I sometimes wish Kuroko no Basket had been released in 2020 instead of 2012. The fanfiction featuring original characters or reader inserts is often cringeworthy, they all seem to share the same personality traits with only minor differences. It's really confusing why the female character is always portrayed as the only girl playing basketball with the boys, even more so that she is better than them and she is very Smart on the court but totally clueless in school. Her name is typically something like "Queen of Basketball" or another title starting with "Queen." She’s often depicted with an unrealistic body type and a mean demeanor, yet everyone seems to love her.
The writing quality is generally poor it’s so 2010s in bad way. Haikyuu and Blue Lock fans are so lucky you guys have a wider variety of fanfiction. While there are certainly some cringe-worthy stories, there are also many well-written ones. You have fanfics that actually explore relationships and don't just stick to the main plot and also most Kuroko no Basket fanfics are short, and if they are longer, they tend to fall into the reverse harem category. I’d be fine if they developed the relationships better, but most of the time, the characters just like her for dumb reasons. Can we please get an OC/reader who doesn’t play basketball, is nice and has a complex personality! (Also, if you know any good KNB fanfics, please share!)
Yandere mechanic who met you when you crashed your car, he walked out to tell you about the news of your car and he stopped mid sentence.
“The damage of your car will be pretty pricey it’ll take…” he paused as he looked at you sitting in the waiting room, you were his exact type and he was immediately hooked. “…fifty dollars.”
You were surprised but paid the money, not expecting it to so cheap..you crashed your car after all!
You didn’t know that he fixed your car but damaged it slightly so you would have to come back in. He knew you would come back in, those prices were too good to not take.
And he was right. He continued to fix your car but make another problem in it so much that you two became friends. But he needed wanted more.
Yandere mechanic who stays over at your house a lot to hang out, he loves your house it smells like you!!
Yandere mechanic teaches you about car facts so you can save money now, oh how mark loves the look of oil and dirt on your face. He used it as an excuse to caress your cheek saying he was just wiping soot off your cheek.
Yandere mechanic who really just is a silly bulky guy who is a little manipulative but he promises himself that he’ll make it worth it when you finally become his.
Yandere mechanic who has to endure your slow burn with him. He’s almost gave up and just kidnapped you but he can’t take that disappointment in your eyes.
Synopsis: After Ashford Tourney, Lady Lynara Baratheon talks to Rowan Fossaway about her strenous new marriage to Prince Maekar. Eventually she rides back to Summerhall with him and faces the same treatment she always does.
Tags : sfw, age gap marriage; oc in early 20s, arranged marriage, whole point of series is angst, smut coming in later parts, enemies (well not proper enemies) to lovers, mentions of Dyanna Dayne, OC is petty and sad, grumpy and a bit mean Maekar post AKOSTK show
Word count : 2.8k
Loyal to show so far except Maekar allows Egg to go with Dunc
First part of Stag and The Flame series
“And I know none of this will matter in the long run but I know a sound is still a sound around no one.” - I want you to love me, Fiona Apple
The camps were busy with activity, people packing tents up and taking down stalls. The initial buzz of the tourney had died down significantly since the death of the heir, Baelor. The shock had worn off and all that was left was a quiet sense of fear and sadness. People were unsure of what the king would say, if the king even knew yet. How would he react knowing his eldest son, destined to be the most just king that ever was had been killed by his own brother. The question rang louder in no one's ears except the wife of said brother, Lady Lynara Baratheon. However the question was more how is Maekar going to be from now on with the weight of this on his shoulders.
Her thumb ran absentmindly over the gold goblet full of sweet summer wine that she gripped in her hand as she sat on a wooden stool outside the Fossoway tent. Lynara's gaze burned into the grass in front of her as she contemplated her future as a princess and a wife, as she often did.
"...Lynara?"
Her head snapped back up as she realised her new found friend, Rowan was addressing her, tilting her head as she was too sitting across from her clutching a goblet.
"S-sorry- I didn't hear you."
"You've got your head in the clouds an awful lot for a princess." Rowan laughs as she takes a swig of her wine. Lynara frowns at her teasing comment. "I said when are you leaving?"
Whenever Maekar stops fucking whinging.
"Soon. My ladies packed all my things this morning. I just have to wait until my husband decides he can bear the reality that will come crashing down on us when we return to Symmerhall."
"I'd give you advice but I doubt I have any idea of how it feels to be in your position."
Lynara looks down into her cup and shakes her head slowly.
"No. You don't. But that's not your fault really. This is my own path which I...somewhat chose so I have to figure it out."
There's a beat of silence when all that fills the air is distant chatter and wind blowing through leaves as Rowan debates whether to ask the question that sits on her tongue.
"Did you choose to marry Prince Maekar? I mean, did you even have a choice?
"Not really." Lynara looks back up at her and takes a deep inhale. "I wasn't directly told to, they couldn't force me if I said no but I was heavily advised by my family. I didn't plan to stay around for the consequences if I denied him."
"You're so...different. You and him." Taking another drink, Rowan smirks as she looks into the camp. “I mean what do you even talk about?” A small laugh escapes her before it dies awkwardly, seeing Lynara is not sharing the same humour. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Lynara drinks, tasting the soft berries on her lips. “You’re right unfortunately. He’s never said it but I have no doubt he sees me as naive and foolish. Perhaps I am, knowing all that and still loving him.”
“You love him??”
“When someone vows to protect and care for you, through sickness and health. It’s hard not to love them…whether they mean it or not.” Lynara used to be embarrassed for loving him but she doesn’t care now. Whether she loves him or not doesn’t change anything anyways. “His first marriage was for love alone and here I am, thrust upon him through duty.”
Before Rowan can respond, Lynara speaks again.
“Dyanna was…beautiful, loving and strong. Fertile too.” A humourless laugh comes out. “They think I don’t hear the whispers at court…I do. She was prettier than me, stronger. Understood him better. If I could have half her aspects Maekar would worship me.”
Another beat of silence comes from Lynara’s confession. She stares off into the distance with an indifferent gaze as whispers of her thick brown hair slip from her plait and swim with the wind around her face.
“…you are beautiful.” Rowan breaks the silence looking at Lynara sympathetically. “Maekar is a fool if he doesn’t see that. Children will come if you wish it…just give it time. Give all of it time.”
Lynara looks at her face and smiles softly.
“You should’ve been a Priestess. You speak beautifully sometimes.”
Rowan lets out a bright laugh which eases the tension in Lynaras chest slightly.
“When I want to. My skills soar in the bedchamber. Now, if you have any marital issues in that area, I am more than happy to-“
“Rowan!” Lynara cuts her off with a laugh. “Thank you, I shall keep that in mind. But from the very few nights we’ve spent together…I know that is not a problem.”
“Ah, a true Targaryen fire is he?”
Both of them laugh again, Lynara flushing which only causes Rowan’s laugh to go on. For a moment, an ache beats in Lynara’s chest. A part of her which wishes she could just live a life like this, a simpler life away from duties and titles. Where she could marry who she wishes or not marry at all. Just spend her days laughing in Ashford fields. But that’s all out of reach now. She would be a fool to think otherwise.
Cutting through the dreamlike, giggling bliss, A Targaryen soldier, clad in coal black armour approaches the two.
“Princess Lynara.” He says with no emotion at all. “We are to depart and Prince Maekar wishes you back to the leaving party straight away.”
Rowan watches as the shine that once glittered in Lynara’s eyes falters. Eventually she nods reluctantly.
“…I’ll leave now. Thank you, I’ll find my own way there.” With that, he bows and turns, heading back. “…I don’t even know how he found out I was here. He’ll have a go at me for that.”
“I have no doubt you will be strong when he does.” Rowan stands up as she does and puts their goblets down. “Write to me as you said you would…I hope all the best for you. For you both.”
They embrace tightly. Rowan has been a kind light in the turmoil that the tourney has brung and it truly hurts Lynara to let her go.
“Of course I shall write.” Lynara pulls back and smiles, appreciating their bittersweet farewell. “Good luck with Raymun and the babe, if any feasts need cider I shall not hesitate to call on the Fossoways.”
Another kind smile flashes across both their faces before Lynara turns and starts wading across the grass to Ashford castle gates, where no doubt her husband will be awaiting her. Lyonel, her cousin had already packed up and gone. Although the tourney had caused more issues than fathomable, Lynara believes she will miss it.
She’ll miss the nights where she’d sneak out the castle and into Lyonel’s tent where she’d drink and laugh like she was back home again. The fresh air filling the fields and the joy that was felt from all from the jousts, excitement that filled her when she watched them. Seeing Egg once again, embracing him tightly and only days later, kissing him goodbye. Most of all she’ll miss Baelor. That was a given, everyone would. One of her closest aides, Baelor did his best to welcome her to the family when his brother would not. If she had the choice, Lynara would’ve married him. Now he’s gone and his absence will bring fear and shame over the Targaryens, a thought which plagues her and her husband’s mind no doubt.
Once she reaches Maekar, he’s already sitting upon his grand black horse. An aged frown covers his face as it usually does, disappearing behind his square white beard. His black cloak lays over him and his legs, hands tightly gripping the reigns. He spots her approaching his horse and somehow, his frown deepens.
“Where the fuck have you been?” His voice is gruff and commanding as he stares down at her from his horse.
“Packing.”
“Don’t lie.” He’s about to reprimand her but stops himself, realising he’ll get nowhere. “Hmph, get on your horse and let’s get out of this fucking place…” He rides forward and passes her, not looking back.
Lynara’s helped upon her horse, a beautiful majestic brown horse with a braided mane. Fawn was his name. He was a wedding gift from Lyonel, a reminder of the Stormlands, her home. Maekar rides upfront and her inbetween guards (something which he insisted. For practicality or a hidden show of care. She’s not sure), far from him. It’s a relief really, she doesn’t need to see his scowl for the entire journey.
The ride isn’t long, not a large amount of land lies between Ashford and Summerhall. Her attention is held by the rolling hills that pass and the clear sky that blesses the afternoon. Fawn rides smoothly and quickly as he always did. The wind blows in Lynara’s face gently, a needed balm from the worry that ceased to stop the shiver in her body.
When not watching the scenery, her eyes stay upon the flying banners in-front of her. The red dragon against the black fabric billow and flay through the air. It’s the symbol that rules her life now. It hangs over her new home and is stamped on silver on the ring she wears, showing who she belongs to. Maekar’s white hair is occasionally seen through the line of guards and wagons but only for seconds until it is covered by another head or a flag.
What is he thinking about, Lynara wonders. His brother, his sons. Aerion rides somewhere infront of her too, not on a mighty steed but a wagon. He won’t be home for long thankfully, before he’s shipped off to Lys. He enjoyed taunting her and he could sense her fear. Regularly taking great pleasure in making Lynara embarrass herself, whether sending her into a council meeting or directing her the wrong way. Maybe Maekar is thinking about her. Probably not, but it would be nice if he did for once.
The gates open to the Summerhall courtyard where servants and stable boys scatter as the horses start thumping in. As Lynara’s helped off Fawn, she spots Maekar through the crowd. But it’s his back and broad shoulders as he strides inside, his head facing forward until he disappears through the dark doors. The stone walls loom over Lynara reminding her of her home and the loss of the small freedom she felt in Ashford.
The afternoon has now shifted into the evening. The sky is turning its ominous crimson, setting a deep orange hue over the castle. Lynara takes up her time with her ladies, sitting around a table in one of the sitting rooms, smiling and drinking. But her mind is elsewhere throughout the gathering. It lingers on Maekar’s back as he stormed away from her, away from his wife.
Dinner is served but she only pokes and pecks at it before sending it away. The thick meat and rich wine seems sickly now when compared to the sweet liquors or sour ciders she tasted with Rowan and the pies she sunk her teeth into in Lyonel’s tent.
Back in her private chambers, the ladies eventually all filter out and leave her alone. The bags have been unpacked but only half put away since they were all occupied with chatter and gossip. Lynara drifts to where some of her clothes lay. Embroidered gold gowns, stags and dragons intertwining on the sleeves, a testament to their supposed unity. Her soft hands glide over the fabrics before she spots something she does not recognise. Holding up the garment, the yellow light from the fireplace flickers across it as she recognises it to be a thin cotton nightshirt. A man’s, too big to be hers.
She lowers her arms and she decides it’s probably Maekar’s. A servant must’ve cleaned it and put it back in the wrong room as he definitely wouldn’t have left it there, Maekar spent no nights in her room at Ashford and showed no desire to.
It’s late but he’ll be awake. Lynara didn’t want to call on a servant at this time and his room is only across the hall, it would be selfish to. A small curse is whispered under her breath as she heads towards the door and into the hallway.
In a few strides, ringing the shirt in her hands, she reaches the dark oak door of his chambers. Two guards stand alert outside but move aside once they see her. Gingerly she raises her hand and raps a soft knock.
“…it’s Lynara.”
A beat passes.
“Come in.”
A guard reaches for the handle and swings it open for the princess, she nods a thank you before entering. Her eyes land upon Maekar who sits in an armchair, slouching and facing the fire. The room is large and warm, the flames heating up Lynara’s already flushing cheeks. He doesn’t speak and instead waits for her to state her reason for appearing.
“I believe this is yours.” She holds forward the shirt which is futile since he doesn’t even look at her. Just continues staring into the fire. “…Maekar.”
“What?” He responds abruptly.
“I’ll repeat myself.” Her frustration boils. “This is yours. Look at me.”
With that, he growls and stands up. He takes in the sight of her with loose brown hair falling past her shoulders and her pale yellow gown. His attention is caught by the shirt in her hand.
“Why have you got that?”
“I don’t know.” Lynara pushes it down onto the table. “A servants mistake perhaps.”
He hums a rough response. An acknowledgment instead of an opinion.
“I think everyone enjoyed the tourney.” She states trying to make polite conversation. He frowns at her.
“As long as they enjoyed it then. That’s what matters. Not the fact that my fucking brother is dead.” He hisses, anger filling his eyes. She internally calls herself an idiot, she shouldn’t have brought it up.
“Sorry.” Is all she can think to say. He just watches her as embarrassment washes over her.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Oh um…” she’s unsure if this is a trick question, if he’ll come back with a sniping remark if she answers wrong. “Yes, yes I suppose I did…a bit. People were kind and Ashford is beautiful.”
His expression does not change as he listens. He takes the shirt off the table and walks to his bed.
“I thought you’d say that. You spent most of the time giggling with that whore.” He murmers throwing the shirt on the neatly made bed.
“Maekar, don’t speak of her like that.”
“Speak like what? Speak the truth?”
“You know what I mean.” Lynara furrows her brow, feeling frustrated at his cold, absence of kindness. “What kind of man speaks like that when referring to a woman…and to his wife as well.
Wife. The word rings in his ears.
“A tired one, Lynara.” Dragging his feet slowly towards a table before pouring himself wine. Usually she’d tell him not to drink so late but knows it will get them nowhere.
Her mind stumbles as she tries to think over another topic to bring up, one which doesn’t involve the tourney or Baelor or Egg and any other of the dilemmas that plague his life.
“There is a hunt, in a few days. I don’t know if you remember but I planned it before we left. A few of my relatives from the Stormlands are coming over…I think you should join us. It would be good to show your face and…” Lynara almost said it would give him something to do but realised that makes him sound like a bored old man. “Anyways, you are more than welcome to come.”
He drinks and puts down the goblet.
“Maybe.”
It’s not a no, she thinks. It’s a start. Metal on his desk flickers in the light and it catches her eye. She glances to it and notices it to be Baelor’s brooch. It lies upon a stack of paper as a painful reminder of what has been lost. Maekar follows her gaze to it and the pit in his heart throbs once more as he sees it too.
She wants to reach out to him, to talk to him. Make him know that she doesn’t blame him for what happened, not truly. It was a mistake and he doesn’t deserve what people will say. But her wishes are futile as she simply glances back at him. Lynara wishes she could deny the salty tears brimming but not falling.
Neither of them say a word, only basking in the aching silence and the feeling of unsaid words.
“You should go rest. It is late.” Maekar says, in the softest tone she’s heard all day. Lynara nods slowly.
“Yes…I should. Goodnight, I shall see you on the morrow.”
“Mhm.” He’s already turning away and going to sit back by the fire. He’ll be up for hours. Just sitting in silence. Lynara again wonders what he thinks about. Or more, what he doesn’t think about. What burns in his head and what questions lay unanswered. Turning on her heel she leaves him alone.
After the short walk back to her chambers, she wastes no time undressing herself, throwing her dress carelessly on the floor and lying back in the bed. Staring up at the canopy in her cold lonely bed that always seems miles long when she lies in it on nights like this.
Images of that brooch stuck in her mind but also the look on Maekar’s face when he saw it too. She rolls over, shutting her eyes and forcing a light, uncomfortable sleep upon her.
Down the hall, Maekar sits up. He can’t forget her long hair in the flame light or the tears that formed when she noticed the brooch he took from his brother’s chambers at Ashford. He shouldn’t have been so dismissive of her, he knows that. But for now he has now intention to change his attitude, because he’s not sure how to.
summary: Rory navigates being a med student while working with her uncle Jack
includes: inaccurate medical things (I’m not a doctor), depression, mention of suicide and harming oneself, neglectful parents, dad!Jack Abbot, rabbot if you squint, mohabbot if you squint
a/n: this one follows the events of the series, but sometimes it’ll deviate from it
main masterlist | the pitt masterlist
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*✧.｡.:*･# IMAGINES ﾐ (chronological order)
prologue fics
The Usual Suspect - Rory’s babysitter brings her to the hospital for suspicious bruises (young Rory)
Kissed Bruises - how Jack got custody of Rory (young Rory)
౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: your best friend is unfairly gorgeous
the kind of gorgeous that makes strangers turn twice
luckily… he’s gay
so it’s harmless when he pulls you into his lap during movie night
harmless when he braids your hair while you rant about bad dates
harmless when he kisses your temple before exams
right?
౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: friends to lovers, hot best friend rumor, dirty talk, manipulation themes, emotional dependency, family pressure, jealousy, smut, masturbation, mdni, fluff, multiple orgasms, mutual pining, morally gray, touch-starved idiots, pregnancy themes in final chapters, obsessive behavior, please read responsibly ♡
౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ˖ ݁dress – taylor swift, shameless – camila cabello, sweater weather – the neighbourhood, killer queen – 5 seconds of summer, love talk – wayv, call it what you want – taylor swift, i wanna be yours – arctic monkeys, peaches & cream – kai, love on the brain – rihanna, do i wanna know? – arctic monkeys, until i found you – stephen sanchez
౨ৎ ݁ ˖𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ♡ posting this tiny chapter because it was already saved in my drafts… i wrote it last night after taking a sleep pill lol insomnia hit me really hard.
so some parts might not be exactly how i wanted yet, but this fic literally came from a dream and i’m writing fast before i forget my little guilty-pleasure brain crumbs. i didn’t reread it, just wrote and posted.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝓌𝑜 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Lia leans out the driver’s window, face pale, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Finally! Get in, please. It’s bad. Mom’s… she’s in the hospital. They won’t tell me everything over the phone.”
The words hit like ice water. The haze of alcohol and orgasm evaporates in one brutal second. She nods—jerky, automatic—pushes off the railing and half-runs the rest of the way. The car door opens before she reaches it; Lia’s arms are already out, pulling her into a quick, fierce hug across the console.
“You smell like a distillery,” Lia mutters into her hair, but there’s no judgment, just relief. “And… something else. You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie comes out automatic. “Just the party. I’m fine. Let’s go.”
She slides into the passenger seat. The door thuds shut. Seatbelt clicks. Lia shifts into drive and pulls out fast, tires squealing on the smooth concrete.
Through the rear window she watches the garage recede—the stairwell door still cracked open, Soobin’s silhouette framed there for half a heartbeat before it swings closed. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move. Just stands, watching her leave.
The car turns onto the street. Streetlights streak past in golden blurs. Lia’s hands tremble on the wheel; she’s crying quietly now, explaining in broken sentences—accident, tests, uncertainty. The emergency is real, sharp, immediate.
She listens. Nods. Reaches over and squeezes Lia’s knee. Says the right things—we’ll figure it out, she’s strong, you’re not alone—while her own body still hums with Soobin’s touch, his come drying between her thighs, his last whispered filth echoing in her ears.
The animal shelter smells like wet fur, pine disinfectant, and the faint sweet hay from the kennel bedding. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bright and unforgiving, turning every surface a clinical white-blue. Afternoon sun slants through the high narrow windows in dusty shafts, catching floating dog hair like tiny sparks. The kennels line both walls in two long rows—metal clanging softly whenever a tail thumps or a paw scratches the bars. A medium-sized golden retriever mix whines low in the back corner run; a tiny terrier yaps once, sharp and hopeful, then quiets when no one answers.
She’s already on her knees in run 14, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing a stubborn pee spot on the concrete with a stiff brush. Soap suds bubble white around her wrists. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, strands sticking to her neck from the humid air. The hoodie she wore last night—his hoodie—is gone, swapped for an old shelter tee that’s two sizes too big and smells faintly of bleach. Underneath, faint bruises bloom on her hips where his fingers dug in; she feels them every time she shifts weight, a dull throb that makes her cheeks heat even now.
Soobin appears in the doorway at the far end of the hall—tall, calm, carrying two full water bowls like it’s any other Saturday. He’s in the same black hoodie from last night, hood down, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair is still a little wrecked, dark strands falling into his eyes. He walks the row slow, setting bowls down one by one, murmuring soft nonsense to each dog through the bars. When he reaches her run he stops, crouches on the other side of the gate, forearms resting on the horizontal bar.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet, normal. No smirk. No heat. Just Soobin.
She glances up, brush pausing mid-scrub. Suds drip from her knuckles onto the floor. She wipes them on her jeans, offers a small smile that feels almost convincing.
“Hey yourself.”
“You look like hell,” he says quietly, no tease, just straight observation.
She huffs a small laugh, sits back on her heels, wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. Soap bubbles stick to her skin. “Thanks. Real romantic.”
He tilts his head a little, eyes scanning her face quick and careful. “Rough night?”
She nods, sets the brush down, lets her hands fall to her thighs. The shelter tee sticks to her back from the humidity and the work. “You could say that. Lia’s mom got in a car accident last night—hit on her way home from work. Broken femur, concussion, some bruising. They kept her overnight for observation. We got to the hospital around four a.m. after Lia called me freaking out.”
Soobin lets out a slow breath through his nose. His fingers curl once around the bar, knuckles going white for a second before they relax again. “She okay now?”
“Surgery this morning. Pins in the leg. Stable, they said. Lia’s still there with her dad. I crashed on the couch for like three hours after we got back from the ER, then drove straight here because… I don’t know. Needed normal. Needed dogs. Needed to move.”
He nods once, small and serious. Reaches through the bars and brushes a stray bubble off her cheek with his thumb. The touch is light, gone fast, but it leaves a warm spot on her skin.
She shrugs one shoulder, picks up the sponge again, twists it over the bucket. Water drips in steady plinks. “Didn’t want to wake you. You were… busy cleaning up after the party.”
A quick flicker crosses his face—something sharp and gone in a blink—then it’s just Soobin again, steady and calm. “I managed.”
She glances up at him through the bars. His eyes are warm, familiar, the same eyes that watched her come apart on that couch hours ago. But right now they’re just watching her, quiet and present, the guy who’s always there.
“Thanks for showing up today,” she says, softer than she planned. “I needed… this. The routine. The dogs. You.”
He smiles—small, real, dimples shallow. “Always.”
The terrier yaps once down the row. Soobin glances that way, then back to her.
“Want help with the next run? I can scrub. You pour water.”
She exhales a laugh, nods. “Yeah. Team effort.”
He stands, pulls the master key from his belt loop, unlocks the gate, steps inside. The latch clicks shut behind him.
Soobin steps fully into the run, gate clicking shut behind him. He grabs the second brush from the supply bucket without asking, dips it in the soapy water, and starts scrubbing the far corner like he’s done this a thousand times. Which he has. The golden retriever mix immediately trots over, nose bumping Soobin’s knee, tail wagging so hard his whole back end sways.
She glances over, watching him for a second. The way he crouches low, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing just enough as he works the brush in steady circles. Same careful hands that braided her hair last month when she was too tired to do it herself. Same quiet focus he always has around the dogs—like they’re the only thing in the world that matters right then.
“You’re good at this,” she says, voice soft over the scrubbing sound. “The dogs love you. That one’s usually shy.”
Soobin shrugs one shoulder, keeps his eyes on the floor. “They just know I’m not gonna rush them. Or yell.”
The beagle in the bed lifts his head, ears flopping, and lets out a small, contented huff. Soobin reaches over without looking, scratches behind the floppy ear until the dog melts flat again.
She exhales through her nose, half-laugh. “You’re like the dog whisperer. Meanwhile I’m over here scrubbing pee stains like it’s personal.”
He glances at her then—quick, sideways—mouth twitching into that small almost-smile. “You’re doing great. That spot’s almost gone.”
She rolls her eyes but keeps scrubbing. “Flattery. You’re just saying that so I don’t make you do the hard part.”
“Nah.” He moves closer, shoulder brushing hers when he leans in to reach the same spot. “I’m saying it because you look like you need to hear something nice today.”
She pauses—brush still—water dripping from the bristles onto her jeans. The words land soft, simple, but they hit somewhere deep. Her throat tightens for half a second. She blinks it away, forces a grin.
“Careful. Keep being sweet and I’ll start crying on you. Again.”
Soobin’s brush slows. He looks at her properly now, eyes steady, no joke in them. “You can. I’ve got tissues in my pocket. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She swallows, looks down at the clean patch of concrete between them. “I know.”
They work in quiet for a minute—brushes moving in sync, dogs settling, the shelter sounds fading to background hum. His arm brushes hers again when he reaches past her for the sponge. He doesn’t pull away fast. Neither does she.
After a bit she breaks the silence, voice lighter, trying to shake off the heaviness.
“You know what’s funny? Last night I was… whatever, drunk and stupid. And today I’m here scrubbing floors like nothing happened. Feels like two different lives.”
Soobin nods slow, keeps scrubbing. “Sometimes you need both. The messy one and the normal one. Keeps you balanced.”
She laughs under her breath. “You make it sound healthy.”
“It is.” He finally looks up, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re allowed to be a mess sometimes. As long as you’ve got someone to hand you a sponge the next day.”
She meets his gaze—warm, steady, familiar—and feels something loosen in her chest.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I do.”
The golden retriever mix whines happily, shoving his head between them. Soobin laughs—soft, real—and scratches the dog’s head.
“See? Even he agrees.”
They keep working side by side, shoulders close, brushes moving, the afternoon stretching slow and ordinary around them.
The golden—Max, according to the tag—decides this is the moment to celebrate. He spins once, twice, then launches himself at Soobin’s lap mid-crouch. Paws on shoulders, tongue straight for the face. Soobin yelps—actual yelp—loses balance, and sits down hard on his ass with a wet slap against the still-damp concrete. Max takes it as invitation, planting both front paws on his chest and licking from chin to forehead in one long, enthusiastic swipe.
Soobin sputters, laughing through the assault. “Okay, okay—down, you monster! I said ear scratches, not facial!”
She bursts out laughing—real, loud, the kind that hurts her stomach a little. Drops the brush entirely, hands on knees, wheezing. “Oh my god—your face! He got you good.”
Soobin tries to fend Max off with one arm while wiping slobber from his eyes with the other. The dog just switches targets, licking the soapy water off Soobin’s rolled-up sleeve like it’s gourmet. “This is your fault,” he tells her, voice muffled under dog tongue. “You laughed. Now he thinks it’s a game.”
She yelps, swatting at the bubbles in her ponytail. “Max! Traitor!”
Soobin finally gets a hand under the dog’s chin, scratching until Max melts into happy groans and flops half across his lap, all seventy pounds of him. Soobin exhales, slumping back against the wall, now officially covered in drool, soap, and dog hair.
She wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling. “I’m not sorry. You look like you lost a fight with a wet mop.”
“Look at this,” he says, gesturing at himself with a helpless grin. “I came here to help and now I’m a walking lint roller.”
She’s still giggling, wiping foam off her cheek with the hem of her tee. “You’re a mess. He got you worse than that time he stole your sandwich.”
Soobin snorts, scratching Max’s belly now—the dog’s leg kicking in slow motion. “Yeah, but at least the sandwich didn’t try to drown me in spit.”
She crawls over on her knees, grabs a clean towel from the stack, and tosses it at his face. It lands perfectly; he catches it one-handed, dabs at his eyes, then looks at her with exaggerated offense.
He catches it one-handed, dabs at his face, then looks at her with those big, slightly exasperated eyes. “Thanks. Real helpful.”
She grins, sits cross-legged next to him. Max lifts his head, tail thumping once, then settles again with a contented huff.
They sit like that for a minute—shoulder to shoulder, dog snoring softly between them, brushes forgotten on the floor.
She picks up the fallen brush, twirls it between her fingers. “Thanks for coming today. Seriously. After last night… I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
Soobin dabs one last spot on his neck, then drops the towel in his lap. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She shrugs, keeps her eyes on the brush. “I don’t know. Felt… different. Weird. Like maybe we broke something.”
He turns his head just enough to look at her—eyes steady, soft. “We didn’t break anything. We just… added something.”
She finally meets his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He bumps her shoulder back—light, familiar. “Still here. Still scrubbing floors with you. Still getting attacked by dogs.”
She laughs again—smaller this time, relieved. “Good. Because I kind of need the normal right now.”
He nods once. “You’ve got it.”
Max snorts in his sleep, rolls over, and knocks the water bowl again. It tips, cold water splashing across both their jeans in a sudden icy wave.
They both yelp at the exact same second—high, startled—then crack up together, heads tipping toward each other over the snoring dog.
Some things never change.
And right now, that feels like the best thing in the world.
They’re rinsing the buckets at the big sink when her phone buzzes again—Mom’s name lighting up the screen. She dries her hands quick on her jeans, answers with the phone sandwiched between ear and shoulder while she twists the faucet off.
“Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”
Her mom’s voice comes through bright but tired, the familiar clatter of dishes in the background. “Hey, baby. Just checking in. The house is all ready—guest bed made, fresh towels, I even put that lavender spray you like on the pillows. Soup’s simmering. When do you think you’ll get here? Roads are clear for now, but they’re calling for more snow after dark.”
She leans her hip against the sink, watches Soobin stack the clean brushes on the shelf. “Soon, I hope. Finishing up here. Probably head out in the next hour or so.”
“Good. Drive safe, okay? And eat something first. You sound like you’re running on empty.”
“I will. Promise. See you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you more. Can’t wait to hug you.”
The call ends. She pockets the phone, stares at the drain for a second like it’s got answers. The shelter feels quieter now—dogs settled, volunteers gone home, just the low hum of the heater and Max snoring in his run.
Soobin walks over, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. He stops a little too close—close enough she can smell the soap on his skin mixed with that faint coconut shampoo that’s basically his trademark now. His eyes flick to her face, then away, casual, but there’s that quiet weight behind them again.
“Mom?” he asks, voice soft.
“Yeah. House is ready. Soup’s on, the whole thing.” She tries to keep it light, but her shoulders sag a fraction. “I should probably get going soon.”
He nods once, slow. Reaches past her to grab the last towel from the hook—his arm brushes hers, lingers just long enough that she feels the warmth through her sleeve. When he pulls back, his fingers graze her elbow, slide down to her wrist in a slow, easy touch. Thumb rests over her pulse—light, steady, feeling it jump.
“I could drive you,” he says, quiet but sure. “Eight hours is brutal when you’re this tired. I’ve got nothing going on. Beomgyu can survive without me for a night.”
She blinks up at him, caught off guard. His thumb strokes once—barely there—before he lets go, but the warmth stays on her skin.
“I… I was gonna drive myself. I can manage.”
He tilts his head a little, eyes steady on hers. “You barely slept. You’re still shaking off last night. And the roads might get bad later. Let me get you there safe.”
She opens her mouth to argue—habit, mostly—but the words stall. He’s right. She’s exhausted, head fuzzy, body still humming from everything that happened on that couch. Driving eight hours alone sounds miserable. And he’s looking at her like it’s already decided, like the only answer is yes.
She exhales, rubs the back of her neck. “You really don’t have to. It’s a long way.”
“I know.” He shrugs one shoulder, small smile tugging his mouth—soft, reassuring, but his eyes don’t waver. “I want to.”
She looks at him—really looks. The same Soobin who just got drowned in dog slobber, who scrubbed floors beside her without complaining, who’s always there when she needs normal. The same one who pinned her to the couch and whispered things that made her come so hard she forgot how to breathe.
Her stomach flips—want, nerves, comfort all twisted together.
“Okay,” she says finally, voice quieter than she planned. “Yeah. A ride would actually be… really nice.”
His smile deepens—just a little, dimples showing. He nods once, turns to grab the bucket handle.
“Cool. I’ll pull the car around front. Meet you in ten?”
She nods, watches him walk away—long strides, calm on the outside, but she catches the way his hand flexes at his side, like he’s already counting down the minutes until they’re alone in the car.
They finish at the shelter quicker than usual—buckets dumped, brushes hung, Max given one last dramatic belly rub that leaves Soobin’s sleeve soaked again. She slings her bag over her shoulder, and they walk out together into the crisp late-afternoon air. His black SUV waits in the lot, engine already running from the key fob he clicked on the way down.
The drive to her building is short and quiet—windows cracked, radio off, just the low hum of tires on pavement and the occasional sigh of the heater kicking on. She stares out at the passing trees, mind half on Lia’s mom, half on the fact that she’s about to spend eight hours alone in a car with the guy who fucked her senseless less than twenty-four hours ago.
Soobin pulls into her spot like he’s parked here a thousand times. Kills the engine. The sudden silence feels thick.
She unbuckles, hand on the door. “I’ll be quick. Just clothes, charger, toothbrush. You can wait here if you want.”
He’s already opening his door. “Nah, I’ll come up. Help carry your stuff down. We both know you always pack way more than you need.”
She pauses halfway out of the car, one foot on the pavement, and shoots him a look—half amused, half defensive. “Excuse me? I do not.”
He rounds the hood, hands in his pockets, that small lopsided smile tugging his mouth. “You do. Last winter break you brought three different coats. Three. It was a forty-eight-hour trip.”
She shuts her door harder than necessary, but she’s already smiling despite herself. “You can’t blame me. I just like to be prepared in case we need something extra.”
He falls into step beside her as they head toward the building entrance, shoulder brushing hers every few steps. “Extra. Sure. Remember the ice-cream incident? You didn’t have wipes or anything to clean up with. Who ended up covered in melted mint chocolate chip because ‘I didn’t think we’d need napkins’?”
She laughs—real, surprised—shoving his arm lightly. “Okay, fine, that was bad. But—”
“Or the hand-sanitizer accident,” he cuts in, holding the lobby door open for her. “You spilled that entire bottle of lavender stuff on your jeans in the car. Who had the backup bottle in his glove compartment? Hmm? Who was the life-saver that time?”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning now, stepping into the elevator with him. “Alright, alright. You win. You’re the prepared one. Happy?”
He leans against the wall opposite her as the doors slide shut, arms crossed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Very. Just saying—I’ve got your back. Always.”
The elevator dings on her floor. They step out. She unlocks her apartment door, pushes it open. The place is quiet—Lia’s side neat, her own a little chaotic: hoodie over the chair, charger cord snaking across the floor, stack of books she hasn’t touched in weeks.
She heads straight for her bedroom, starts yanking drawers open—sweaters, jeans, underwear, pajamas. Soobin lingers in the doorway again, watching her with that same calm intensity, hands in pockets.
She glances over while stuffing socks into her duffel. “You gonna stand there or actually help?”
He pushes off the frame, steps inside, picks up her charger from the nightstand, coils the cord neatly. “On it.”
She drops her empty duffel on the bed, unzips it with one quick tug, and starts yanking drawers open. Soobin follows her in, watching with that easy, amused look he gets when he’s about to tease her.
She pulls out a thick cream sweater, holds it up. “This one?”
Soobin tilts his head, eyes scanning the knit like he’s judging a runway piece. “Nah. Too light. You’ll freeze the second we hit the first snow patch. Grab the navy wool one—the chunky one with the little buttons. It looks good on you and it’s actually warm.”
She rolls her eyes but reaches for it anyway, tossing it into the bag. “Since when are you the winter fashion expert?”
“Since you keep stealing my hoodies and then complaining you’re cold when you give them back.” He pushes off the frame, steps closer, and starts rifling through her hanging clothes with the casual confidence of someone who’s done this before. His fingers brush a soft gray cardigan, pull it out. “This. Layer it under the navy one. Perfect for the car—cozy but not bulky if you need to stop for coffee.”
She snatches it from him, laughing under her breath. “You’re worse than a girl best friend. Next you’re gonna tell me which earrings match.”
He grins—quick, dimpled—and reaches past her to the little jewelry tray on her dresser. Picks up a pair of small silver hoops, holds them up to her ear like he’s appraising art. “These. Simple. They won’t get caught in your hair when you fall asleep on my shoulder halfway there.”
She swats his hand away playfully, but takes the hoops anyway, dropping them into the side pocket of her duffel. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.” He leans in closer—close enough she can smell that coconut shampoo again—reaches around her to grab a bottle of her favorite perfume from the dresser. Vanilla and something warmer, like brown sugar. He spritzes once into the air between them, lets the scent settle, then nods like he’s satisfied. “This one. Not the citrus one—you always say it gives you a headache after a few hours in the car. This’ll last the whole drive and make the whole car smell like you.”
She stares at him for a second—half amused, half something softer—then laughs, shaking her head. “You remember that?”
“Obviously.” He sets the bottle down gently, fingers brushing hers when he hands it over. “I remember everything you complain about. Keeps me useful.”
She takes the perfume, spritzes once on her wrist, rubs it in slow. The scent curls up between them—sweet, familiar, intimate. Her pulse skips when his gaze drops to her wrist, then back to her face.
“You’re being suspiciously helpful,” she says, voice lighter than she feels.
He shrugs, but steps even closer—chest almost brushing hers now—reaches past her again to snag a soft scarf from the hook. Drapes it around her neck himself, slow and careful, fingers lingering at her collarbone for half a second longer than necessary.
“Just making sure you’re prepared,” he murmurs, voice low, playful edge gone soft. “Can’t have you cold or smelling wrong for eight hours.”
She looks up at him—close enough to see the flecks in his eyes, the faint flush still on his cheeks from earlier—and feels the air shift again. Warm. Thick. Wanting.
She swallows. “You’re dangerous when you’re useful.”
He smiles—small, slow, devastating. “Only when it’s you.”
Her laugh comes out shaky. She steps back first—barely—grabs the last pair of jeans from the drawer. “Okay, fashion consultant. Zip the bag. We’re leaving before you start picking my underwear too.”
He laughs—quiet, real—and zips the duffel with exaggerated care.
But his fingers brush her hip when he lifts it for her.
And she feels it all the way down to her toes.
She swallows, steps back first—barely a step. “Toiletries. Then we go.”
He nods, drops his hand, but the warmth stays.
She turns to the bathroom, heart thudding.
They make it down the stairs faster than she expected—duffel slung over her shoulder, Soobin carrying the bigger suitcase she insisted on packing “just in case.” The hallway lights are dim, flickering once when they pass under the motion sensor. Outside the air bites cold, sharp enough to make her pull the borrowed scarf tighter around her neck—the one he draped on her earlier.
Soobin pops the trunk with the key fob. The lid lifts smooth and quiet. He steps around to the back, slides her suitcase in first, then arranges it neatly beside whatever’s already in there. She doesn’t look too closely—too busy rubbing her hands together against the chill—but she catches the quick, efficient way he shifts something deeper in the trunk before closing the lid with a soft thud.
He turns to her, breath fogging white in the evening air. “Get in already. It’s freezing out here.”
She laughs—small, breathy—still rubbing her palms. “Bossy. I was gonna say goodbye to the building or something dramatic.”
He rounds the car, opens the passenger door for her with a small, playful bow. “Goodbye, building. Now get in before your nose turns red.”
She rolls her eyes but slides into the seat—leather cool against her thighs even through her jeans. The interior smells like him: faint coconut shampoo, clean laundry, that warm woody undertone she’s come to associate with his hoodies. He closes her door gently, circles to the driver’s side, and drops into the seat with a quiet sigh.
The doors lock with a soft click. Engine hums to life—low, steady. Heat starts blowing warm from the vents almost immediately. Soobin adjusts the rearview mirror, buckles up, then glances at her.
“Ready?”
She nods, pulls the seatbelt across her chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
He shifts into reverse, backs out slow, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easy on the gear shift. His pinky brushes her thigh again when he changes gears—light, accidental, gone in a second. She pretends not to notice. Pretends the warmth spreading from that tiny point of contact is just the heater working overtime.
The parking lot lights slide past the windows in slow golden streaks. Campus fades behind them—dorm lights twinkling, students bundled up and laughing on the sidewalks. The highway opens ahead—dark ribbon under a sky already bruising toward night.
Soobin turns the radio on low—some soft acoustic thing, guitar and quiet vocals. He doesn’t speak for the first few minutes, just drives, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping a slow rhythm on his thigh.
She watches him in profile—jaw relaxed, eyes on the road, the faint glow from the dashboard lighting the curve of his cheek. He looks calm. Content. Like this is the most natural thing in the world.
She exhales slow, leans her head against the window. The glass is cool against her temple.
And she still hasn’t asked why he offered to drive so fast.
She closes her eyes for a second, lets the hum of the engine and the soft music fill the space between them.
The dashboard glows soft blue, casting faint shadows across Soobin’s face—his eyes on the road, hands loose on the wheel, one thumb tapping a slow, absent rhythm against the leather. The heater hums steady, warm air curling around them, carrying the faint vanilla from her perfume and the coconut ghost of his shampoo. Outside, the first flakes of snow drift lazy across the windshield, caught for a second in the beam of the headlights before melting away.
She’s curled in the passenger seat, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked under her thighs, the navy wool sweater already pulled on over her tee. The scarf he draped around her earlier is bunched at her neck, soft wool brushing her chin every time she exhales. The radio is off now—silence feels better, somehow. Just the low rumble of tires on asphalt and their breathing syncing up without trying.
Soobin glances over after a long stretch of quiet—quick, soft. “You warm enough?”
She nods, pulls the sweater sleeves over her hands. “Yeah. This thing is like wearing a hug.”
He smiles—small, real—eyes back on the road. “Good. Told you it was the right one.”
She huffs a laugh, quiet. “You’re never gonna let me live down the coat thing, are you?”
“Nope.” He shifts lanes smoothly, hand brushing the gear shift, pinky grazing her knee for half a second before he settles it back on the wheel. “Three coats for two days. Legendary.”
She rolls her eyes but there’s no heat in it. “I was prepared. Unlike someone who shows up to winter break with one hoodie and hopes for the best.”
He chuckles—low, warm, the sound vibrating through the seat. “I had you. That’s better than any coat.”
The words land soft, simple, but they sit between them for a beat. She looks at him—profile lit by passing headlights, jaw relaxed, eyes steady on the dark road. Something in her chest loosens, just a little.
“Remember that time we got stuck at the campus library during that freak snowstorm sophomore year?” she says, voice quieter now, like she’s testing the silence. “Power went out, heat died, and we ended up sharing your hoodie like idiots because I forgot mine.”
He nods, smile tugging wider. “You were shivering so hard your teeth chattered. I thought you were gonna vibrate right out of the chair.”
She laughs under her breath. “And you made me hot chocolate with the emergency stash in your bag. Where did you even get marshmallows?”
“Prepared,” he says, echoing her earlier words with a playful lilt. “Unlike someone.”
She nudges his arm with her elbow—light, easy. “Okay, fine. You win the preparedness award. Happy?”
“Very.” He glances over again, longer this time. “But seriously… you okay? After everything today?”
She exhales slow, watches snowflakes melt on the glass. “Yeah. Tired. Worried about Lia’s mom. But… glad you’re here. Makes it feel less… big.”
His hand leaves the wheel for a second—reaches over, squeezes her knee once, gentle but sure. “I’ve got you.”
She covers his hand with hers—small, instinctive—holds it there for a few seconds before letting go. His fingers linger a moment longer, then return to the wheel.
She’s scrolling mindlessly when the notification pops up—group chat with Yeonjun and a few others from the party. Video attachment. Caption: “You two were STARS last night 😂🔥”
She taps play before thinking.
The clip starts shaky—someone’s phone held low, capturing the couch from the side. There she is, hoodie rucked up, stomach bare and glistening with soju. Yeonjun’s red hair flops forward as he pours the shot straight onto her skin, liquid pooling in her navel. The crowd cheers muffled in the background. He lowers his head, tongue flat, lapping slow at first then bolder, chasing every drop. Her laugh rings out—high, tipsy—fingers tangling in his hair. Then he surges up, cups her face, kisses her hard—sloppy, playful, full tongue for the camera. Pulls back with a dramatic smack, winks at the lens. “Ten out of ten. She tastes like victory.” The video ends on the crowd losing it.
She chokes on air, phone nearly slipping from her fingers.
Soobin glances over quick. “What?”
She turns the screen toward him, face flaming. “Yeonjun sent the video. From last night. The… tummy shot thing.”
He takes one look—sees Yeonjun’s head buried against her stomach, her laugh frozen mid-frame—and lets out a low, amused huff through his nose. “Bold of him to send evidence.”
She groans, drops her forehead to her knees. “Kill me. I look like a drunk fountain.”
Soobin’s laugh is quiet, warm. “You look hot. He’s just mad he didn’t get a second round.”
She peeks up, cheeks still burning. “Shut up. You’re supposed to be supportive.”
“I am.” He reaches over, plucks the phone from her hand with easy fingers, thumb brushing hers. “Look at this frame right here—” he pauses the video on the moment Yeonjun’s tongue is flat against her skin, her head thrown back laughing “—you’re glowing. Absolute main character energy.”
She snatches the phone back, swatting his arm. “Stop. You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe a little.” He grins—dimples deep, eyes crinkling—then sobers just a touch, voice dropping playful-low. “But seriously… you okay seeing it?
She exhales, locks the screen, sets the phone face-down in the cupholder. “Yeah. It’s funny now. Drunk me was a menace. Sober me is mortified.”
He nods, hand sliding from the gear shift to rest on her thigh—light, warm, thumb stroking once along the seam of her jeans. “Drunk you was fun. Sober you is better.”
She looks at him—profile lit by dashboard glow, snow swirling past the window—and feels that pull again, soft and insistent.
“Flirt,” she mutters, but her hand covers his, fingers lacing loose.
He squeezes once. “Only with you.”
The road keeps unrolling. Snow falls heavier. The quiet settles back in—comfortable, warm, laced with something new.
Her phone buzzes again—probably more teasing from the group chat—but she doesn’t check.
She just leans her head against the seat, hand still on his, and watches the flakes melt on the glass.
the video is already forgotten.
But the way his thumb keeps circling slow on her thigh isn’t.
She’s got her feet tucked under her, phone dimmed in her lap, scrolling through nothing in particular. Soobin keeps the speed steady, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between them. Every once in a while his pinky brushes her thigh when he adjusts the volume on the low indie playlist he put on—barely there, but enough that she notices.
She glances over after a long quiet patch. “You remember that summer we tried to camp in your backyard? We were what, twelve?”
Soobin’s mouth curves, eyes still on the road. “Thirteen. And we lasted forty minutes before the mosquitoes ate us alive.”
She laughs—soft, nostalgic. “You brought that tiny tent your mom bought at the discount store. It smelled like plastic.
“And you insisted on bringing the whole bag of marshmallows even though we didn’t have a fire pit.” He shakes his head, smiling wider. “We just sat there roasting them over the flashlight like idiots.”
“Genius idiots,” she corrects. “We toasted them perfectly. Then you dropped yours in the grass and cried for ten minutes.”
“I did not cry,” he says, mock-offended, but his laugh gives him away. “I was… passionately disappointed.”
She snorts. “Passionately disappointed. Sure. You were full-on ugly-crying into my shoulder while I tried to find the last clean marshmallow.”
He risks a quick glance at her—eyes crinkling. “You shared yours. Split it in half. Said it was ‘solidarity.’”
She shrugs, looks out at the snow. “You were sad. I hated when you were sad.”
The quiet settles back in—warm, comfortable. The memory hangs between them like a soft blanket.
A few exits later the dashboard chimes—low fuel warning. Soobin flicks the blinker, takes the ramp toward a brightly lit rest stop. Gas station glow spills across the snow, neon signs buzzing red and yellow.
He pulls up to a pump, kills the engine. “Need anything inside? Snacks? Coffee?”
She stretches, yawns. “Coffee. And something sweet. Surprise me.”
He nods, gets out, starts pumping gas. She watches him through the window—hood up against the cold, shoulders broad under the jacket, moving with that easy calm he always has. When the tank’s full he heads inside, disappearing through the glass doors.
She stays in the car—warm, quiet—until the door chimes again. Soobin comes back with two steaming coffees in a carrier and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. But he’s walking faster now, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
A guy trails a few steps behind him—mid-twenties, backwards cap, too-big jacket, grin too wide. He’s saying something, gesturing toward the car.
Soobin reaches the driver’s door, opens it, but doesn’t get in yet. He turns, voice calm but edged sharp enough to cut glass.
“She’s not interested, man. She’s my girlfriend. Back off.”
The guy stops short, hands up in mock surrender. “Just being friendly, bro. Chill.”
The guy mutters something under his breath, turns, heads back toward the station. Soobin watches him go until he’s inside, then slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door hard.
She stares at him, brows raised. “Girlfriend?”
He hands her a coffee—still steaming—then the bag. “Saw him eyeing you through the window while I was paying. Figured it was quicker than explaining we’re just friends.”
She takes the coffee, sips—perfect temperature, two sugars, just how she likes it. “You’ve done that before. The girlfriend thing.”
He shrugs, starts the car again. “Works. Guys back off faster when they think you’re taken.”
She pulls a chocolate bar from the bag—her favorite kind—and breaks off a piece. “You’re very protective for a fake boyfriend.”
He pulls back onto the highway, snow swirling thicker in the headlights. “Not fake when it keeps you safe.”
She looks at him—profile lit by passing cars, jaw relaxed again but eyes still sharp from the encounter. Something warm spreads in her chest, soft and familiar.
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
He reaches over—slow—squeezes her knee once, thumb brushing once before he lets go.
“Always.”
And the word “girlfriend” lingers in the air between them—playful, protective, a little too comfortable.
She doesn’t push it.
The wipers sweep slow, rhythmic arcs, pushing powder aside in soft whispers. The heater hums steady, warm air thick with the smell of coffee from the rest stop cups still cooling in the holders. She’s shifted lower in the seat now, head tipped toward the window at first, but after the last quiet story about the summer they tried to build a treehouse and ended up with splinters and mosquito bites, she just lets herself lean.
Her cheek finds his shoulder—slow, natural, like gravity decided it for her. The navy wool sweater bunches a little under her face, soft and warm from his body heat. She exhales once, long and tired, and stays there. Eyes half-closed, breathing evening out, lashes brushing the fabric every time she blinks slower.
Soobin doesn’t tense. Doesn’t shift away. He just adjusts the angle of his arm on the console so she’s more comfortable—subtle, careful, like he’s done this a hundred times before. His right hand stays loose on the wheel, left one resting near her knee but not quite touching now. The road noise fades to background; all he hears is her soft breathing, the faint rustle of her scarf against his hoodie, the quiet patter of snow on the roof.
Outside, the flakes fall heavier—big, lazy ones catching the light, swirling in the beams like slow-motion confetti. The world shrinks to this: the car, the highway, the snow, her weight against him.
He glances down once—quick, soft. Her face is slack with exhaustion, mouth slightly open, one hand curled loose against his sleeve like she’s holding on even in sleep. The dashboard glow catches the faint bruise on her neck from last night—small, purple, hidden mostly by her hair but visible enough to make his throat tighten.
He looks back at the road. Jaw flexes once, then relaxes.
This is where our life starts.
The thought lands quiet, certain, no fanfare. Not dramatic. Just true. Eight hours ahead, snow falling thicker, her sleeping on his shoulder like it’s the safest place in the world. No party chaos. No pretending. Just them—finally moving toward something he’s planned around for years.
He reaches over—slow—turns the heat up one notch so she stays warm. His fingers brush her hair back from her forehead, light enough not to wake her, then settle back on the wheel.
The snow keeps coming down.
The car keeps moving.
Her breathing stays even against his shoulder.
And for the first time in a long time, Soobin lets himself smile—small, private, almost invisible in the dark.
