the apartment felt quieter, the cloud night-light casting gentle shadows. He grabbed two glasses of your favorite green iced tea (he’d started keeping lemons just for you) and nodded toward the couch.
“Sit with me?” His voice was lower than usual, almost hesitant. “There’s… stuff I’ve been wanting to tell you. About the years since we lost touch. About how I ended up here. With her.”
You settled beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his. The calm version of you stayed steady, but your heart picked up pace. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, tattoos shifting with the movement. For a moment he looked exactly like the shy twenty-year-old you once knew—eyes down, shoulders slightly rounded—before he straightened and met your gaze.
“We broke up… it was gentle. You went off for your scholarship, I was figuring out my own path. I thought we’d both just grow into different people and that was okay. But life didn’t stay simple.”
He took a slow breath, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
“My brother—Seojun—and his wife Jiyoon… they were everything to me. They had Ellie when she was just a baby. I was there the day she was born. Held her when she was ten minutes old and she grabbed my finger like she already knew me. I became ‘Appa’s brother’ to her. The fun uncle who showed up with silly gifts and helped with night feeds when they needed a break.”
His voice caught for a second. You reached over and rested your left hand on his arm, quiet support. He covered it with his own without looking away.
“Fourteen months ago… there was an accident. Car crash on the highway. They didn’t make it. I got the call while I was in the middle of a work meeting. One minute I was reviewing code, the next I was Ellie’s only family. Their will was clear—they wanted me to raise her. No hesitation on paper. But in real life?”
He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite hide the pain. “I was terrified. Twenty-seven years old, single, running a small tech company from home, still figuring out how to be an adult myself. I spent the first week after the funeral sitting on the floor of their apartment with Ellie in my lap, both of us crying, and I didn’t know how to explain they weren’t coming back. I called lawyers. Looked into other options. Thought maybe my parents or a more stable family could do it better.”
You squeezed his arm gently. “That’s human, Jungkook. Anyone would doubt themselves.”
“Yeah… but I couldn’t do it. The second I tried to imagine handing her over, something in me broke. She was already mine in every way that mattered. From that first hospital day. From every time Seojun called me at 3 a.m. saying ‘Jungkook-ah, come meet your niece.’ I looked at her tiny face—those eyes that are exactly my brother’s—and I knew. I had to grow up right then. No more shy kid calculating risks from the sidelines, and I became her dad. Officially. Legally. Every single day since.”
He paused, voice dropping softer. “It changed me. I got the tattoos—some for Seojun and Jiyoon, some for Ellie, reminders that I can carry heavy things and still keep moving. I learned how to do night feeds, doctor visits, toddler tantrums. I read every parenting book I could find. But some days… I still feel like that shy teenager you knew. The one who got nervous holding your hand because he didn’t want to mess it up. When Ellie reaches for me and calls me Appa, part of me still panics that I’m not enough. That I’m faking this whole ‘strong dad’ thing.”
You turned toward him fully, your left hand sliding up to cup his cheek. The touch was gentle, paint still faintly under your nails from earlier that day. “You’re not faking it. I see you with her. The way you carry her when she’s tired, the way you notice every little thing she needs. That’s real maturity, Jungkook. Not perfect, but real. And the shy part? It’s still there because you’re still you. I like both versions.”
He leaned into your palm, eyes closing for a moment like the words were something he’d been waiting to hear. When he opened them again, they were brighter, more open.
“Meeting you again—right across the landing—felt like the universe giving me a second chance at something soft. I recognized you the first day you moved in. The way you hum when you’re unlocking your door, that left-handed grip on your bags. I didn’t say anything because I was scared. Scared I’d complicate your life with a ready-made family and all my baggage. But then Ellie got sick and you showed up at midnight like it was nothing. And every week since… you make it feel easy. Being a dad. Being around someone who sees the shy parts and the strong parts and doesn’t run.”
The air between you felt thicker now, charged with years and new honesty. Not the light, teenage love from before—this was heavier, deeper, two adults who had been shaped by loss and responsibility choosing each other anyway.
You smiled softly, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You make it easy too, you know. Coming home to knocks and tea and a little girl who thinks I’m magic because I made her fever go away. I used to skip meals for baths or sleep, but lately I find myself looking forward to these moments more than the quiet ones alone.”
Ellie made a small sleep sound from her room, the monitor on the table crackling softly. Jungkook glanced toward it, then back at you, his hand still over yours.
“I’m not rushing anything,” he said quietly. “But I needed you to know the whole story. How I became her father. How I grew up overnight even though sometimes I still feel like that nervous kid who liked you too much to say it right the first time.”
You leaned in, resting your forehead against his for a brief moment. The touch was simple. Warm. Full of the mature kind of promise.
“Thank you for telling me,” you whispered. “I’m glad it was you across the landing. Both versions of you.”
The moment stretched, heavy with everything he had shared and everything still unspoken. Then his hand came up slowly, fingers sliding into your hair at the nape of your neck, careful, like he was asking permission with every touch.
“Can I…?” he whispered, voice rough and low, the shy teenager peeking through the strong man he had become.
You answered by closing the small distance.
The first kiss was soft. Tentative in the way only something truly wanted can be. His lips brushed yours once, testing, then pressed again with quiet certainty. There was no rush, no explosion of young passion like the hurried kisses you once shared at twenty and eighteen. This was slower, deeper—two people who had carried years of life pressing their mouths together like they were finally allowing themselves to breathe the same air again.
He tasted like green tea and something warmer underneath. His hand stayed gentle in your hair while the other found your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer on the couch. You melted into it, left hand sliding from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the short hairs there. The kiss lingered, turning from sweet to something more intent, mouths moving in a rhythm that felt both brand new and achingly familiar.
When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched again. His eyes were dark, lashes low, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the night you showed up for Ellie,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe since the day you moved in. But I kept telling myself not to complicate things.”
You let out a soft laugh, the crazy-happy spark flickering warmly in your chest. “You’re not complicating anything. You’re… making it feel right.”
He kissed you once more, quick and soft this time, like he couldn’t help himself, then settled back against the couch, keeping your hand in his. The silence was comfortable, the kind that didn’t need filling right away.
After a moment, you squeezed his fingers. “Since you told me your story… I should tell you mine. The parts after we lost touch. It wasn’t all smooth for me either.”
Jungkook turned toward you fully, giving you his complete attention the way he always did—focused, patient, like nothing else in the world mattered right now. “I want to hear it. All of it.”
You took a breath, staring at your joined hands. Your left thumb traced one of his tattoos absentmindedly.
“College… it broke me for a while. I thought leaving was the right decision. The scholarship felt like this big, bright future. But the program was brutal. I was eighteen, away from home, surrounded by people who seemed so much more prepared than me. The first two years I questioned everything. There were nights I cried in the dorm bathroom because I was convinced I had made the worst decision of my life. That I wasn’t smart enough, strong enough.”
You paused, the memories still sharp even years later. “Then came the surgical rotation. We had to work with real cadavers—cutting open actual flesh, seeing everything up close. I threw up after the first class. Actually threw up in the sink while the professor was still talking. I locked myself in a stall and thought, ‘This is it. I’m not made for medicine. I should quit and do something easier.’ I felt so weak. So unprepared for how heavy real life was going to be.”
Jungkook’s thumb stroked the back of your hand, steady and warm. He didn’t interrupt, just listened with those dark eyes that made you feel seen.
“But then… pediatrics happened. I got placed in the children’s ward during my third year. The first time I helped a young mother on the street—her baby was choking on something small, right outside the hospital. I ran over, did the maneuvers I’d only practiced on dummies, and the baby started breathing again. The mom hugged me so tight she was crying. That moment… it clicked. This was where I belonged. Helping the smallest patients, the ones who couldn’t speak for themselves yet.”
A small smile tugged at your lips as happier memories surfaced. “There was this one baby, maybe six months old, who had the tiniest toothless smile. I was having the worst day—another sleepless night, doubting everything again. I picked him up for a check-up and he just grinned at me with those gummy gums, like the sun had come out. That smile fixed something in me. I walked out of that room knowing I was on the right path again. Pediatrics wasn’t just a rotation. It became my home. The place where the hard parts felt worth it because the little wins were so pure.”
You looked up at him, voice softer. “So yeah… I had my breakdowns. The throwing up after surgery, the nights I wanted to quit. But I found my way back. Just like you did with Ellie. We both grew up the hard way, but we ended up here.”
Jungkook lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, right over the faint paint smudge that never quite washed away. “I’m proud of you. For staying when it was ugly. For finding the toothless smiles that kept you going.” His voice dropped, warm and certain. “And I’m really glad those paths brought you back across the landing from me.”
The kiss that followed was slower, deeper than the first. Less tentative, more sure. His hand cupped your jaw while yours rested against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was the kind of kiss that said “I see all of you, the hard parts and the soft ones, and I’m still here.”
When you pulled apart this time, you were both smiling, a little breathless, the crazy-happy spark in you dancing brighter.
Ellie’s monitor let out a small murmur. Jungkook glanced at it, then back at you with a quiet laugh. “She has perfect timing.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, the weight comfortable and right. “She really does.”
The night stretched on with more quiet talk and a few more soft kisses, the kind that felt like promises rather than endings. Outside, the city hummed its usual song. Inside 5C, two people who had once been young and uncertain were finding each other again—this time as the adults they had fought to become.
Jungkook started texting you in the mornings, short messages about Ellie’s latest discovery (a new word for “bird” or how she tried to feed her bear cereal). You replied with photos of your half-finished canvases or quick updates from your shift breaks. Just steady threads pulling you closer across the landing.
One Tuesday evening you came home to find him waiting outside your door with a small container of soup. “Ellie made me cook extra. She kept saying ‘for the nice lady.’” You invited him in. You ate together at your tiny table while music played softly in the background. He asked about the songs you loved lately; you asked about the tech projects that kept him working from home. Conversation wandered easily from silly childhood stories to the small frustrations of adult life. When he left, he brushed a soft kiss against your cheek at the door — nothing more, but it lingered.
The next weekend Ellie dragged both of you to the park again. She insisted on holding one of your hands and one of his, swinging between you like a tiny bridge. Jungkook caught your eye over her head and smiled — that slow, warm smile that made your stomach flip. Later, while Ellie chased leaves, the two of you sat on the bench talking about favorite movies from years ago. He remembered the ones you used to quote; you remembered how he used to hum along even when he didn’t know the words. When Ellie got tired, he carried her home on his shoulders and you walked beside them, the three of you moving like it was the most natural thing.
Some nights he knocked with whatever he had cooked that day, and you ended up on his couch watching whatever cartoon Ellie demanded before bed. She always crawled into your lap halfway through, falling asleep against your chest while Jungkook watched the two of you with quiet eyes. You started staying longer after she was tucked in — just talking, sharing small pieces of your days, letting kisses happen naturally when the moment felt right. Soft presses at first, then deeper ones that left you both a little breathless and smiling against each other’s mouths.
One rainy Thursday you had a rare afternoon off. Jungkook suggested a short walk to the nearby market because Ellie wanted “pretty fruits.” You went along, ending up carrying bags while he kept one arm loosely around your shoulders to shield you from the drizzle. At home you helped chop vegetables for dinner, shoulders brushing as you worked side by side in his kitchen. Ellie “helped” by stacking blocks on the floor and announcing each one’s name. When dinner was ready the three of you ate together like it had always been this way — easy laughter, Ellie stealing bites from your plate, Jungkook’s foot gently nudging yours under the table.
He began walking you to your door after evenings together, stealing one last kiss that tasted like the dessert you had shared. You started leaving small notes on his doorstep when your shifts ran late — silly drawings or reminders to rest. He replied with photos of Ellie’s latest artwork dedicated “to nice lady.”
One evening after putting Ellie to bed, you stayed on his couch longer than usual. The conversation turned quieter, more intimate. He told you about a tough work call that day; you shared a story about a little patient who had made you laugh until you cried. The space between you disappeared slowly until you were curled against his side, his arm around you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder.
When he kissed you that night it felt different — slower, more intentional. His hands framed your face like you were something precious he was still learning how to hold. You kissed him back with the same care, exploring the way his breath hitched when you tugged gently at his hair, the way his body relaxed under your touch. There was heat building, but no rush. Just the steady discovery of each other again — the man he had become and the woman you were now.
Afterward you stayed tangled together on the couch, trading soft words and quieter kisses until the monitor crackled with Ellie’s sleepy murmur. He walked you across the landing with his hand in yours, pressing one final kiss to your forehead before you slipped inside your own apartment.
The next morning he sent a photo of Ellie holding up a drawing of three stick figures holding hands. The message simply read: She says this is us.
You smiled at your phone for a long minute, heart full in a way that felt brand new and deeply familiar at the same time.
You weren’t calling it dating. You weren’t labeling anything.
But every shared meal, every walk with Ellie between you, every kiss that grew longer and surer, every quiet night talking until the hours slipped away — it was building something real. Something steady. Something that made coming home feel like the best part of the day.
The call came on a quiet Wednesday afternoon when you were off shift and halfway through sketching a new canvas.
Jungkook’s voice on the phone sounded tight, the kind of controlled panic that only parents learn. “Hey… I’m really sorry to ask this, but my biggest client just moved our meeting up by three hours and it’s in-person downtown. My usual sitter is out sick and my mom can’t get here in time. Ellie’s been fine all morning but she’s still a little clingy. Would you… could you watch her for a couple of hours? I’ll be back before dinner.”
You didn’t even hesitate. “Of course. Bring her over.”
Ten minutes later he appeared at your door with Ellie on his hip, a small backpack slung over his shoulder, and gratitude written all over his face. Ellie reached for you immediately, bear clutched in one fist.
“You sure this is okay?” he asked, setting the bag down. “I know it’s last minute.”
“It’s more than okay,” you said, taking Ellie from him. She settled against you like she belonged there, small head resting on your shoulder. “Go handle your meeting. We’ll be fine.”
He lingered for a second longer than necessary, eyes moving between you and his daughter. Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, soft kiss to your temple, and another to Ellie’s hair. “Thank you. Text me if anything comes up. I’ll hurry back.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly it was just you and Ellie in your apartment.
She wasn’t difficult. She was curious.
For the first hour she followed you around like a tiny shadow while you finished your sketch, pointing at colors and demanding names for each one. You let her sit on your lap at the table and “help” by handing you crayons, her serious little face concentrating hard on every movement. When she got bored of that, you pulled out paper and let her scribble her own pictures — mostly circles and wobbly lines she proudly declared were “birds and appa and you.”
Lunch was simple: chopped fruit and the yogurt she liked. She fed herself with surprising focus, occasionally offering a strawberry to you or her bear. Afterward you read her two books on the couch, doing all the voices until she giggled so hard she nearly fell off your lap.
Then came the part that undid you both a little.
Ellie started rubbing her eyes, the clinginess from earlier returning. Instead of fighting it, you carried her to the couch, wrapped her in the soft throw blanket you kept there, and hummed the same low tune you’d used the night of her fever. She curled into your side, bear tucked under her chin, one small hand fisting the front of your shirt like she was making sure you wouldn’t disappear.
You stayed there, stroking her back in slow circles, watching her lashes flutter and finally still as she drifted off. The apartment was quiet except for her soft breathing and the distant sound of rain starting again outside.
That was when Jungkook came back.
He let himself in with the spare key you’d given him the week before (just in case, you’d both said). You looked up from the couch and caught the exact moment his expression changed.
He stopped in the doorway, bag still in hand, eyes softening as he took in the scene: you on the couch with his daughter asleep against your chest, her tiny fist still curled in your shirt, your hand gently resting on her back. The half-finished drawings scattered on the table. The blanket you’d pulled over both of you. The way the afternoon light came through the window and painted everything golden and soft.
He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there watching, something raw and wondering crossing his face — like he was seeing a version of life he had quietly imagined in the hardest months after becoming Ellie’s dad, but never fully let himself believe could happen.
A life with someone who didn’t just help, but fit.
Someone who made the ordinary afternoons feel like they belonged to all three of you.
You offered him a small, gentle smile over Ellie’s head. He crossed the room quietly and knelt beside the couch, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from his daughter’s cheek. His fingers lingered, then moved to rest lightly over yours where they lay on Ellie’s back.
“She went down easy?” he whispered.
“After stories and strawberries,” you murmured back. “She drew you a bird. It’s on the table.”
He glanced at the drawings, then back at you. His eyes were bright, a little glassy at the edges. “You look good like this,” he said, voice so low it barely carried. “Holding her. Being here. It makes me think about… all the nights I stayed up wondering if I was doing this right. If she would ever have someone else who just… knew how to be with her like this.”
You turned your hand palm-up under his, lacing your fingers together. “She has you. And right now she has both of us. That’s enough.”
He leaned in and kissed you — slow, grateful, the kind of kiss that carried weeks of building closeness and the weight of everything he wasn’t saying yet. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, Ellie sleeping peacefully between you.
“Thank you,” he whispered against your lips. “For today. For all the days lately.”
You kissed him once more, softer this time, then glanced down at the little girl who had somehow become the center of everything.
“She’s out cold,” you said with a small smile. “Want to move her to the bed so we can sit properly?”
He nodded, carefully lifting Ellie into his arms. You followed him to your bedroom, watching as he laid her down and tucked the blanket around her with practiced care. When he straightened, he pulled you close again, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on top of your head.
Jungkook held you like he was afraid the moment might slip away if he let go. The wordless thing you had been building felt less like something happening to you and more like something you were both choosing — one shared afternoon, one sleepy toddler, one steady kiss at a time
The following Saturday afternoon found the three of you in Jungkook’s apartment again, the kind of lazy weekend where time moved slower.
Ellie had been playing on the living room floor with her blocks, building lopsided towers and knocking them down with delighted squeals. You were sitting cross-legged nearby, helping her stack the bright blue ones while Jungkook worked on his laptop at the table, occasionally glancing over with a soft smile. The rain from earlier had cleared, leaving golden light spilling through the windows.
When Ellie’s tower finally collapsed for the fifth time, she let out a dramatic little huff and toddled straight toward you instead of her father.
“Up,” she demanded, arms raised.
You opened your arms without thinking and lifted her onto your lap. She settled immediately, tiny hands grabbing fistfuls of your shirt like she was anchoring herself there. Her fingers twisted the fabric tight, refusing to loosen even when Jungkook stood up and walked over, crouching in front of you both with an amused grin.
“Hey, Ellie-ya,” he said gently, holding his own arms out. “Come to Appa? Let’s build another tower together.”
Ellie shook her head once, burying her face against your chest. Her grip on your shirt only tightened, small knuckles turning white. “No. Stay.”
Jungkook laughed softly, the sound warm and light, but you caught the way his eyes flickered — something deeper flashing across his face before he masked it with another chuckle. “Alright, guess she’s made her choice today.”
He sat down beside you on the floor instead, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. Ellie peeked out from your shirt just long enough to give him a triumphant little smile, then went right back to clutching you, her whole small body relaxing like this was exactly where she wanted to be.
You rubbed slow circles on her back, murmuring nonsense about the colors of the blocks. Ellie listened for a moment, then lifted her head, looked straight at you with those big dark eyes, and said clearly:
“Y/N.”
Your breath caught.
She had never used your name before — always “nice lady” or nothing at all. Now it came out simple and certain, like she had been practicing it in her head and decided it fit.
“Y/N,” she repeated, patting your chest with one hand while the other stayed firmly twisted in your shirt. “Stay.”
Jungkook went very still beside you. The laugh he let out this time was quieter, almost breathless. “Well… that’s new.”
You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks, but you didn’t pull away. Instead you pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Ellie’s head. “Okay, sweetheart. I’m staying right here.”
From that moment something shifted inside you without you fully realizing it.
You started doing little things naturally, the way you had once imagined you might if you ever became a mother someday. Small adjustments you didn’t even notice you were making.
When Ellie got fussy later that evening, you instinctively rocked her in the exact rhythm that always calmed the babies at the hospital. You hummed the same soft tune while preparing her snack, cutting the fruit into the tiny pieces she liked best. You wiped her hands and face with the warm cloth Jungkook handed you, but you did it with the gentle thoroughness you used on your tiniest patients — careful, patient, full of quiet affection.
You didn’t think about it. It just felt right.
But Jungkook noticed everything.
He watched from the kitchen while you helped Ellie wash her hands at the sink, your body angled protectively so she wouldn’t slip. He saw the way you automatically checked her forehead with the back of your fingers when she yawned, the same way you’d done the night of her fever. He caught how you rearranged the cushions on the couch so she could lean against them comfortably while you read her a story, your voice soft and engaged like nothing else in the world mattered more than this moment.
Each small thing undid him in a way he hadn’t known was possible.
He had spent so long being the strong one — the one who had to figure everything out alone after the accident, the one who carried the weight of becoming a father overnight. He thought he had accepted that this was his life now: just him and Ellie against the world.
But seeing you slip so effortlessly into the role — not forcing it, not performing it, just being there with that natural care — hit him somewhere deep and tender he hadn’t let himself feel before. It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was devotion, sudden and strong, the kind that made his chest ache in the best possible way.
Later, after Ellie had finally fallen asleep in her bed (still clutching the corner of the blanket you had tucked around her), Jungkook pulled you into the hallway just outside her room. He backed you gently against the wall, hands framing your face as he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “Watching you with her today… the way she reached for you first. The way she said your name like it was already hers. And then you just… you took care of her like you’ve been doing it forever.”
He kissed you then — deeper than usual, more intense, like he was pouring every unspoken feeling into it. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he needed to feel you there, solid and real.
When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. “I’m falling so hard for you. Harder than I thought I could. You make this feel possible — all of it. Being her dad, being with someone, having this kind of life. I didn’t know I could want it this much until I saw you with her today.”
You smiled against his lips, fingers threading through his hair. “She chose me today. I think I’m choosing both of you right back.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, full of that new layer of devotion that made every touch feel heavier with meaning. His hands stayed on you like he couldn’t bear to let go, like he was already promising silently to hold onto this — onto you — with everything he had.
Jungkook was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the two of you with that soft look that had become constant lately. “There’s a little parents’ event at Ellie’s daycare this Friday. It’s just a short show — the toddlers do a simple dance and sing a couple songs. Nothing fancy, but… she’s been practicing the moves every day. Would you come with us?”
Ellie immediately dropped her block and clapped her hands. “Y/N come! Dance with me!”
You laughed, heart doing a silly little flip at how naturally she said your name now. “I’d love to.”
The daycare parents’ event turned out to be a little bigger than Jungkook had first described.
“It’s not just the toddlers dancing,” he explained the night before while you were both sitting on his couch after Ellie went to bed. “There’s a small reception afterward with photos and snacks. A few parents dress up a bit — nothing crazy, but nicer than everyday clothes. I was thinking… maybe we could too? For Ellie.”
You agreed without overthinking it.
Friday afternoon you came straight from your shift and changed into something a step above your usual post-work comfort. A soft cream-colored blouse with delicate buttons, tucked into high-waisted dark jeans that made your legs look longer. You added a simple gold necklace and light makeup — just enough to feel put-together. When you stepped across the landing, Jungkook opened the door already dressed.
He looked good. Really good.
A charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled once to show a hint of his tattoos, paired with well-fitted black trousers and polished shoes. The shirt hugged his shoulders in a way that reminded you exactly how strong he had become over the years. His hair was styled neatly, a little effort put in, and he smelled faintly of the cologne he saved for important days.
Ellie was dressed in her favorite yellow sun shirt, but Jungkook had added a soft tulle skirt over her leggings and tiny white shoes that made her look like a proper little performer. She twirled the second she saw you, skirt flaring out.
“You both look nice,” you said, unable to hide your smile.
Jungkook’s eyes swept over you appreciatively. “So do you. Ready?”
The three of you arrived at the daycare looking every bit the picture of a young family. Jungkook carried Ellie on his hip at first, then set her down so she could walk between you, holding one of your hands and one of his. You had brought a small bag with extra wipes and a spare shirt for her, just in case. Jungkook had remembered her favorite snack and a water bottle.
The gymnasium was decorated with more balloons and fairy lights than last time. Parents were dressed up in their own versions of “nice but realistic” — button-downs, pretty blouses, dresses that weren’t too formal. No one was in a full suit or gown, but everyone had made an effort.
Ellie’s class performed again, the same adorable chaotic dance. She kept glancing at you and Jungkook in the front row, waving every time the music paused. When the song ended and the kids ran to their families, Ellie sprinted straight to you again.
This time she didn’t just reach for you — she launched herself.
You caught her, laughing as her tiny hands grabbed your blouse. The fabric wrinkled under her grip, but you didn’t care. She buried her face in your neck, legs wrapping around your waist.
A couple standing nearby smiled warmly.
“Oh, she’s so attached to her mom,” the woman said. “Look at that hug! You two must be so proud of how far she’s come since starting here.”
Jungkook didn’t miss a beat.
“We are,” he said smoothly, stepping closer so his arm could slide around your waist, hand resting just above where Ellie’s legs were wrapped. “She’s been practicing every single day at home. Couldn’t be prouder.”
You opened your mouth to gently correct the assumption, but Jungkook’s fingers gave a light squeeze on your side — a silent let it be. His touch was warm through your blouse, steady and reassuring.
The fluffy feeling hit you again, harder this time.
Oh my God. He just called us “we” like it’s the most natural thing.
This man — tattoos, strong shoulders, button-down that fits him way too well — is standing here in nice trousers, arm around me, while our… while Ellie clings to my blouse like I’m hers.
People are looking at us like we’re a real little family. Me. In my slightly-fancy blouse. Him looking like he stepped out of a responsible-dad catalog.
Jesus Christ, is this my life now? I went from throwing up after cadaver class to this?
Fluffy doesn’t even cover it. My chest feels like someone stuffed it with warm cotton and fairy lights. I might actually melt into the floor if he keeps his hand there.
You adjusted Ellie on your hip, pressing a kiss to her temple while your mind kept its ridiculous
The daycare parents’ event turned out to be a little bigger than Jungkook had first described.
“It’s not just the toddlers dancing,” he explained the night before while you were both sitting on his couch after Ellie went to bed. “There’s a small reception afterward with photos and snacks. A few parents dress up a bit — nothing crazy, but nicer than everyday clothes. I was thinking… maybe we could too? For Ellie.”
You agreed without overthinking it.
Friday afternoon you came straight from your shift and changed into something a step above your usual post-work comfort. A soft cream-colored blouse with delicate buttons, tucked into high-waisted dark jeans that made your legs look longer. You added a simple gold necklace and light makeup — just enough to feel put-together. When you stepped across the landing, Jungkook opened the door already dressed.
He looked good. Really good.
A charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled once to show a hint of his tattoos, paired with well-fitted black trousers and polished shoes. The shirt hugged his shoulders in a way that reminded you exactly how strong he had become over the years. His hair was styled neatly, a little effort put in, and he smelled faintly of the cologne he saved for important days.
Ellie was dressed in her favorite yellow sun shirt, but Jungkook had added a soft tulle skirt over her leggings and tiny white shoes that made her look like a proper little performer. She twirled the second she saw you, skirt flaring out.
“You both look nice,” you said, unable to hide your smile.
Jungkook’s eyes swept over you appreciatively. “So do you. Ready?”
The three of you arrived at the daycare looking every bit the picture of a young family. Jungkook carried Ellie on his hip at first, then set her down so she could walk between you, holding one of your hands and one of his. You had brought a small bag with extra wipes and a spare shirt for her, just in case. Jungkook had remembered her favorite snack and a water bottle.
The gymnasium was decorated with more balloons and fairy lights than last time. Parents were dressed up in their own versions of “nice but realistic” — button-downs, pretty blouses, dresses that weren’t too formal. No one was in a full suit or gown, but everyone had made an effort.
Ellie’s class performed again, the same adorable chaotic dance. She kept glancing at you and Jungkook in the front row, waving every time the music paused. When the song ended and the kids ran to their families, Ellie sprinted straight to you again.
This time she didn’t just reach for you — she launched herself.
You caught her, laughing as her tiny hands grabbed your blouse. The fabric wrinkled under her grip, but you didn’t care. She buried her face in your neck, legs wrapping around your waist.
A couple standing nearby smiled warmly.
“Oh, she’s so attached to her mom,” the woman said. “Look at that hug! You two must be so proud of how far she’s come since starting here.”
Jungkook didn’t miss a beat.
“We are,” he said smoothly, stepping closer so his arm could slide around your waist, hand resting just above where Ellie’s legs were wrapped. “She’s been practicing every single day at home. Couldn’t be prouder.”
You opened your mouth to gently correct the assumption, but Jungkook’s fingers gave a light squeeze on your side — a silent let it be. His touch was warm through your blouse, steady and reassuring.
The fluffy feeling hit you again, harder this time.
Oh my God. He just called us “we” like it’s the most natural thing.
This man — tattoos, strong shoulders, button-down that fits him way too well — is standing here in nice trousers, arm around me, while our… while Ellie clings to my blouse like I’m hers.
People are looking at us like we’re a real little family. Me. In my slightly-fancy blouse. Him looking like he stepped out of a responsible-dad catalog.
Jesus Christ, is this my life now? I went from throwing up after cadaver class to this?
Fluffy doesn’t even cover it. My chest feels like someone stuffed it with warm cotton and fairy lights. I might actually melt into the floor if he keeps his hand there.
You adjusted Ellie on your hip, pressing a kiss to her temple while your mind kept its ridiculous, monologue running..
Okay, brain, breathe. You’re a pediatric doctor. You’ve handled actual emergencies. You can handle being mistaken for a mom while wearing a blouse that cost more than your usual scrubs.
But look at him. Sleeves rolled just enough to show some ink. Standing there like he belongs in this picture. Like he wants people to think we’re together. Like he wants me here as more than just the nice neighbor.
This is dangerous. This is the kind of dangerous that makes me want to keep wearing blouses and showing up to toddler dance shows forever.
The reception continued with snacks and group photos. Several more parents stopped to compliment Ellie’s performance and casually referred to you as her mother. Each time, Jungkook simply smiled and thanked them, never correcting, his arm staying around you like it was the most normal place in the world.
You felt yourself leaning into him more as the afternoon went on. Ellie refused to be put down, content to stay in your arms while she nibbled on a cookie, occasionally offering you a piece with her sticky fingers.
When it was time for the official parent photo, the teacher waved the three of you over. Jungkook positioned himself behind you, one hand on your waist, the other steadying Ellie on your hip. The camera clicked.
You looked every bit the real parents — him in his charcoal shirt, you in your cream blouse, Ellie bright and happy between you.
On the drive home, Ellie fell asleep in her car seat, exhausted from all the excitement. Jungkook reached over and took your hand, lacing your fingers together.
“You looked beautiful today,” he said quietly. “Holding her like that. Standing there with us.”
You squeezed his hand, the fluffy warmth still swirling in your chest. “You looked pretty good yourself. All dressed up like a proper dad.”
He laughed softly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Felt good. Having you there. Having people see us like that.”
You didn’t say anything else for a moment, just let the quiet settle. Your internal voice was still chattering happily in the background.
This man just let an entire room of parents think I’m Ellie’s mom and he didn’t blink. He wanted it. He’s holding my hand like he never wants to let go.
If someone told eighteen-year-old me that one day I’d be dressed up in a blouse, carrying a toddler who calls me by name, while her ridiculously attractive father looks at me like I’m the missing piece… I would have laughed until I cried.
But here we are.
Back at the building, you carried a sleepy Ellie up the stairs while Jungkook held the doors. She stirred just enough to mumble “Y/N pretty” before tucking her face into your neck again.
Jungkook watched the whole thing with that look that had grown even stronger since— like every time he saw you with her, something inside him clicked more firmly into place, he closed the bedroom door with a gentle click and turned to you. The golden light from the small lamp made everything feel softer, warmer. His eyes moved over you slowly — the cream blouse you’d worn for the daycare event, now slightly wrinkled from Ellie’s hands, the way your hair had loosened throughout the day. He stepped closer, hands coming up to frame your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he whispered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Not just tonight. Every time I saw you with her. Every time you stayed a little longer. Every time you looked at me like I still matter.”
You leaned into his touch, heart beating steady and heavy. “You do matter. You always did.”
He kissed you then, slow and deep, like he was savoring every second after years of being apart. His lips moved against yours with quiet certainty, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you opened for him. The kiss tasted like the punch from the reception and something sweeter underneath — like coming home after a long time away.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers working open the buttons of his charcoal shirt one by one. When the fabric parted you pushed it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your palms explored the warm skin beneath, tracing the lines of muscle he’d built over the years, the tattoos that told stories you were only beginning to learn. He shivered under your touch but didn’t hurry you.
Jungkook took his time undressing you too. He unbuttoned your blouse slowly, kissing every new inch of skin he revealed — your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above your bra, the soft skin of your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your jeans he knelt, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your hip as he slid the denim down your legs. Your bra and panties followed with the same patient care, until you stood completely bare in front of him.
He rose to his feet and looked at you for a long moment, eyes dark with want but full of something deeper. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Even more than I remembered.”
He guided you back onto the bed, laying you down gently against the pillows. His body covered yours, warm and solid, but he kept most of his weight on his forearms so he could look at your face. The kiss that followed was slower, more sensual — tongues sliding together, lips pulling and sucking softly. His hand roamed your body with reverence, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it tightened under his touch. You arched into him, a quiet moan slipping out.
Jungkook kissed down your neck, taking his time at the sensitive spot just below your ear that made your breath hitch. He moved lower, mouth closing around one nipple while his hand teased the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth — it sent slow waves of pleasure through you, building steadily rather than rushing.
When he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you with dark, devoted eyes. “Let me taste you.”
He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, savoring you like he had all the time in the world. His tongue circled your clit with deliberate pressure, then flattened to lick broad strokes that had your hips rolling against his mouth. Two fingers slid inside you easily, curling gently to find that perfect spot while his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked softly.
You gasped his name, fingers threading through his hair. The pleasure built gradually, deep and rolling, until it crested in a long, shuddering orgasm that left you trembling beneath him. He stayed with you through every wave, licking you gently until you were oversensitive and breathing hard.
Jungkook kissed his way back up your body, letting you taste yourself on his tongue when he reached your mouth. “I missed this,” he whispered against your lips. “Missed feeling you like this. Missed making you feel good.”
You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his cock. He was hard and thick, pulsing in your palm as you stroked him slowly. He groaned low in his throat, hips pushing into your touch.
“Condom?” you asked softly.
He nodded, reaching into the nightstand. You watched him roll it on with steady hands, then pulled him back down. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
Your eyes met his as he pushed in — slow, sure, inch by inch. The stretch was perfect, filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt. He stayed still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air.
“God… you feel like home,” he whispered.
Then he started moving — deep, unhurried thrusts that rocked you both together. Every stroke was deliberate, sensual, his hips rolling in a slow rhythm that built the pleasure gradually. You wrapped your legs around him, hands sliding over his back, feeling the muscles shift under your palms with every thrust.
He kissed you through it all — soft, romantic kisses that turned dirtier as the heat grew. “You’re so tight,” he murmured against your mouth. “Taking me so well. Been dreaming about being inside you again… just like this.”
His pace stayed steady but grew a little firmer, the angle shifting until he was hitting that spot deep inside you with every thrust. One hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit in slow, perfect strokes.
You moaned softly, nails digging into his shoulders. “Jungkook… feels so good…”
“I know, baby,” he breathed, voice rough with restraint. “I’ve got you. Let it build. I want to feel you come around me.”
The orgasm rose slowly this time — a deep, rolling wave that started in your core and spread outward until your whole body was trembling. You came with a quiet, broken cry, clenching tight around him. Jungkook groaned your name, hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge, burying himself deep while he pulsed inside the condom.
He stayed inside you for a long moment afterward, kissing you softly — your lips, your cheeks, your closed eyelids. When he finally pulled out he took care of the condom quickly, then returned to pull you into his arms.
You curled against his chest, one leg draped over his, his hand stroking slow patterns along your spine. The room was quiet, warm, filled with the sound of your slowing breaths.
“I love this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Being with you like this. Slow. Real. After all this time.”
You smiled against his skin, heart full and steady. “Me too.”
He held you closer, the devotion in every touch even stronger now. In the quiet of his bedroom, with Ellie sleeping peacefully down the hall, the two of you lay tangled together — skin warm, hearts closer than they had been in years.
The first light of morning filtered softly through the curtains when Ellie woke up.
You felt it before you heard anything — a small shift in the air, the faint sound of tiny feet padding down the hallway. Jungkook was still asleep beside you, one arm draped heavily over your waist, his breathing deep and even. Your bodies were tangled under the sheets, skin warm from the night before. The memory of slow kisses, deep thrusts, and whispered words made heat bloom low in your belly even now.
Then came the soft creak of the bedroom door.
Ellie stood in the doorway in her yellow sun pajamas, hair messy from sleep, bear clutched under one arm. She rubbed her eyes with her fist, blinking at the sight of you both in bed together.
For a second she just stared, processing. Then her face lit up with the biggest, sleepiest smile you had ever seen.
“Y/N,” she said happily, voice still raspy from sleep. She didn’t hesitate — she toddled straight to the bed and climbed up with surprising determination, using the edge of the mattress to pull herself onto it. Her small body wriggled between the two of you, bear squished against your chest as she settled in like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Jungkook stirred awake at the movement, eyes blinking open. When he registered Ellie curled up between you, one tiny hand fisting the front of your shirt (the same one from yesterday, now completely wrinkled and discarded on the floor last night — you were wearing one of his t-shirts now), a slow, warm smile spread across his face.
“Morning, baby,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. He reached over to brush her hair back, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time, full of that quiet devotion that had only grown stronger after last night.
Ellie snuggled closer to you, pressing her face into your neck. “Y/N stay. Warm.”
You laughed softly, wrapping an arm around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The fluffy feeling from the daycare event returned tenfold, mixed with the intimate glow of the night you’d shared with Jungkook. “I’m here, sweetheart.”
Jungkook shifted closer, his hand finding yours under the blanket while Ellie wiggled happily between you. The three of you lay there for a long moment — warm, sleepy, tangled together in the soft morning light. His thumb stroked the back of your hand in slow circles, the same gentle rhythm he’d used on your skin last night when he was moving inside you, slow and deep and sure.
Ellie sighed contentedly, her small fingers still gripping your shirt. “Appa. Y/N. Bed.”
Jungkook chuckled quietly, leaning over Ellie to press a soft kiss to your lips — quick and sweet, but full of promise. “Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth. “This feels right.”
You felt your heart swell in that ridiculous, human way again.
Oh my God. I just spent the night with him— and now his daughter is cuddling between us like she planned this all along. She literally climbed into bed and claimed her spot. I’m wearing his t-shirt. He’s looking at me like last night meant everything. And I… I don’t want to leave this bed.
This is so domestic it should be illegal. I went from neighbor to… whatever this is… in what feels like five minutes and a thousand years at the same time.
Ellie lifted her head, looking between the two of you with those big, serious eyes. “Breakfast?”
Jungkook smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead before sitting up. “Yeah, let’s make breakfast. Pancakes?”
Ellie nodded enthusiastically and tried to climb over you to get to him, but ended up flopping back down with her head on your chest instead. She patted your shirt once, content. “Y/N help.”
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you. “Of course I’ll help.”
The three of you eventually made it to the kitchen — Ellie on Jungkook’s hip at first, then demanding to be carried by you while he started mixing the batter. She “helped” by handing you the spoon with both hands, her bear sitting on the counter watching everything with solemn dignity.
Jungkook kept stealing glances at you the whole time — soft, heated looks that reminded you exactly how his hands had felt on your body last night, how his voice had sounded when he groaned your name. Every time your eyes met, the corner of his mouth would lift in that private smile meant only for you.
Breakfast was messy and perfect. Ellie sat in your lap at the table, eating tiny pieces of pancake you cut for her while occasionally feeding some to her bear. Jungkook’s foot nudged yours under the table, a silent reminder of the night you’d shared.
When Ellie finished and started getting sleepy again (toddler crashes after big days were real), Jungkook took her to the living room for some quiet cartoons. You followed, and the three of you ended up on the couch — Ellie curled in your lap, Jungkook’s arm around both of you.
He leaned in close while Ellie was distracted by the screen, lips brushing your ear. “Last night was… everything,” he whispered. “Slow. Real. You and me, finally getting it right.”
You turned your head just enough to kiss him softly, careful not to disturb Ellie. “It was perfect.”
The morning continued like that — calm, warm, domestic in the best way. No rush to define anything. Just the three of you existing together, the memory of slow, sensual lovemaking from the night before lingering in every shared glance and gentle touch.
You stepped out of the hospital doors feeling that familiar post-work haze — the kind where your body wanted a long bath and your mind wanted to replay every small moment from last night and this morning. Jungkook had texted earlier that he would pick you up in his car so you didn’t have to take the bus. Ellie was with his mom for a few hours, giving the two of you a rare pocket of just-adult time.
You smiled at the thought as you walked toward the usual pickup spot near the side entrance. The cream blouse from yesterday was back in your bag; today you were in simple scrubs again, hair pulled up, but the memory of his hands on your skin still lingered like a secret.
Then you saw him.
Not Jungkook.
Yeonjun.
He was leaning against a car a few spaces away, hands in his pockets, looking exactly the same as the last time you’d seen him — warm eyes, easy smile, the kind of steady presence that had once felt safe. He straightened when he spotted you, lifting a hand in a small wave.
“Y/N,” he called, voice gentle. “Hey. I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.”
You stopped a few feet away, surprised but not upset. “Yeonjun… what are you doing here?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the same nervous habit from years ago. “I’ve been back in Seoul for a couple of weeks. Work brought me here. I heard from a mutual friend that you moved into a new place, started at this hospital. I just… wanted to see how you’re doing. Maybe grab coffee? Talk?”
The words were soft, no pressure on the surface, but you could hear the undercurrent. The same one he’d had when he texted last month. He wasn’t aggressive. He never had been. That was the problem — he was kind. The breakup two years ago had been quiet, mutual, born from clashing schedules and two people who cared but couldn’t make the timing work. No fights. No betrayal. Just life pulling in opposite directions.
You opened your mouth to answer, but your brain was already spinning its own quiet monologue.
Oh… this is awkward in the softest way possible. He looks good. Still the same gentle guy who used to bring me soup when I pulled double shifts. But my chest doesn’t do that little flip anymore. It feels… nostalgic. Like looking at a photo from a chapter I already finished reading.
Last night I was in Jungkook’s bed, his voice in my ear calling me beautiful while he moved inside me like we had all the time in the world. This morning his daughter climbed between us and called my name like it belonged to her. And now here’s Yeonjun, standing here like he’s offering me a door back to something simpler.
God, why does life do this? Throw the past right in front of the present when everything finally feels like it’s clicking?
Before you could find the right words, a familiar black car pulled up to the curb. Jungkook.
He parked smoothly, engine still humming, and stepped out. The moment his eyes landed on Yeonjun standing there with you, something shifted in his expression — a flicker of recognition, then quiet tension. He knew exactly who this was. Old mutual friends had kept him updated over the years; he’d heard the story of the gentle breakup, the busy schedules, the fact that Yeonjun had never been the villain.
Jungkook walked over anyway, calm on the outside, but you could see the way his jaw tightened just a fraction.
“Hey,” he said, voice even as he reached you. His hand found the small of your back naturally, warm and steady. “Ready to go?”
Yeonjun’s eyes moved between the two of you, taking in the easy touch, the way Jungkook positioned himself beside you like it was the most natural place in the world. He smiled, small and genuine. “Jungkook, right? It’s been a while.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook answered, polite but short. “It has.”
You felt the air thicken for a second, just heavy with history and the unspoken. Yeonjun glanced at you one more time. “If you ever want that coffee… no pressure. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
He gave a small nod to both of you and walked back to his car.
The drive home was quiet at first. Ellie wasn’t in the backseat today, so it was just the two of you. Jungkook’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but you could feel the thoughts turning in his head.
You reached over and rested your hand on his thigh. “He was just saying hi. It’s nothing.”
“I know,” he said softly. Then, after a long breath, he kept talking — more to himself than to you, voice low and truthful, like he needed to get the words out while they were still honest.
“I don’t blame him for wanting you back. I really don’t. He’s actually a nice guy… always was. From what I heard through friends back then, you two ended things clean. Just life and schedules getting in the way. He probably looks at you now and sees the same girl he fell for — smart, kind, the one who makes everything feel steady. And he’s right. You are a keeper. The kind of person someone would be stupid to let slip away twice.”
He glanced at you for a second, eyes soft but serious, before looking back at the road.
“But I’m sorry, brother… I know she’s a keeper. I let her go once — back when we were young and didn’t know how to fight for the soft things. I watched her walk away because I thought we’d both be fine on our own. I won’t make that same mistake again. Not now. Not when I’ve seen what it looks like to have her in my bed, whispering my name like it still fits. Not when I’ve watched her hold my daughter like she was always meant to be there. Not when Ellie climbs into bed between us and says Y/N’s name like it’s already hers.”
He let out a quiet, almost self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head.
“I’m not mad at him. I get it. I’d fight for you too if I were in his shoes. But you are here now. With me. With us. And I’m not letting go this time. Not for anything.”
The car filled with a comfortable quiet after that. You squeezed his thigh gently, heart full in a way that felt both new and deeply rooted.
You didn’t need to say anything right away. The words he’d spoken hung between you like a promise
When he parked in front of the building, he turned to you, leaning across the console to kiss you slow and sure, the same unhurried way he had last night.
“Home?” he asked against your lips.
You smiled, fingers brushing his jaw. “Home.”
And as you walked inside together, the past fading behind you like the afternoon light, you felt it settle even deeper — this life that was quietly, steadily becoming yours.
Ellie had come home from her grandmother’s full of stories and sleepy hugs, eaten her dinner, and gone down without a fight. Jungkook had tucked her in while you cleaned the kitchen, the two of you moving around each other with the easy familiarity that had grown so quickly. After she was asleep he pulled you into his room, kissed you slow and deep like he was still tasting the morning, and fell asleep with his arm around your waist and his face tucked against your neck.
You couldn’t sleep.
Not because anything felt wrong — the opposite. Everything felt so right that your mind wouldn’t stop turning.
You lay there in the dark, staring at the faint glow of the cloud night-light that spilled in from the hallway, and let yourself think about Yeonjun for the first time since the hospital parking lot.
What if I had said yes to coffee?
The question floated up quietly, not with longing, but with honest curiosity.
You tried to picture it — going back to the version of life you had with him two years ago. The comfortable routines. The gentle good mornings. The way he always planned dates around things he thought you’d like: nice cafés with perfect lattes, quiet dinners where the conversation never got too heavy. He was steady. Kind. The kind of man who remembered your favorite playlists and never raised his voice.
But the more you let the pictures form, the more they felt… off.
He always asked to take me for coffee. Every single time. “Let’s get coffee and talk,” like that was the answer to everything. I don’t even like coffee. I told him that once and he laughed and said he’d get me tea instead, but he never stopped suggesting coffee first. Like it was the default setting for us.
You turned your head slightly, looking at Jungkook’s sleeping face — the strong line of his jaw, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, the small scar on his eyebrow you’d traced with your fingertip last night while he moved inside you slow and sure.
With Yeonjun everything was… easy. Too easy. The kind of easy that feels like friendship wearing love’s clothes. We never fought, never burned, never stayed up talking until the sun came up because we couldn’t stop. It was comfortable. Safe. But safe in the way a favorite sweater is safe — warm, familiar, but you don’t miss it when it’s in the drawer.
He was different from Jungkook in every way that matters. Jungkook sees me. Really sees me. The way I hum when I’m tired, the way I cut fruit into tiny pieces without thinking, the way I need slow mornings and extra lemon in my tea and someone who understands why I sometimes skip dinner just to paint or sleep. Yeonjun never noticed those things. He tried, but it never quite landed. Like we were speaking two different quiet languages.
You exhaled softly, careful not to wake the man beside you.
I don’t even know how we dated, looking back. It just… happened. Schedules lined up for a while, we liked the same movies, the sex was fine. But it never felt like this. Never felt like my whole chest lights up when he walks into a room. Never felt like I’m choosing him every single day, even when life gets heavy. Never felt like a toddler climbing into bed between us and saying my name like it belongs to her.
The comparison settled in your bones, clear and calm.
Yeonjun is a good person. A friend. Someone I genuinely hope finds someone who loves coffee and gentle routines the way he does. But he’s not for me. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was. It was easy in the way friendship is easy — no sparks, no ache, no fear of losing something because you never risked enough to have it.
You turned onto your side, facing Jungkook fully. In the low light his tattoos looked softer, his shoulders broader, the arm around you heavy with sleep and devotion.
This… this is the kind of easy that scares me because it matters. Slow mornings. Ellie reaching for me first. Him letting the whole world think I’m her mom and not correcting them. Slow, deep nights where he takes his time like he’s learning me all over again after years apart. This is the kind of easy that feels like love, not like settling.
You pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and felt him stir just enough to pull you closer in his sleep.
Sorry, Yeonjun. You’re a nice guy. But I’m not going back to easy-that-doesn’t-feel-like-love.
Not when I finally have the real thing right here.
Avengers Family Incorrect Quotes - 19/?
Peter: Mr. Stark said I have a curfew. Strange: You’re an Avenger. Peter: I know. Wong: How late is the curfew. Peter: ten. Strange: …p.m.? Peter: yeah. Tony: Don’t look at me like that. Wong: I have guarded the Sanctum for centuries and this is the strangest thing I’ve seen.
Unmasked Hearts
Synopsis - Two reluctant partners. Sharp banter and shared battles. As Gotham’s darkness closes in, Red Hood and you go from enemies to something more—discovering that sometimes love is the most dangerous fight of all.
Tags? - banter, fluffy, just over all cute. Enemies to lovers.
Word Count - 7,600 (Got carried away!! I'm sorry!)
The night was a typical Gotham cocktail of fog, cold rain, and the distant wail of sirens. Rooftops loomed like dark teeth over alleys slick with oil. You crouched on the edge of one of those roofs, eyes narrowed behind your mask, tracking a van crawling along the street below. It was the same van you’d tailed for three nights, and tonight felt like it might finally lead you to the source of the latest shipment of high-grade weapons flooding the East End.
But then a shadow dropped from above—heavier, faster, almost soundless. You tensed, blade halfway drawn, as a figure clad in red and black armor landed beside you with a thud that vibrated through the rooftop. The Red Hood. Just your luck. He rose to full height, gaze flicking to you, and you stared each other down like two alley cats over the same scrap.
“You planning to keep playing dress-up or are you actually going to do something?” he said after a beat, voice low, edged with disdain.
You let out a soft snort. “You mean besides cleaning up your mess? Because I counted six of your spent casings littering the street two blocks back.”
His eyes narrowed behind his helmet’s lenses. The corner of your mouth quirked—maybe provoking the notorious Red Hood wasn’t wise, but you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. And there was something in his posture, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was already spoiling for a fight, that made your pulse quicken with the thrill of it.
You both turned back to the van. It slowed at a warehouse gate, two men hopping out to unlock the doors. Without a word, you rose as one and sprinted across the roofline, boots pounding wet concrete in a sync neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You reached the ledge first, diving into the shadows of a loading crane as the goons rolled the van inside. Red Hood landed beside you a split second later. You almost stabbed him when he brushed your shoulder.
“Do you mind?” you hissed, jerking your elbow away.
“Do you always get in the way?” he shot back, eyes never leaving the men below.
You almost laughed—if only because it was either that or lose your mind. “I’ve been on this case for days. You’re the one who showed up uninvited.”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer, but the tense silence that followed was loud enough to rattle your bones. Down below, the smugglers began unloading crates stamped with Russian letters. You raised your crossbow, lining up a shot at one of the lookouts.
But just as you released the bolt, Red Hood’s gloved hand shot out, pushing your aim an inch off. The bolt thunked harmlessly into a wooden crate. You whipped around, furious. “What the hell was that for?”
“You’d have blown our cover,” he snapped. “They would’ve called in reinforcements.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest plate. “Or I could’ve taken one out before they knew what hit them.”
He leaned in, close enough you could see the faint scratches on his red helmet. “Your way is sloppy.”
You sucked in a breath, bristling, before a sudden shout from below cut the argument short. One of the guards pointed up—he’d spotted you. Swearing under your breath, you vaulted the railing, dropping like a stone and rolling as you hit the ground. Bullets started flying immediately, muzzle flashes lighting up the dark. Red Hood dropped beside you, guns blazing. The two of you moved through the warehouse like twin storms: you weaving between crates with liquid speed, him following behind, his heavier frame unstoppable, brutal.
You slashed the thigh of a thug who tried to flank you, feeling the heat of a bullet whiz past your ear. Red Hood took down two more with precision headshots. Somewhere between ducking behind a forklift and covering each other’s backs, the chaos shifted—turned almost graceful. Each time you dodged right, he covered the left. When you leapt up to swing from a rusted chain and kick a gunman square in the chest, he was there when you landed, dragging you out of the line of fire.
You cleared the last of them with ragged breathing, blood splattered across the concrete. You looked at him, chest heaving, the electric thrill of battle still coursing through you. His helmet turned to you, silent. For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then the shriek of police sirens in the distance broke the spell. You gave him a wry smile. “You know, for a brooding vigilante with the social skills of a brick, you’re not the worst backup I’ve ever had.”
A grunt echoed in his helmet’s modulator—almost a laugh, if you were generous. “And you’re not as incompetent as you look.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Be still my heart.”
He stepped forward until you were nearly toe to toe. Rain sheeted down around you, pattering on metal and broken glass. His voice dropped, the rasp softened. “Stay out of my way next time.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Sure, Hood. But only if you promise not to shoot me.”
Your banter lingered even as you ducked into the shadows to avoid the approaching patrol cars. For all your snarls and barbs, it was impossible to ignore the unspoken understanding already forming between you. You might hate each other’s methods, but you both wanted the same thing: Gotham safer than it was yesterday.
You slipped into an alley, heart still pounding with adrenaline and something dangerously close to excitement. There was a wild energy in the way he moved, a ruthless determination that matched your own. You hated how it made your stomach flutter. Hated it almost as much as you already craved the next time your paths would cross.
Because whether you admitted it or not, the first sparks had already caught fire.
Two days later, you stormed into the Batcave with your mask still dripping from the evening rain, rage pulsing in your chest. You didn’t even get a word out before Batman’s voice, deep and tired, rolled across the cavernous space.
“You and Red Hood are working the same case. I’m making it official,” he said. His tone brokered no argument. “Effective immediately.”
You snapped your head up, eyes wide. “You’re forcing me to work with that walking trauma response?”
A dark chuckle echoed behind you. Red Hood stepped out of the shadows, his helmet gleaming under the Batcave lights. “Nice to see you too, princess.”
You rounded on him with your fists clenched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then don’t make it so easy,” he shot back, voice laced with that infuriating smugness you already knew too well.
Batman’s cape shifted slightly as he looked between you. “You both want to take down the Jackal cartel. You both need the leads the other has. Figure it out.”
He turned and walked away, leaving you glowering at each other. The air crackled with unspoken threats. You hated how tall he was up close, how his presence filled the room and pressed against your fraying patience. He leaned down slightly, as if to get right in your face. “You got something to say?” he asked, voice low, dark amusement glinting in every syllable.
You arched a brow. “Yeah: I’ve seen friendlier rattlesnakes.”
That got a huff out of him—maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. Hard to tell. Either way, it felt like a victory.
The first mission as partners was a disaster.
You tried to scale a fire escape outside a suspected weapons depot, but he beat you to the top, nearly knocking you off the ladder. When you reached the roof, he was already scanning the windows with a thermal scope. “You always this slow?” he asked without looking back.
You wanted to throw him off the roof.
The two of you bickered over every plan—whether to storm the building head-on or go in stealthy; whether to interrogate a thug or let him scurry back to his boss with false intel. Every conversation felt like a tug-of-war. Even worse, you both knew you were right, every single time.
By the time you dropped into the warehouse rafters together, you were vibrating with anger. A patrol strolled below, flashlights sweeping the shadows. You leaned into his ear, voice a harsh whisper. “Left or right?”
“Right,” he said.
You went left.
Moments later, you had to drag each other out of the path of a guard who nearly spotted you, tumbling across the catwalk in a tangle of limbs. You landed on your back with a grunt, his chest pressed against yours, breath harsh inside his helmet. Even through your armor, you felt the heat radiating off him, heard the low growl of his breath.
“Left?” he demanded, eyes blazing behind his lenses.
Your lips twisted into a grin despite the adrenaline. “I like to keep you on your toes.”
He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
You pushed him off you with a huff. “Not if you keep up.”
After barely escaping the warehouse with a stolen ledger in hand, you holed up together in a safehouse. It was the first time you had to share space without punching each other or dodging bullets. You patched a graze on his arm in tense silence, your hands trembling with adrenaline and frustration.
He broke the quiet first. “You don’t have to do that.”
You shot him a glare as you dabbed antiseptic on his wound. “Yeah, well, if you bleed out, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
His lips twitched under the edge of his helmet. “So you do care.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I care about finishing this case, Hood. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
But the truth was harder to ignore when your hands brushed his bare skin, or when your eyes caught on the thick scar that snaked across his bicep. There was a story there, you realized. A story you suddenly wanted to know.
You forced yourself to look away.
The next night, you were ambushed in an alley by cartel enforcers. You moved together by instinct now: when you ducked, he stepped in front of you to block a blow; when he stumbled, you were there to hook your arm under his and haul him upright. The two of you tore through the attackers in a vicious dance, and when the last one fell, you both stood panting, adrenaline crackling in the narrow space.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded, trying to slow your heartbeat. Rain dripped down his helmet, catching in the faint glow of the streetlights. His eyes bored into yours, dark and unreadable.
The silence stretched. Then he huffed and stepped back, muttering, “Try not to die next time.”
You smirked, despite the chaos. “You first.”
Days passed. The tension between you shifted, changing from something jagged and hateful to something sharp but charged with heat. You still bickered—over tactics, over details, over who made worse coffee—but now there was a rhythm to it, almost a comfort.
One night, as you both sprawled in a safehouse living room, poring over maps, he looked up from his notes. “You’re… good at this,” he said gruffly.
You blinked. The compliment startled you more than any ambush. “What?”
He shifted uncomfortably, like the words tasted foreign. “This. The work. You’re… good.”
You couldn’t help the small, stupid smile that tugged at your lips. “Thanks, Hood.”
You threw a pillow at him to hide how warm his words made you feel. He caught it easily, tossed it back with a smirk that set your pulse racing.
You knew something had changed irrevocably when you were staking out a cartel meeting from a rooftop. He shifted his weight beside you, the leather of his jacket brushing yours. “You know,” he drawled, voice low, “your aim’s still terrible.”
You shot him a sideways glance. “And you still smell like cheap gun oil.”
For once, he laughed. A real, warm laugh that broke the brittle edge between you like shattering glass. The sound slipped into your chest, melted the ice there. He reached out, flicking your forehead with a gloved finger. “Keep talking like that, princess, and I might start to like you.”
You smacked his hand away, but your heart was pounding far too hard.
In that moment—under the stars, with his warm breath fogging in the cold night—you realized you were no longer two enemies forced together by circumstance. You were partners. Reluctant, stubborn, maybe even doomed—but partners all the same.
The city was quieter than usual the night you found yourselves perched on the roof of a crumbling apartment block, watching a suspected weapons deal unfold in the alley below. The moonlight glinted off puddles, and Gotham’s skyline loomed in grim silhouette. You shifted your weight, shoulder brushing Red Hood’s as you peered through binoculars.
He snorted softly. “You know you breathe loud enough to wake the dead, right?”
You lowered the binoculars just enough to shoot him a glare. “Says the guy who broods so hard I can practically hear your internal monologue.”
His helmet tilted slightly in your direction. “I don’t brood.”
You raised your eyebrows. “You literally have ‘brood’ as a hobby.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, muffled by his helmet. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught glimpses of something softer beneath all that rage and armor, but it made your pulse jump every time. He shifted closer, shoulders brushing again, and for a moment the world shrank to just the two of you, balanced on a ledge above a city that wanted you both dead.
A light flicked on in a nearby window, cutting across the rooftop. You both dropped into a crouch instantly, weapons drawn, eyes meeting in a silent exchange. That unspoken coordination had begun to feel instinctual—like breathing. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had changed, but the hateful sharpness between you had dulled into something edged with excitement, even trust.
Once the window went dark again, you eased back onto your heels. He was still watching you. The city noise seemed distant, blurred by the thundering of your heartbeat.
“Why do you do this?” he asked suddenly, voice lower, quieter than you’d ever heard it.
You frowned. “What, vigilante work?”
He nodded.
You hesitated. The truth felt dangerous to voice, like saying it out loud would expose something too raw. “Because someone has to,” you said eventually, voice tight. “Because Gotham chews people up and spits them out, and if I can stop even one person from getting swallowed whole…”
You trailed off, embarrassed by how earnest it sounded.
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “That’s a good reason.”
You blinked. “What about you?”
He shifted his gaze back to the alley below, but his hand brushed yours, just for a second. “Because Gotham chewed me up,” he murmured. “And I want to make sure it regrets it.”
Your chest ached. You wanted to reach for him, to trace the lines of the scars you knew he carried. Instead, you settled for a smirk. “That’s very dramatic, Hood. Did you rehearse that line?”
His helmet turned back to you, lenses reflecting city lights. “You’d know if I rehearsed it. I’d have included more explosions.”
That startled a laugh out of you—bright and sharp, echoing across the rooftop. His helmet dipped, and you thought he might be smiling underneath.
The next night, you were patching him up after a job gone sideways. His armor was dented, his shirt soaked through with blood. You were careful as you cleaned the wound on his side, trying to ignore how warm his skin felt under your gloved hands.
He hissed as you pressed gauze against the gash. “I’ve had worse,” he muttered.
You rolled your eyes. “That’s not the flex you think it is.”
His gaze dropped to your face, intense and unguarded. “You always do this?” he asked quietly.
“Do what?”
“Stay,” he said. “When it gets bad.”
You swallowed hard. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I don’t run.”
His breath stuttered. He reached up, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was fleeting, but it felt like a spark. You both looked away at the same time, silence thick and heavy with everything neither of you knew how to say.
After that night, things shifted again. The banter came easier, lighter. You found yourself joking about his helmet—how it probably had a setting for “maximum scowl”—and he teased you about your “baby crossbow” that you swore was better than his handguns.
One morning, as you both crashed in a safehouse after a long mission, you woke up sprawled across his chest on the couch. His helmet was off, dark hair mussed, eyes soft in the early light. You tensed, but his arm around your waist tightened, holding you there.
“Go back to sleep,” he rasped, voice husky with exhaustion.
Your heart flipped. “Bossy,” you mumbled, but you didn’t move.
It became a pattern: the missions, the fights, the banter, the moments of quiet. You caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. He started bringing your favorite takeout after long nights, wordlessly dropping it in your lap with a grunt. You found excuses to patch him up, even when his injuries were minor. The tension that had once been edged with hatred now crackled with something else entirely.
One night, as you both sat on a rooftop eating cold noodles from a shared carton, he nudged your shoulder. “You know,” he said casually, “I don’t hate working with you.”
You nearly choked on your noodles. “Is that… supposed to be a compliment?”
His lips curved into a smirk, visible in the low glow of the streetlights. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
You bumped your shoulder against his. “Too late.”
He rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.
The real shift happened when you were ambushed in a parking garage. A sniper took a shot, and you would’ve been dead if he hadn’t tackled you to the ground. You landed hard, breath knocked out of you, his body pinning yours. Bullets sparked off concrete overhead.
“You okay?” he demanded, voice ragged.
You gasped out, “I’ve been better.”
“Stay down,” he barked, rolling off you to return fire. You watched him move—efficient, furious, every line of his body radiating desperation. He wasn’t fighting for Gotham. He was fighting for you.
When the final gunman fell, he dropped his guns and rushed back, hands skimming over your limbs. “Where are you hit?” he demanded, voice cracking.
You grabbed his wrists, breathless. “I’m fine. You got me out of the way.”
His eyes burned into yours, furious and relieved all at once. “Don’t ever do that again,” he snapped.
“What, get shot at?” you retorted.
“Don’t scare me like that.”
You stared at him, heartbeat thunderous in your chest. His mask was still on, but his voice betrayed him. It was the first time you heard fear in it—real, raw fear. And it wasn’t for himself.
Something inside you crumbled. You reached up, curled your fingers into his collar, pulled him down just enough so your foreheads touched. Rain pattered around you, but you barely felt it.
“You’re not rid of me that easily,” you whispered.
He let out a shaky breath. “Good.”
In that moment, you realized the banter wasn’t just banter anymore. It was a lifeline—something sharp and bright that bound you together in a city that wanted to tear you both apart. The cracks in his armor were there, and they matched the ones in yours perfectly.
For the first time since meeting him, you let yourself hope that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t alone anymore.
It started with intel on the Jackal cartel’s main shipment—your chance to end the case once and for all. You and Red Hood geared up in tense silence. He checked your harness twice, fingers lingering on the straps across your shoulders. You batted him away with a glare, but your heart thundered at the way his hand trembled just slightly when it brushed your collarbone.
The warehouse was on the river docks, rusted and sprawling. You infiltrated from the shadows, moving in near-perfect sync. He cleared the catwalks while you slipped between crates below, your comms crackling with hushed updates. It was the kind of mission that should’ve ended with victory.
Until it all went to hell.
A stray guard spotted you, raising the alarm. Floodlights snapped on, blinding white beams sweeping across crates and scaffolding. Gunfire erupted, bullets sparking off metal. You dove for cover behind a steel container as chaos swallowed the night.
You shouted into your comm. “I’m pinned on the lower level!”
“Stay there,” he growled back, voice taut with a fury you’d never heard from him before. “I’m coming.”
But you didn’t stay. You never did. You dashed across open ground, crossbow bolts taking down two men before they could flank you. Another rose behind a stack of barrels, rifle already leveled. You were too slow.
The shot rang out like a thunderclap. Pain exploded across your ribs. You staggered, breath knocked from your lungs, knees threatening to buckle. Blood seeped hot and sticky through your suit.
Time seemed to slow. You looked up in a haze just in time to see Red Hood vault the second-floor railing, landing in a crouch beside you. His guns roared, deafening in the enclosed space. Every shot found its mark, precise and deadly. He moved with a fury you’d never witnessed, tearing through the cartel enforcers with surgical brutality.
You blinked blearily, mind swimming with shock. He caught you before you could hit the ground, hauling you upright, arm braced tight around your waist. His breath rasped against your ear as he dragged you behind cover.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he snarled, voice breaking.
You tried to laugh but coughed instead, pain flaring through your side. “Bossy… even now…”
His helmet clicked back and forth as he scanned you, gloved hands pressing against your wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. His grip was almost frantic. “Stay with me,” he barked again. “Stay awake.”
Through the fog of pain, you registered the tremor in his voice. It wasn’t anger—it was fear.
The cartel’s reinforcements poured into the warehouse. Hood rose above you like a dark storm, unloading clip after clip, cutting down everyone who dared approach. You could only watch, propped against a crate, as he fought like a man possessed. Every time an enemy got close, he put himself between you and the danger, taking hits to his armor that would’ve ended you.
The last of the gunmen fell with a strangled cry. The silence that followed was deafening. He staggered back to you, breathing ragged inside his helmet. His hands hovered uncertainly before he pressed them to your cheeks, forcing your gaze to lock with his.
“You’re okay,” he panted, voice raw. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“I told you,” you whispered, voice weak but steady, “I don’t run.”
His chest heaved, and then he was tearing his helmet off, tossing it aside with a clatter. His hair was sweat-soaked, eyes blazing bright blue in the warehouse lights. His face was a map of desperation—jaw clenched, eyes wide with terror. He cupped your face with shaking hands.
“Don’t do that to me again,” he said, voice cracking on every word. “Don’t you dare scare me like that.”
You reached up, resting your bloody hand over his. “I’m right here.”
His eyes flicked to your lips, back to your eyes, and something in him snapped. He kissed you—fierce, desperate, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into you all at once. You gasped, pain forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss was messy and raw, but it felt like life itself.
He broke away only when you both needed air, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling in shallow, ragged puffs. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered.
You swallowed hard. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
He let out a broken laugh, somewhere between relief and disbelief. His thumb traced your cheekbone, smearing your blood across his skin. “Good,” he said hoarsely, pressing another quick, desperate kiss to your forehead.
He carried you out of the warehouse, refusing to let you walk despite your protests. His arms were strong and warm, cradling you to his chest like you weighed nothing. You rested your head against him, listening to the furious hammer of his heart. It matched your own.
At the safehouse, he laid you on the couch with a gentleness that made tears prick your eyes. He worked quickly, stripping away your ruined armor, cleaning and bandaging your wound with efficient hands that trembled every time they touched your skin. His eyes never left your face.
“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” you croaked, managing a shaky smile.
“Both,” he admitted, voice ragged.
When you were stable, he collapsed on the floor beside you, one hand still gripping yours like a lifeline. He stayed awake all night, eyes red and hollow, watching over you.
In the days that followed, you caught him staring at you with a haunted look when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Every time you moved, his hand would dart out to steady you, as though afraid you’d vanish if he looked away for even a moment.
The banter returned, but it was softer now—less barbed, more playful.
“You’re the worst patient,” he grumbled one morning when he caught you trying to sneak out of bed.
“And you’re the worst nurse,” you shot back with a grin. “Do you even know how to make soup?”
He leaned down, brushing his lips across your forehead. “No. But I know how to shoot anyone who tries to hurt you.”
You laughed, heart aching in a way that was almost sweet. He kissed you again—gentler this time, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the feel of your mouth. You kissed him back with everything you had.
It wasn’t just banter anymore. It wasn’t even just trust. It was something deeper—something terrifying and wonderful all at once.
And for the first time, you both let yourselves feel it.
The days after the warehouse ambush blurred together, each one quieter than the last. It was strange, almost unsettling, how peaceful things became. The Jackal cartel scattered in the wake of your victory, and the city itself seemed to exhale, giving you both a rare sliver of calm.
You spent most of your time in his safehouse, a spartan apartment tucked above an abandoned movie theater. It smelled faintly of gun oil and old books. Dusty movie posters still lined the hallway downstairs, their faded colors hinting at a time when this place had been full of laughter instead of shadows.
One morning, you woke sprawled on his couch, tangled in a blanket far softer than you expected him to own. You could feel him before you saw him—warmth radiating from where he sat at the edge of the couch, armor gone, dark t-shirt rumpled, hair tousled. He was reading your case notes, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Morning,” you croaked, voice scratchy with sleep.
His head jerked up, eyes softening when they landed on you. “You should still be resting,” he said, but there was no bite in his tone.
You stretched, wincing slightly at the pull of your healing wound. “I’ve rested enough. You know I hate sitting still.”
A wry smile ghosted across his lips. “That’s obvious.”
He reached out, fingers brushing your hair back from your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache. You leaned into his touch without thinking, craving it, needing it. He hesitated only a moment before letting his hand linger, thumb stroking your cheek.
He started showing up at your side with little things you never asked for but always needed: a mug of coffee exactly how you liked it, fresh bandages before you ran out, takeout from the Thai place you’d once mentioned loving. The first time, he set a container of pad thai in your lap without a word, then sat across from you with his helmet off, hair damp from the rain. He acted like it was nothing, but you caught the faint flush in his cheeks when you thanked him.
“Didn’t peg you for someone who takes dinner orders,” you teased, poking at your noodles.
His eyes flicked up, lips quirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who snores.”
Your jaw dropped. “I do not snore.”
He leaned back, smirk wide and smug. “You absolutely do.”
You launched a throw pillow at his head. He caught it easily, tossing it back without breaking eye contact. Laughter bubbled up in your chest, bright and sharp. It echoed around the safehouse, filling it with something warm and alive.
The banter became a constant soundtrack: teasing each other over burned eggs when you tried to cook; bickering about the best Gotham dive bars; arguing about which of you looked cooler scaling rooftops. Sometimes the words came out sharp, but the edges were soft, cushioned with affection neither of you dared name.
One evening, he came home late, armor scuffed, eyes hollow. You were curled up on his couch with a book, but the moment the door opened, you knew something was wrong. You stood quickly, reaching for him.
“What happened?” you demanded.
He shook his head, dropping his helmet with a clatter. His hands trembled as he unfastened his chest plate, breath ragged. You helped him peel it away, heart pounding at the new bruises blooming across his ribs.
“It was a setup,” he ground out, voice hoarse. “Someone tipped them off. It was supposed to be a quick bust—”
“You’re okay,” you cut in firmly, pressing your palms against his chest to steady him. “You’re here. You’re okay.”
He let out a shuddering breath. “I… I thought I’d be too late to see you again.”
Your own breath caught. His eyes, dark and open, reflected your own fear back at you. Without thinking, you pulled him down into a fierce, desperate kiss. He melted into you instantly, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world.
When you finally pulled back, both of you gasping, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re not allowed to die,” you whispered fiercely.
A soft huff of laughter warmed your cheek. “Same goes for you.”
Nights blurred together. Some were spent curled up together on the couch watching old movies with the volume too low to hear, but neither of you cared. Others passed with you sprawled across his chest, tracing the scars along his arms while he told you where each one came from, voice hushed and raw.
“I got this one the first time I tried to do things my own way,” he murmured one night, guiding your fingers over a long, puckered line on his shoulder.
You swallowed hard. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only when it rains,” he admitted, smirking faintly. Then his expression softened. “It doesn’t hurt right now.”
You kissed him then, slow and gentle, savoring the quiet peace of the moment. The world outside the safehouse felt distant, like it couldn’t reach you here.
Sometimes you cooked together—if it could be called cooking when he mostly leaned against the counter watching you, arms crossed, eyes soft as he pretended not to hover. You burned the pancakes once and tried to hide the evidence by scraping them into the trash, but he caught you, arms wrapping around your waist from behind.
“Trying to poison me, princess?” he rumbled into your ear, breath sending shivers down your spine.
“Trying to spare you,” you retorted, but you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.
He spun you around, kissing you breathless against the counter. When you pulled away, you were both smiling so hard it hurt.
Every day, the safehouse grew more like a home: your gear on the same hooks as his, your boots next to his heavy combat boots, your coffee mugs side by side on the kitchen counter. It terrified you how quickly you adjusted to sharing a space with him—but it felt right, like breathing.
The banter was still there, silly and constant, but now it made your heart ache with how easy it felt. It was no longer about one-upping each other or hiding vulnerability; it was your way of saying you were there, that you’d catch each other if you fell.
One quiet night, you lay together on the couch, his hand tracing idle patterns on your hip. Rain pattered softly against the window. He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice low.
“You know,” he murmured, lips brushing your hair, “I think I’d go insane without you.”
Your heart stuttered. You tilted your head up, catching his eyes. “Lucky for you,” you whispered back, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time, it felt like you both truly believed it.
The peace couldn’t last forever. Gotham had a way of reminding you that hope was a fragile thing. It started with a tip about a new player moving into the Jackal cartel’s old territory, a ruthless mercenary who’d already left bodies in their wake. You and Red Hood spent days tracking them across the city, sleep-deprived and tense, falling back into the frantic rhythm of missions.
You’d just finished a stakeout when you found yourselves arguing in the safehouse kitchen, tempers frayed and voices sharp. You were exhausted, scraped raw by the endless nights, and every word felt like a spark in dry tinder.
“You should’ve waited for me,” he snapped, hands braced on the table between you, eyes blazing. “You nearly got yourself killed—again.”
“I had a shot!” you shot back, throwing your hands up. “I wasn’t going to let him get away because you were ten blocks over—”
“I told you to wait!” His voice cracked, loud enough to make the walls vibrate.
You froze, breathing hard. His face was flushed with anger, but underneath it you saw the terror—the same look he’d worn in the warehouse when you were bleeding out. The realization hit you like a punch.
“Why do you even care so much?” you demanded, voice softer but trembling. “Why does it matter to you if I get hurt?”
He slammed his hands on the table, leaning closer until you were nose to nose. “Because I—” He broke off, chest heaving. His eyes searched yours desperately, words choking in his throat.
Your heart thundered, the silence stretching tight and fragile between you. “Because you what?” you whispered, voice barely audible.
He reached out, cupping your face so suddenly and fiercely that your breath caught. “Because I can’t lose you,” he rasped, voice raw and shaking. “Because every time you run into danger, I feel like I’m dying. Because—” His thumb brushed your cheek, smearing a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Because I love you.”
The words hit you harder than any blow you’d ever taken. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The city outside fell away, the roar of rain on the window a distant whisper. All you could hear was your heartbeat and the ragged sound of his breath.
“You… you love me?” you choked out.
His hand trembled against your skin. “I tried not to. God, I tried. But you—” His voice cracked again. “You got under my skin, and I can’t imagine this… any of this… without you.”
You stared at him, your chest tight, your world tilting. You’d known, of course—known in every lingering touch, every desperate kiss, every time he’d pulled you from the jaws of death. But hearing it out loud shattered something inside you, something you’d been holding together with stubborn pride.
“I love you too,” you whispered, tears spilling freely now. “I love you so much it scares me.”
He let out a strangled noise, half-laugh, half-sob, before surging forward to kiss you. It was different this time—no longer desperate, but fierce with relief, with all the words you’d both left unspoken for too long. His hands threaded through your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, you were both gasping, eyes wet. He searched your face like he was memorizing every freckle, every scar, every crack in your armor.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely.
You swallowed hard, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You deserve everything, Hood. Especially this.”
His lips quirked faintly. “Call me Jason,” he murmured. “Please.”
The name fell from your mouth like a secret. “Jason.”
His eyes fluttered shut, like hearing it from you was a balm. When they opened again, they were softer than you’d ever seen them. “Say it again.”
“Jason,” you repeated, voice breaking on the word.
He kissed you again, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the taste of his own name on your lips. It was the kind of kiss that made promises without words — the kind that said you were his, and he was yours.
That night, you ended up curled together on his narrow bed, limbs tangled, your head tucked under his chin. Rain pattered softly outside, the city strangely quiet, as if it, too, was holding its breath.
“You know,” you murmured into the darkness, voice muffled by his shirt, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to start listening to you.”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, warm and safe. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”
His hand skimmed up and down your back, grounding you. You traced circles on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It calmed you in a way nothing else ever had.
“You’re stuck with me now,” you whispered, half-teasing, half-terrified of how much you meant it.
“Good,” he replied softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
In the days that followed, everything felt different. Lighter, even in the darkness of Gotham. He still hovered protectively when you geared up for patrol, but now his touches lingered — a hand at the small of your back, a brush of his knuckles against your cheek. You found yourself watching him too, memorizing the rare curve of his smile, the way his eyes softened when they met yours.
The banter was still there, sharper than ever but now threaded with warmth.
“Try not to get yourself shot tonight,” he muttered as you checked your weapons.
You raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to brood so hard you forget to duck.”
“Deal,” he said, smirking as he pulled you in for a quick, bruising kiss.
You both knew Gotham wouldn’t give you a fairy tale. But for the first time, you felt like you’d carved out something real in the cracks of the city — something worth fighting for.
And when you swung through the night together, side by side, you moved like two halves of the same whole: sharp, unstoppable, and utterly in love.
Gotham was a different place in the early hours before dawn. The streets were slick with rain, the neon signs still humming quietly. The city’s chaos seemed to hold its breath during those brief, hushed moments — and it was in those spaces you and Jason found your peace.
You sat together on a rooftop ledge high above the East End, legs dangling over the abyss, coffee cups steaming in your hands. The skyline stretched around you, jagged and dark, punctuated by the occasional flare of police sirens or distant gunfire. But it all felt far away now.
“You know,” you said softly, watching the first hint of sunrise burn the clouds orange, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”
Jason shifted beside you, his shoulder pressing warm against yours. “Because it’s quiet?”
“Because it’s ours,” you corrected, turning to catch his eyes. They reflected the dawn, pale blue and full of things you still couldn’t quite believe you were allowed to see.
A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Ours,” he echoed, like he was trying out the word for the first time.
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “What, surprised I can be sentimental?”
“I just thought you’d say your favorite part was blowing up a meth lab,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief.
You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes. “That’s a close second.”
In the weeks since your confession, you’d both learned how to exist in each other’s orbit without fighting every step of the way. The banter was still there, alive and well, but it had settled into something comforting instead of combative. Every word, every eye roll, every smirk felt like a reminder of how far you’d come.
You were still stubborn. He was still reckless. But now when you fought, it was followed by laughter, or a kiss, or the quiet comfort of lying together in the dark until the world made sense again.
You’d even started leaving things at his safehouse without realizing it: your spare grappling hook in the weapons rack, your toothbrush in the bathroom, your favorite sweatshirt draped over his couch. One night, you found a drawer in his dresser empty except for a note scrawled in his jagged handwriting: For your stuff. Stay.
You’d stared at the note so long you nearly missed him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a look so soft it took your breath away. “Told you you’re not getting rid of me,” you’d said.
“Wasn’t trying to,” he’d replied, pulling you into his chest.
One rainy night, you were ambushed again in an abandoned subway station. The two of you moved together like a single shadow: silent, deadly, unstoppable. But when one of the last attackers tried to flank you, Jason stepped in front of the blade meant for your throat, taking a shallow cut across his ribs.
You froze. The world shrank to the sight of his blood soaking into his suit.
“Jason!” you shouted, voice hoarse with terror.
“I’m fine,” he ground out, but his hand trembled as he held his side. You pressed yourself into him, scanning the darkness for more enemies, breathing hard.
“Stay behind me,” he snapped.
“Not happening,” you shot back, planting yourself at his side. “I’m not losing you either.”
The fight ended in seconds, but the fear lingered long after. Back in the safehouse, you patched him up in silence, your hands shaking. When you finished, you sat back on your heels, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Hey,” he murmured, reaching for you. His fingers brushed your jaw, his touch gentle. “I’m okay.”
“You can’t keep doing that,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You can’t keep throwing yourself in front of me.”
He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “I will every time,” he whispered fiercely. “Because I love you more than I love breathing.”
You clutched him tighter, like you could fuse your hearts together if you just held on hard enough. “Then we protect each other,” you said fiercely. “Deal?”
He pulled back, eyes blazing even through the haze of pain. “Deal.”
That night, you fell asleep curled against his side, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only thing that kept your nightmares at bay. You woke to find him watching you, eyes soft, thumb stroking your cheek.
“Morning, princess,” he rasped, voice low and warm.
“Morning, Hood,” you teased, smiling sleepily.
He dipped his head, kissing you slow and deep. “Jason,” he corrected when he pulled back, eyes bright. “Call me Jason.”
“Jason,” you whispered, and the way his face lit up made your heart ache.
Weeks turned into months. You fell into a rhythm: nights spent on rooftops, days spent tangled in sheets or arguing over bad takeout. You still bickered — over who got the last egg roll, or whether you should go in quiet or loud — but it always ended in laughter, or kisses that left you both breathless.
One quiet morning, you stood side by side brushing your teeth, bumping elbows in the cramped bathroom. You caught each other’s eyes in the mirror and burst out laughing at the toothpaste foam on your lips. He leaned down, kissing you minty and sweet.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t perfect.
But it was yours.
A month later, you found yourselves on that same rooftop where you’d first realized you were more than reluctant partners. The skyline was darker now, storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But Jason’s hand found yours, his gloved fingers slotting perfectly with yours.
“Scared?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving the storm.
“Terrified,” you admitted honestly.
He looked at you then, eyes bright with everything you knew he couldn’t always say out loud. “Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Means we’re still alive.”
You smiled, leaning into him. “Means we’re still us.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Together, you stepped into the storm — unbreakable, unstoppable, and finally whole.
