I hate it that whenever I hear a Marinette stan it's always "she's not perfect but she's amazing and she's trying and she's always leaning towards the better and she's getting better and better" - which is how I feel and how they say it in the show too and it's totally ok and true, but for every other character the fans are always like "the most perfect character ever, the best and the only normal character ever in this show", and it sucks cuz no one in this show is perfect nor normal nor flawless and they've all made mistakes and I'm tired of pretending that Marinette is the only one for whom we can say so cuz you don't seem like real stans to me. You either accept both character's wrongs and rights and stan them for their rights only or you stan them for their wrongs only (which is something you do for villains mostly). But I'm sick whenever I hear someone turning a character into a saint who's never done anything wrong just because they like them. Every character is in their story and they do things that are right or wrong in their story and that's how it is. They all fight for their places and you don't have to love them all but stop acting like your favourite is immaculate and everyone else is bad.
Synopsis: in which Choso's uber religious parents caught him masturbating and decided he must have been possessed by a demon. so they call on the Church for help.
experienced exorcist that you are, you're no fool. you know immediately what's really happened. but you still want to help. perhaps by reassuring poor, pent up Choso that there's absolutely nothing wrong with giving in to temptation.
especially when it feels so good.
Warnings: porn with a lil plot, dubcon - corruption kink and power imbalance, bondage, reader is a nun, mentions of Choso facing parental abuse (controlling behaviour, socially stunting him, drugging him, shaming him, forcing religious beliefs/practices on him etc.), heavy on breastfeeding, femdom, masochist!choso, sub!choso, whimpery Choso, virgin!choso, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus/face sitting, blowjob, 69, dacryphilia, face slapping, pussyjob, cowgirl, missionary, mating press, creampie/unprotected sex, belly bulging, briefest rimming, squirting, sacrilegious and offensive I already know — christians beware, Choso fanart by @mochikuyo on X, not proofread
Word Count: 9.4k
“Thank you so much for coming, Sister,” a trembling mother says as you step into her home. She cowers beside her husband, who looks pale and stricken with fear.
You cast your gaze around the interior of the house. In many ways, it’s just as it looks outside: pristinely kept, neatly arranged, flawless. From the perfect hedges to the carefully polished floors, the thoughtfully positioned paintings and books on shelves, it’s clear everything has been tended to with diligence bordering on obsessiveness.
Nodding, you politely reply, “Of course. The Church takes every report of demonic possession very seriously.”
The house isn’t silent — there’s the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house, harmonising with the low hum of appliances in the background — but it’s not full of life, as one would expect from a family with many children.
Sons.
Immediately putting to use your training, you try to feel for any otherworldly presence, for something dark, something insidious.
Nothing.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean this is another false case of paranoia.
Demons can be tricky. They can obscure themselves from the senses very well, to the point where exorcists even more experienced than you wouldn’t be able to notice them at all. They can hide in plain sight, tricking those around them with a facade of passive harmlessness.
“Please take me to him.”
They jolt at the command, as though they hadn’t expected you, a woman much younger than them, to be so forward, so commanding. Still, they nod faithfully.
The two of them lead you down the hallway. Closer to the pictures hanging on the walls now, you see the children mentioned in the file: most of them are older than the Afflicted (or should you say, ‘potentially’ Afflicted’), certainly past living at home. The youngest is a toddler. He must be at school at this hour, or with relatives.
The Afflicted, on the other hand, is around your age. He should be college aged. Yet, the file states that he lives at home, has no friends, no hobbies, no reason to be out and about. Which is why his parents were so concerned; they cannot fathom where he could have come into contact with a demon.
That’s not always how it works, you wanted to tell them in your letter correspondence; demons can come to you. But the less they know the better. It wouldn’t help anyway. Not when they’d already made their minds up about what was going on with their son.
Soon, you come face to face with a door. It’s weighed down by thirteen locks. You cock a brow at that. Clinging rings out as the husband fumbles with a busy keychain. With a glance back at you to double-check that you’re really there or to make sure that you’re sure about this, he unlocks each padlock after your confirmatory nod, undos every chain, and loosens all the bindings.
The door swings open slowly, creaking.
“Please be careful, Sister,” the wife warns, hand reaching out to clutch your elbow. “Forgive me for saying this, but you are small compared to t-that thing. It may overpower you.”
Reassuringly, you place your hand over hers and give her a small smile. “He, Mrs. Kamo.” She blinks. You clarify, “Not ‘thing.’ Not ‘it.’ Your son is still here. It will help to fight off evil forces, if any lingers, if you remember a pure, innocent soul remains, waiting to be saved.”
She nods frantically, pale with guilt or shame or another thing entirely. Her husband places a hand on the small of her back, just as disturbed by all of this.
You lead the way down the stairs.
It seems they’ve kept the ‘Afflicted’ in the cellar. If he is indeed possessed, that would have been a good decision — having a vessel freely walking about, when there is a child around, is dangerous. If he is not…
Well.
The bulb above you flickers, buzzing.
Only when your feet touch the floor do you finally see him.
A man lying on the bed, fully clothed, with his limbs spread and bound to the bed posts. Lazily, his eyes drag to the staircase, expecting his parents, but not you. He stiffens.
“A nun?” he says, frowning. “You brought a nun?”
Mr. Kamo snaps, “You do not speak to us, demon!”
The metal restraints clink and clang as he tries to sit up, to no avail. He just groans, banging his head against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. “For the last time, I’m not possessed.”
“That is for me to ascertain,” you say, looking around. “Choso, yes?”
He huffs an affirmative. “Look, Sister, I’m sorry my parents made you come all the way here, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not possessed. I’m fine. Truly.”
You smile at him when your gazes meet. Something flashes in his eyes before he looks away, clearing his throat. Sweetly, you reply, “Even if you aren’t possessed, it is clear you need help. And as a son of our Heavenly Father and a member of our Church, it is my duty to see to it that you get everything you need to continue living a life of faith.”
Your words make him grimace.
It seems the files are accurate, at least pertaining to one thing: he is not a believer.
The cellar smells faintly of damp concrete and something sharper beneath it. Sweat, maybe, or nerves left too long to settle. The space itself is sparse. A large bed which he lies on, a small table pushed to the side, a bare bulb overhead casting uneven light that leaves corners in shadow, and a thin blanket that covers most of his body.
Setting your bag down on the table, you move with practiced efficiency.
One by one, you take out what you need — candles placed at intervals, a small vial of holy water, a worn book whose spine has seen years of use. A match strikes. Flame flickers to life. Then another. Warm light begins to bloom across the room, softening its harsh edges.
A sweet, herbal scent wafts into the air. It overtakes the damp smell.
“I’m not possessed,” Choso reminds you, frowning harder. He’s watching your every move.
“Silence, demon!” his mother snaps. She turns to you. “Please, can you do something? His evil influence is spreading to his brother; no longer wants to go to church or pray. Soon they’ll take control of the household!”
The file mentioned those symptoms: refusal to partake in prayer, reluctance to attend mass, marking his face and violating God’s temple, disrespect shown to mother and father e.g. talking back and questioning their orders.
It’s obvious from the file alone that he’s simply being rebellious. Thinking for himself, and choosing to disassociate from a religion, a community, that’s never brought him joy. From their witness reports, it seems like he hadn’t even done any harm. Not harm commonly associated with demonic activity anyway.
Choso merely displeased them.
You know what kind of people his parents are. Judgmental, controlling, misusing the word of God to spread fear, to subjugate, and showing no kindness in their actions. You see them every day. They come in different shapes, yet their spirit remains the same; damned.
To have lived under their roof all of his life, to have felt the suffocation, the misery…
It must have been Hell on Earth.
Telling them he is not possessed would not suffice. They already made their minds up. In many ways, you were invited for them, not for their son. But you came for him. And, under your guidance, he will come for you.
That is what it means to be a servant of God.
“Let us see, shall we?” you say. You open the lid to the vial and spray his body. Most land on his face.
He hisses.
“See!” both parents yell, hugging each other tightly and backing away from the bed. “Demon!”
Choso grumbles, “It was cold.”
Biting back a smile, you turn to the two and inform them, “You are right. He is possessed. It appears to be a Grade B demon. Nothing I cannot handle, but certainly not something you can face. So I urge you to leave the house. Go to a neighbour’s. Pray. I will call for you when I am done.”
Their son makes a noise. “What? No. I’m not possessed!”
His voice cracks with indignation, cheeks flushed deep with embarrassment, eyes darting between you and his parents as though searching for someone — anyone — to side with him.
“He lies,” you confirm, urging them out of the room. Then, making a show of praying, you look up and say, “Forgive him, Father. He is not himself.”
Mrs. Kamo nods enthusiastically, shoulders dropping in relief at being proven right as she lets you usher them both out. “Yes, thank you, Sister. Please, save our son. Bring him back to us.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take very good care of him.”
Your word is law; they cannot and will not argue with a Divine Servant. Their footsteps fade gradually, the front door creaking open and then shutting with a dull thud, followed by the faint murmur of their voices as they retreat further away, leaving the house steeped in a burdensome, expectant quiet.
Finally alone, you return to the cellar and face Choso, who looks less than pleased with you.
“I’m not possessed,” he repeats, huffing in frustration. “I’m not possessed and you know it.”
Choso Kamo is a handsome young man in a way not many in this town are — lean yet not gangly, tall, exuding a darker energy to him what his brooding exterior and unimpressed eyes. Most of the men his age are pimply, clumsy, arrogant. He’s calmer and simultaneously clearly with a penchant for getting carried away and too excited.
This’ll be a fun one, you think to yourself.
You come to sit on the bed, right by his hip. He stills and grows even more so, if it was possible, when you pull the blanket off his body. “No, Choso, you’re not possessed. But you’re also not well. A powerful force has taken over you, blinded you, taken you deeper into the dark. But I’m here now. I will save you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he grits out, growing more and more tired by the constant need to repeat the truth.
Tenderly, you say, “Then explain why you’ve permanently marked your face.”
“It’s a form of self-expression. My body is my own,” he answers haughtily. “No one owns me. That might offend you, Sister, and for that I’m sorry. But I refuse to conform to religious conservatism. And neither should my brothers, especially Yuji.”
You smile. “That doesn’t offend me at all; I’m a firm believer in self-expression.”
Choso rattles his chains as he adjusts on the bed. “I find that hard to believe when you’re wearing a uniform.”
“Oh? You like?”
The candles you lit waft a sugary scent in the air. It makes your mouth water. Warmer down here now, you shrug your top layer off: a shawl. It reveals your habit. Black, ironed fabric covers most of you. It’s tight around the chest and waist, falling to your ankles, with slits up your both thighs. You feel the heat of his eyes on your breasts. They zero in on the imprint of your hardened nipples.
“See? A pure soul would not be salivating at the sight of a Sister’s breasts.”
He blanches. Then flushes. Hard. “I-uh-I wasn’t…” he stammers out.
You hum. “It’s alright.”
Choso’s brows knit together. “It is?”
“Yes. The starved energy inside craves flesh. It craves the softness of a woman’s tits.”
He flinches, like you’d struck him — he’s never heard anyone be so vulgar, and a nun at that. It must be befuddling him to no end.
“Yes, tits, Choso. It’s not blasphemous to say, and so I can.” Cupping your breasts, you show him how they recoil in your hold, how they pudge when you squeeze. Choso’s mouth falls open, entranced. “It is normal for you to want a woman, for you to desire my body, my tits. Natural and expected, even.”
He can’t take his eyes away from the movement of your own hands, how they dig into your own ample chest, how your nipples poke out even more and he can faintly see the shape of your areola through the thin material, and how you gasp when you graze against the buds by accident, or on purpose.
“You don’t wear bras?” he wonders aloud, breathless. But then he shakes his head, as though he had heard how dreamy his voice sounded and it was nothing short of humiliating. “N-no. No. I’m fine. There’s no ‘dark energy.’ You’re not needed here if you won’t believe me and convince my parents to let me out of here.” It’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself. He sounds so troubled too.
Bless his heart.
“If you’re fine and free from any ailments, then explain to me why you’re pitching a tent with your cock.”
Panicked and horrified, Choso’s eyes flit down to his pants. Just as you had said, there’s a noticeable, undeniable bump at his groin. Chains rattle louder when he reflexively pulls his legs up to cover himself. He can’t. He can only lay down helplessly, vulnerable to your judging eyes.
“I, um…I—Fuck!” he curses, beyond flushed now. He exhales through his nose. “Sorry. Please ignore it. It…It keeps happening. Ever since I stopped taking this tea my mother would give me, that keeps happening to me. It’s not a demon. I looked it up in the library. It’s puberty. It’s hormones. Urges. Biological urges.”
A hand placed on his thigh has him staring at you suspiciously. The muscles under your touch flex. You can tell he really wants to snatch his leg from you, if only because he’s unsure of what your intentions are and what the touch means. Maybe also because no woman has ever touched him there, and it’s frightening.
You nod, smiling. “Yes, you’re right. What you have is an erection. Science explains it as biological urges, yes. But we, at the Church, know it can also be caused by malignant energies.”
“It’s not anything,” he yells. Gritting his teeth, he glares up at the ceiling. “I thought you’d be different. I thought you’d see reason, despite your beliefs. I thought you would actually help me. Even just for a second, I actually believed someone would be on my side, would understand — I’m not a bad person. I’m not possessed. There’s. Nothing. Wrong. With. Me.”
Placing a hand on his chest, you firmly say, “I am on your side, Choso. I do understand. I am here to help. But we do things my way. Open your mind up. Listen and hear me out. I promise, you will soon come to see.”
He’s about to argue. You cut him off.
Sharp nails walk up his clothed thigh, savouring their sudden tensing. His breath hitches. The moment your fingers touch his erection, his hips jerk. “W-what are you doing?”
“Cleansing you. Purifying your body. You may not be possessed, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t afflicted.”
“A-afflicted?”
The glint in your eyes has him gulping. You vaguely say, “With sin. One of the Cardinals. The worst of the worst.”
You lightly grip the chubby thing.
“Sister!” he cries out, hips jolting and back arching.
It’s hot. And big. One of the bigger ones you’ll be facing. Through the layers, you can feel the ridges of his cock. You palm it, watching how his eyes widen before he bites his lips.
Oh, he must be so confused — all his life, he’s been taught pleasure is bad. Any hint of hedonism and sensuality must be condemned. Yet here you are, a representative of the Church, indulging in debauchery and convincing him it’s alright. How can he possibly tell right from left, up from down, wrong from right now?
“You were caught touching yourself, weren’t you?” you ask though it’s really not a question. “Was it your first time?”
He’s far too focused on the feeling of your hand stroking him to answer. You squeeze too tightly. Choso sucks in a sharp breath. “N-no,” he replies. “It was my, um, second. The -hah- first time, I was too scared by the sensation. I’ve never felt my…my… p-penis like this. I kept obsessing over it, and eventually tried again. I -ngh fuck!- could feel something building and building, and that’s when they caught me.”
“I see,” you hum, continuing to stroke him. “It felt good?”
Choso hesitates for a second. He’s gauging how honest he can be with you; honesty isn’t something commonly practiced in his home, obviously. But you are touching his erection through his pants so maybe you’re to be trusted. He nods. “Yes.” And despite his embarrassment, he adds, “This feels better though. You do it better. Your h-hand feels better.”
A small spot begins forming on his pants, right where his cockhead is hidden. You prod it. The chains rattle. His hips lurch.
“This is evidence of your possession,” you tell him. The glistening of the pad of your finger is all he can see after you bring it up to his face. “Taste your sin, Choso.”
Shaking his head, he tries to avoid your descending finger. “No, p-please. It’s dirty.”
“Yes, yes, it is. But if you complete this step of the ritual, then we can move on to the next, and it’ll taste so much better.”
That seems to entice him. He stops evading your finger, allowing it to rest upon his plump lips, not quite tasting just yet. Choso echoes, “Better? What tastes better?”
You grin mischievously. “Your reward.”
The slightest adjustment of your legs answers his question too — his eyes dart to the slither of skin showing, to the smoothness of your thigh. It’s a sight he’s never been allowed to see. A sight he knows instinctively he wants so badly. He knows if he ventures up your thighs, there’ll be something there waiting for him.
It’s really a thing of wonder, how biology leads the way.
Choso keeps staring, watching how candlelight dances on the shininess of your skin. Surrounded by boys all his life, he’s never known an adult’s skin to be so supple-looking. He only knows roughness, coarse hair, calluses, and scars. You promise so much more.
His lips fall open, whether intentionally or absentmindedly. You dip the sullied finger inside his mouth, encouraging his tongue to reach for the droplet.
He makes a face that can only be described as disgust when the taste registers.
You laugh. “It’s salty, isn’t it?”
“I want my reward,” he petulantly grumbles, spitting out your finger.
Not wanting to drag it out any longer, you come to kneel on the bed.
The mattress dips beneath your weight. You cast a shadow over his body with yours. Choso observes every move you make, cautious and suspicious. He’s still not convinced that you’re on his side, that you know what you’re doing.
Under your short guimpe, you unbutton the top part of your dress. Your breasts springs out, released from their tight constraints.
“Oh, god,” he breathes out, shocked, appalled, and entranced in one fell swoop.
This’ll be the first time he’s ever seen bare breasts. And up this close?
He must be out of his mind, must have hit it on his way down as his father dragged him to the cellar.
As though something’s taken over him, his head lunges forward, attempting to latch onto a nipple. You grip his face, preventing him from making contact. “Behave. To be cleansed by a holy instrument is a blessing. A privilege. You must be patient.”
He blushes. “S-sister, forgive me. I can’t think, c-can’t seem to control myself.”
Massaging your own breasts of their aches, you moan out, “It’s alright. You simply need to give me a second to prepare my instrument.” After a couple seconds, when they’re ready, you bring a tit to his lips. “Here. Drink. My milk will begin the cleansing ritual.”
“Drink?” he repeats, surprised. He spots the opaque liquid dripping from the small holes in your areolas. “Oh, fuck. I can’t, Sister. This is too much. This is…this is bad.”
In moments of crisis, at his absolute lowest, he turns to what is familiar, even if he has never believed his parents’ teachings his entire life. He knows what his body wants, but it’s so new, so sudden, that he cannot comprehend how any of this is possible, how this could be the will of his family, of the Church, of the God you serve.
But he needn’t worry about anything other than following your instructions. Anything beyond the confines of his cellar is none of his concern now.
Cradling his face, you coo, “I know, Choso. I know. Will you just try, for me? I made all this milk for you and it hurts. It makes my breasts ache, makes them so sore. Don’t you want to help me, to relieve me, to make me feel good?”
Choso follows the wasted droplets, which travel down the curves of your breasts and fall to the bed. He licks his lips. “Help…yes…yes, I want to help. I want to make you feel good.”
“Such a good boy, thank you.” You brush his unruly, raven hair from his face. You lean closer. A nipple’s fed to his parting lips. The moment skin touches skin, he dives forward and sucks you towards him. “Ngh! Choso!”
He’s no longer listening to you — his eyes have rolled to the back of his head, lashes fluttering against your breast. The force in which he’s suckling on your tit has milk rushing out, swirling in his mouth for only a second before they travel down his throat and sink to his stomach where warmth pools.
Moans after moans mingle together. It feels good. Really good. A mix of relief with exhiliration from his flicking tongue.
This may be his first time sucking on a woman’s breast in his adulthood, but he’s basically a pro.
Your hand returns to his clothed cock.
He grunts, the vibrations piercing your chest and whirring down to your core.
The small damp spot has grown. Shlick! Shlick! noises resound as you stroke him again. His cock throbs in your grasp in time with the waves of milk oozing out onto his tongue.
“We need to -hngh good, such a good boy- n-need to drain the sin from you,” you tell him. “My milk will purify you from the inside, but you need to be empty. We’ll work hard together, yes, Choso?”
“Mmm,” he hums, not quite processing your words.
Choso’s hands fight against his restraints; he yearns to touch your breasts, to knead the flesh, to squeeze out more milk, to feel even more of you. It’s driving him wild.
Juices soak the inside of your thighs, leaving a sticky mess.
To know that his parents are in the next house — worried sick for their son but trusting you to deliver him to salvation, none the wiser that your pussy’s fluttering in anticipation for the devious ways you were going to put their son through it — has you resisting the urge to just take him right here, right now. To hell with the proper means of purification.
This is truly the best part of your job; misusing lost, confused individuals for your own excitement.
Your body is for pleasure. That is how you will save humanity from sin, by absorbing all of the dark energy with your cunt, by taking the brunt of their frustrations, and feeding your body the salty ploughing of cocks and pussies in dire need of your holy guidance.
There is no greater Church, no greater sisterhood, no greater cause.
Unable to take it anymore, you pull away from Choso.
A whine leaves his lips. “No, Sister, please!”
Milk drips down his chin, leaving his skin and lips glistening. He cranes to take your breast back into his mouth. The chains don’t let him. He moans, head banging against his pillows. His hips are chasing your hand too, throbbing pushing the material of his pants to their limit as his cock bobs uselessly.
“Oh, Choso,” you mewl, tongue licking over your sharp teeth, “I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”
That’s all the warning he gets before his vision is completely obscured by the black of your habit and the shadow of the apex of your thighs. His surprised groans are muffled by your cunt, which you rub all over his face, smearing the wetness everywhere.
“Sister,” he moans, tongue immediately slithering all over your pussy — through your slit, over your asshole, prodding your clit, wriggling inside your entrance. “Your smell…your taste…your warmth…I think I might pass out.”
Over his shirt, your fingers flick and pinch his nipples. His back arches. “No, Choso. It’s far too early to be tapping out. There’s still so much to do. Be a good boy and hang in there, alright?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be good. Mm, I’ll be so good,” he mumbles. As you rock your hips against his face, giving him reprieve to breathe here and there, he desperately says, “Tell me what to do. I-I’ve never done this before. Tell me what I’m supposed to do, please!”
You play with your own tits, spreading the milk over your skin. “Drink. Drink my holy water, Choso. Allow me to cleanse your body with my pussy’s juices.”
Your body’s getting hotter and hotter by the second. His breath’s fanning over your sensitive folds, tickling you. It didn’t even take a beat for him to follow your orders so diligently; he’s sipping your juices eagerly and enthusiastically. You squeal, pleased.
“Do it, Choso! Lick my pussy!”
His tongue swipes through your soaked, puffy folds, gathering as much of your wetness as he can before he gluttonously swallows. With animalistic ferocity, he feasts on your overflowing juices. Sloppy slurrrrrrpsss! and squeeeeelccch!! reverberate. He’s downright drowning in your taste, in the sweetness and tang, and he can’t get enough — you can see how his tied up hands reach for you, uncaring of the metal digging into his raw skin.
“Ngh! You’re so good at this,” you moan out, riding his face. “If only the others could see you like this, could see how devoted you are to serving God. They’d understand. They’d see. They’d be moved to heavenly pleasure too!”
Choso thrusts his long tongue inside you, scooping out your juices. He probably can’t breathe. He definitely doesn’t care.
Squeezing your tits and imagining it’s his, and Father Nanami’s, digging their fingers in the fat mounds, you hop on his tongue. He’s got a sinful tongue, more so than even Lucifer himself. It wriggles against your spongy walls, curling against a spot he doesn’t realise is deliriously pleasurable for you. He only knows that it’s making your juices flood his face. They flow down his neck, soaking into the sheets.
“My clit, Choso. Suck my clit,” you beg. He pauses, unsure of what you mean. “The small button here,” you say, grinding your cunt on his nose. You tap the bundle of nerves on the tip of his nose. “Suck here, Choso.”
“More juices will come?” he asks, breathless and sounding so innocent, one would think what you were doing was simply Bible study.
With a hum, you answer, “Yes, baby. So much more juices will come.”
That’s all he needs to hear. Choso wraps his lips around your clit, sucking intently. Your eyes widen. Your back arches into an unnatural bend. Your thighs clamp around his head. “Yes!” you cry out. “Yes! So, so good! Oh, your sinful tongue is driving me insane.”
You bend forward, hurriedly ripping his pants and underwear away with your sharp nails. His long, hard cock springs out. It’s so swollen it looks like it’ll burst with the slightest brush of the wind. The cockhead is so flushed it’s purple, and covered with a sheen of pearlescent cream.
He already came in his pants.
Yet his cock is raring to go again.
Good, you think.
Salty, swampy air fills your nose when you press your face to it. His sweat. His cum. His musk. It all shoots straight up to your brain. Your tongue lolls out.
It’s the prettiest, most delicious looking cock you’ve ever seen. So delectably thick and girthy. It keeps bobbing towards you, booping your nose with its slick tip and leaving a dollop of cum there.
“W-what are you doing?” he asks again, voice muffled by your cunt.
Always so edge.
“I’m gonna suck out all the impurities.”
Choso makes an embarrassed sound. “But it’s dirty there, Sister.”
“Then allow me to clean it up with my tongue,” you say. Planting a kiss on the bulbous head, you open your mouth as wide as you can and take as much of him into your mouth as possible.
“Sister!” he gasps. Beneath you, Choso trembles. His body’s straining against his restraints. His reflexes urge him to grab you, to take control, to wildly thrust in your mouth. But he can’t do anything more than lie here and take whatever you want to give him.
His cock is stretching your jaw to the point of soreness. You persist.
The fullness, the taste, the challenge — you want more. Greedily, you gobble his cock down your throat, reaching the base with experienced ease. You gag, throat clenching around his length.
“Oh, Sister! It feels so good. Your mouth is -fuck!- so heavenly! Oh, god. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Hot cum explodes.
Choso cries out.
He came so quickly, not that you’re very shocked; it’s his first proper time, after all, and his cock was already so sensitive after he had his accident in his pants from eating you out. You swallow it all, every drop, every spurt. It warms your mouth and throat, settling in your chest. The saltiness stings your throat and your eyes in the very best ways. It’s years of cum that’s been stored in his heavy balls, finally released.
Spasms wrack his body. The chains rattle so loudly, causing the wood of the bedposts to creak.
Through it all, you keep sucking on his cockhead and tugging on his cock, making sure to get every bit out.
“What was that?” he asks, so terrified of the phenomenon he’d just experienced.
“An orgasm, Choso. You came. It’s the peak of pleasure, the height of sin, and the purpose of sex. A gift from God. Be grateful.”
At the mention of God, Choso says, sentence punctuated by a sob: “T-this is wrong,” “We shouldn’t do this. I understand now I was wrong, so please, Sister, have mercy!”
The poor thing’s crying. He’s overwhelmed with the religious guilt washing over him. It’s a lot for him to take at once. Perhaps you shouldn’t have started in this position. It’s too late for regrets, however. You simply need to distract him now.
“Shh, Choso. It’s okay. Trust in me. You are safe.” Rubbing your cunt on his lips, you muffle his cries. The taste of you which seeps onto his tongue halts his tears. As if remembering where he is and what he’s got right in front of him, he hesitantly licks your cunt again. “Thaaaat’s it. Good Choso.”
“You’re so -hah hah- sweet, Sister,” he murmurs between gulps of your wetness.
“As is God’s will,” you say, shaking your hips. “Just like it’s his will for you to submit to me, Choso. Be not afraid. Listen only to me and your desire. Let it flow out of you. Then and only then will you be saved.”
Desire renewed, he resumes eating your pussy. Hungrily. Like a man absolutely parched.
Quickly, he builds a rhythm back up — furiously assaulting your cunt with his wet tongue. You moan in time with his monstrous growls. He’s relentless, driven by his need to quell years of repression. “So sweet,” he gasps out in between beastly laps of your cunt. “So, so sweet.”
He slurrrrrrppss! on your clit until your orgasm splashes onto his face.
“Fuck, Choso!” you squeal. “Yessssssss!”
The man hardly seems to notice you’ve orgasmed. Or perhaps he doesn’t recognise what a woman’s full-body spasms and stuttering hips mean. Your cunt’s swollen and on fire. You crawl away, biting back a smile knowing that the snarl that pierces the air is because he’s not done with your pussy.
And you’re not done with him either.
Maneuvering yourself around, you face him.
Hair a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat and slick. Skin flushed under his face markings. Choso’s face is slippery with your juices. He doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are blown out and glazed over. Despite that, he’s honed in on your tits, which heave with your panting. They’re shiny with your milk too. The two of you are positively soaked.
“W-what’s the next step, Sister?” he asks, voice deepening to something unrecognisable. Guttural.
You straddle his hips, lifting your habit to show him how your pussy sandwiches his pulsating length. Choso’s hips rise to meet yours, hissing. You say, “You must give in. You must accept God.”
Choso whines, hips chasing the slow grinding of your cunt on his cock. “I can’t. I don’t believe in it, in Him.”
Stabilising yourself on his chest, you hump his cock mindlessly. It’s so stiff, so hot, and rubbing against your clit perfectly with the prominent veins climbing up his length and the bulbous head. “You will,” you tell him. “If you want to -mm- feel what it’s like to be snug -hah- inside my cunt, to be c-cleansed in and out, to be rid of -ngh!- to be rid of sin and free from your parents' control, you will accept Him.”
He tries to resist. His hands grip the metal of his chains. His wrists and palms are pink — raw from his straining. “No, I can’t.”
Although as he says that, you feel him rutting up at you, stretching as high up as he can go with his legs pulled taut. Lewd, sloppy sounds reach your ears like a symphony. Pouting, you swivel your hips around his cockhead. Your clit kisses his tip, digging into the small hole.
“MmFuck!” He arches his back, and whimpers noisily. He’s panting faster and faster, throwing his head side to side.
“You can, Choso, and you will. For me?” you whine, grinding on his dick quicker and hastier. Pulling his shirt up to see more of his glorious body, you keep it tucked under his chin. “I want to feel you inside me. I want to help you. Don’t you want to join me? Don’t you want to feel good together?”
His cock spurts more cum, a lighter load than the first couple times; his balls can’t keep up with the rate that he’s emptying them.
Jaw clenching. Sweat darkening his shirt. Veins on his arms popping. Choso writhes, growing dizzier and dizzier with the waves of his sudden orgasm. You keep grinding and grinding as though you want him to cum again so soon.
“No, please!” he sobs, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Aw, without me?” You drag your nails down his chest, feeling the stickiness of his cum which has painted his pale skin, splotchy with blood thrumming under the skin. “That’s not very Love Thy Neighbour of you, Choso. I’m so disappointed. You know, maybe you’re right.”
Choso blinks rapidly, tears coating his lashes. “W-what?”
“Maybe you’re right,” you repeat, hips halting. “Maybe you’re not ready to be cleansed. Maybe you’re better off. I have other cases to see; I should probably get going now, I suppose.”
When you make a move to get off him, Choso yanks on his chains so hard the wood threatens to splinter. He stammers, “N-no! No, stay! Please. I’m sorry. I’m ready. I want to be cleansed. I want to feel you. I want you to purify me. Oh god, I want it so bad. Your pussy’s so warm. You taste so good. You’re so pretty. So, so pretty. Please, I’ll be good. I accept, I accept! Do as you please with my unworthy body.”
In spite of the fact that he’s already cummed 3 times, he’s still ready for more, ready for whatever you think he’s worthy.
What a good puppy.
You clutch him by the base, angling him to your pulsing entrance. “Oh, I will.”
And in he goes.
The exact second that his cockhead worms itself into your gummy walls, streeeeeeetching your snug entrance, with a loud squeeeeeelchhhhh! he cums again.
It’s instantaneous. He doesn’t even know it’s happening until your nails are digging into his abdomen and your moans are stuttering. Meanwhile, Choso’s agonised groans are interrupted by mangled blubbering. He’s barely intelligible.
Hot cum fills your pussy. It paints your insides with magma-like drippings. Juices flood out in response, addicted to the soothing burn of his heat. So much cum. Everywhere. You can taste it in the air.
“Congratulations,” you purr, cupping your leaking tits, “you just lost your virginity to me.”
His eyes have rolled to the back of his head. He’s spasming. Shuddering. Shivering. Trembling. His body is no longer his own. It’s a toy for you to work yourself down on. You force your pussy to adjust, to take all of him, inch by inch, until its cockhead is kissing your cervix and your clit is flushed to the coarse hairs at his pelvis, which are drenched in your combined slop.
“No, no, no, please! It’s too much. I can’t take anymore. I just c-came.”
“Oh, Choso,” you mewl. “I don’t care if you came; I want to again, and I intend to, so keep yourself hard or we’re going to have problems.”
He agrees with some incomprehensible noises. Drool slips out of his mouth. You collect the wetness and rub it on your needy clit as you start bouncing on his still-hard cock. The bed creaks beneath you, wood complaining. Your claws draw long marks on his clammy skin. Goosebumps rise where you lay your claim.
So much is happening at once. He can’t keep track. It’s like he feels you everywhere — on his face, on his tongue, on his chest, his hands, burrowing inside of him, nestling in the pit of his stomach, clutching his heart and squeezing as tight as your cunt is around his cock.
You’ve taken a lot. He’s ready to sleep, to give in to the exhaustion.
Choso’s softening.
You growl. “No!”
SMACK!
His eyes widen. Redness blooms on his skin.
His cock hardens to full mast quick as lightning. You moan in satisfaction, hips grinding down to swallow the growth in his girth and length. He fills you up even better like this. Perfect, you think. He’s no good to you soft.
“Give me all -hah- your cum,” you command, the pleats of your pussy milking his cock ruthlessly. Another harsh smack! has his hips rutting up, driving him even deeper inside you.
“Yes,” he chokes out, cheek welting. “Take it all. It’s yours. Every-ngh!-thing!”
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
He accepts each collision of your soft palm against his face with humble gratitude. Choso’s honoured you’d dirty your hand with him, delirious with the thought that the same heat spreading across his cheek is spreading across your palm, that you’re connected in divine pain, colouring each other ephemerally. You’re a Master deigning to carve him out of flesh and blood, and it’s so wondrous he thinks he’s already died and settled in a corner in Elysium.
The speed and vigour in which you’re fucking up and down on his cock rattles his chains, rocks the bed against the cement wall, and seems to shake the very foundations of the house.
Earthshattering delight.
Destructive, undeserving rapture.
Carnal, gluttonous excess of all the joy in the world blossoming from your transcendental pussy.
You’re a marvellous, mind-melting Monet. A stone-turning marble statue carved by Bernini. A most cursed painting he can’t bear to look at and away from in equal measure.
Lewd howls and grunts and shrieks pound against all the walls, no doubt seeping through to the outside. Apart from bestial sounds he doesn’t even realise he’s making, Choso’s been driven speechless. All he can hear, see, taste, smell, and feel is you. You’re driving him to heaven and back, and it’s far too much exposure to bliss than he’s worthy.
“God, yes! Stretch my pussy out! So good, so fucking good!”
Hours must pass. Or maybe mere minutes.
The muscles in your thighs ache, burning with the exertion. Sweat drips down your back. Your habit sticks to your skin. Your tits bounce with your body, and he can’t seem to take his eyes off them — except for when they’re rolling so far back into his head that his eyes appear perpetually white.
Choso has been cumming over and over. His orgasms blur into one continuous burst of ecstacy; they start from his balls, rushing through the rest of his body: his sinewy thighs, cramping calves, curling toes, and up his torso, his chest, tickling his hardened nipples from inside, zooming up his tense arms, the veins threatening to pop, to the bruised wrists trapped by shackles, and his whitened knuckles.
“This is -hah oh god- so, so wrong, Sister,” he cries. “But I don’t care -hngh!- anymore. I’m damned. I was damned when I rebelled. When you walked in and my cock throbbed back to life, and I felt a -fuck, don’t stop- a h-hunger I have never felt before rise in me. I-I knew when you uttered my name so angelically that I would follow you anywhere. God, take me, Sister. Please.”
He feels you everywhere.
And yet it isn’t enough.
Light grows brighter and brighter. It calls for him. Beckoning.
More.
More.
More.
“Sister?” a voice calls out from a distance.
His parents.
They returned.
Choso stares up at you, distressed and teary-eyed. He doesn’t want to be seen, to be caught. He expects you to stop. But you won’t.
“I-is everything alright? It’s been a while and the noises… We’re worried,” Mrs. Kamo says, hesitant and unable to hide her fear.
Smiling down at her son, you reply, “Mm, yes. The exorcism is -hngh- going perfectly. His powerful demon’s reacting just as e-expected — it’s putting up a fight. Best not to come down —fuck, Choso, you’re doing so good,” you whisper, then shout to his mother, “Don’t come down here.”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Kamo asks. “If you need our help, please—”
“It’s dangerous,” you yell, rolling your eyes. “The Church forbids the untrained to bear witness to an exorcism. Leave now and I will not inform the Father of your mistake.”
Choso knows they can hear his savage growling and groaning, that his shaky whimpers are reaching their ears, and he can’t do a thing about it; your devious cunt’s too powerful, too demanding, too tight. And with every bounce, he cares less and less that he’s sounding like nothing more than a whore.
His parents can keep listening for all you care.
They can watch if they want, and they can see how splendorous it is to desire, to sin, to be wrong.
You squeeze milk out of your tit, catching the ounces in your cupped hand. Maintaining eye contact, you slurrrrp! your own milk. He pants like a puppy in summer’s heat. You lean forward, nipples scraping his chest, and it’s an added stimulation he can’t handle. Choso’s eyes cross at the changed angle.
Lips graze each other. Choso chases them each time you pull away. “Sister, please,” he pleads. “Deem me worthy. I want to be purified with your taste. Make me reborn anew.”
If only he knew you’d deemed him worthy the moment you laid eyes on him.
In a clash of tongue and teeth, you finally allow him to drink your breastmilk from your mouth. He greedily swallows with a pornographic moan, Adam’s apple bobbing with haste. He siphons it all. Relishing the sweetness. Savouring the refreshment. Delighting in his return to a more innocent time. Still wanting more, he licks the droplets from your chin and dives forward, sucking on your tongue.
Choso drains your tongue like it’s a cock, like you had done to his. He can’t differentiate between the taste of your milk and the taste of your saliva; it’s as delectable to him as the other.
Satisfied, you both melt into a sloppy kiss as your hips ride his restlessly. He must have cum again from that alone. So much semen is squelching out of your cunt, sliding down his length, creating a creamy ring, drenching his pulsing balls and soaking into the sheets.
You’re both so, so wet with each other’s liquids that your chests slip and slide together. But it’s still not enough.
He hasn’t stopped yearning to touch you, to grab onto your waist, to hold your hips and guide you up and down his cock, to explore bodily pleasure he’s never been allowed to before.
The chains…
He’s never found them more irritating than now.
“Fuck!” he roars.
Wood splinters in half.
Your back’s pushed down to the mattress. Suddenly, your whole vision’s obscured by broad shoulders and a hulking torso. “Choso!” you yelp, surprised by the display of inhuman strength.
Choso rips his shirt off with a frustrated growl. The useless material falls to the floor with a wet splat. His wrists are still adorned with the metal, but the chains are no longer held back by the bed posts. Sweat from his messy hair drops onto your skin; you stick your tongue out to catch as much of the salt as possible.
His cock’s popped out of your cunt. It slides through your puffy pussy lips, rubbing your swollen clit. He doesn’t know. Choso continues thrusting all the same. He’s overwhelmed with the realisation that he can touch you. Groaning, he faceplants right between your breasts. He lays wet kisses there, as though he’s making out with your lips, licking the drying milk on the curves and valley of your breasts.
“Oh, Sister,” he whispers, breathy. “You’re an angel. A miracle. My salvation.”
Scalding liquid spurts all over your stomach; his cock’s slipped under your thin habit, urged on by the clinging material. In spite of that, he keeps rubbing his dick on your slit and your clit, unrelenting and unsoftening. He can only whine weakly from the pain of having came too many times too soon.
Ankles locking behind his ass, you guide his slippery cock back inside your hungry cunt, which pitifully clenches around nothing. Choso sucks in a sharp breath, feeling the familiar tightness and, like something has been reawakened in him, he hastily ploughs his cock forward.
You scream, back arching.
Skin slap, fwop! fwop! Fwopping!
With the force of his thrusting, the bed moves an inch.
Mr. Kamo pounds on the cellar door. “Are you alright, Sister?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, hips working in tandem with Choso’s. “God protects me! His blessing’s filling me up!”
“Sister, purify me,” Choso mutters over and over again. He doesn’t seem to have heard his father at all. He’s tuned them out. It’s just you.
His mouth’s sucking and kissing where you’ve bared your chest to him before they, like a moth to a flame, find a teat and suckle hard. You feel your milk pulled from your ducts, trickling into his mouth, nipples tugged almost painfully.
The air is humid. Steamy. Made hefty by the fusing of your tangy, salty, and sweet scents. It’s an addictive concoction.
Purring in his ear, you say, “Make me cum, Choso. Be a good boy, yes?”
He nods furiously. Straightening up, cool air enveloping you, he grips the backs of your thighs, pushing them towards your chest. Like this, he can see where you’re joined so clearly. His lips part. You know what he’s thinking — he’d only recently discovered his cock and what it can do when uninhibited, and now it’s stretching a woman’s tight pussy out so obscenely. It’s like Christmas came early.
“I’m not -hah- hurting you, am I, Sister?” he wonders, though as he breathlessly asks that, he’s nudging his cock deeper and deeper inside. It’s clear Choso doesn’t care much for the answer.
You grin ear to ear. “Not in a way I don’t like.”
The parents must have left; you hear no more from them. Or perhaps you’ve blocked them out. All that matters is the euphoria resonating in your core. How can anything else matter when you’re being stuffed full by a fat cock?
Choso’s ramming it inside irrhythmically. He’s clumsy, only chasing what feels good. But your pussy’s so sensitive from the orgasms you’d been having that you find it all downright blissful.
“So tight,” he groans out. “You’re so tight. I s-shouldn’t be able to fit inside, and yet you’re sucking me in. I can’t breathe.”
“I know,” you coo, watching his abs contract, beads of sweat travelling down the hard contours of his body. “You’re doing so well for me, Choso. You’re nearly rid of sin, I can see it. Keep going.”
Panting faster and faster, Choso warns you of his next orgasm with a pained whimper. “N-not again!”
But nothing comes. No cream paints your walls. Despite that, he still shudders and digs his callused fingers into the plush of your thighs, certain to leave bruises. Apart from that, there’s no evidence he’d cummed at all.
You’d manifestly emptied his balls out of every drizzle of cum. All of it is either coating your skin and habit or being absorbed by your spongy walls, replenishing your soul directly.
He’s still prodding that sensitive spot inside that has your chest heaving and your eyes crossing. And every thrust pushes you further and further down the bed. Your head starts to hang over.
Blood rushes down.
Tingles exploding behind your eyes.
Peering up at him, you run your nails over the bump he’s poking through your stomach. He feels it; he throbs at your touch, and again when you press down. Tears are streaking down his face steadily, blurring his vision. “Sister!”
“Do you know what this position is called, Choso?” you quiz him. He shakes his head, biting his lip till it bleeds and red stains his chin. “It’s called, ‘mating press.’ Do you understand? You’re mating me, Choso. You’re fucking a baby inside. Will you take responsibility?”
Choso throws his head back, sobbing. “Yes, yes, Sister! I’ll do what you need me to. I’ll be a good father.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” you say, giggling.
As though enamoured with the thought of planting his seed in your womb, he replaces your hand and gropes his own cock through your belly. He presses down harder. You gasp. The pressure’s intense. You feel every part of him — every ridge, every vein, every pulse, every bullying of his mushroom head scraping his cum out.
You explode with a scream and a splash!
The rapid clenching of your cunt has Choso barking a plea.
The two of you spasm together, hips rutting and elongating your orgasm. It’s wet everywhere. Sweat, milk, cum, cream, tears, and blood from his lip and from his nose are mixing together. The heat and the exertion of every energy he had went straight to his head and burst a vessel.
He falls on top of you, woefully spent.
Limbs tangle together, limp and exhausted.
For a while, neither of you moves. The room is quiet save for the slow return of breath, the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours. The frenzy has ebbed, leaving behind a stillness, warm and almost fragile in its calm.
Choso shifts just enough to ease his weight, though he doesn’t pull away. His hand finds yours without thinking, fingers loosely threading together, as if anchoring himself. You let him play with your fingers.
Down here, it’s hard to tell what time it is outside. Is it night, the next day, or has barely any time at all passed?
Air cools the wetness all over, drying until they cake. His cock’s still inside you, softening. He doesn’t pull out. You don’t ask him to.
“Am I,” he starts, trying to catch his breath, “cleansed now, Sister?”
Raking your fingers through his hair, you answer, “Yes, Choso. Sin has been rid. You are free.”
Choso hums. There’s a disappointed note there. “So I’ll never see you again? I’ll return to the life my family wants me to live?”
“Not necessarily. You’ve accepted God, in your own way. You can join our religious order, live as we do. You see, I started out just like you — lost, out of place, angry, and with nowhere to release my energy. It is through the Church that I have been liberated from sin, and continue to be. Sin returns, always. So you must be dutiful and ensure you regularly expel it.”
Although his arm is dense with the weight of his chain, he still lifts it and cradles your breast. He tenderly massages it, eyes fixed on the milk that drips out. He licks it. You sigh. Then he asks, “I can do this more often? With you?”
“Uhuh, and with whomever else you’d like. We all owe a duty to each other to help, of course.”
He looks up at you, smiling. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.”
You press a kiss to his forehead, both of his cheeks, and finally his lips.
“You’re very welcome.”
.
.
.
You breathe fresh air in.
Dawn has broken, and the world wakes.
Birds tweet and fly overhead, a distant bell rings, chatter thrum under the wind. You feel lighter than when you arrived, younger, stronger. You always do after a case gone well.
“He’s free now? You’re sure, Sister?” Mrs. Kamo asks again, clasping a rosary in her hands.
Looking back at the house and the couple seeing you off, you incline your head, and respond with. “Yes. The demon that’s been holding him back is gone. He’s found clarity and peace with himself.”
She smiles, relieved, as does her husband, who nods in gratitude.
Behind them, Choso stands in the doorway. Washed, composed, new. He doesn’t sulk or brood. Doesn’t roll his eyes with rejection and dismissal. He simply folds his hands, quiet and still, as though he’s finally learned where to place them. “Thank you, Sister,” he says softly. “I’ve never felt closer to God.”
The morning light catches on his face, serene, devout. Transformed.
“I’m so glad.” A knowing glint in your eyes is shared. And, like it’s an afterthought, you hand them a brochure from your bag. “The Church holds a training course to join my order, if you’d permit Choso to attend. He can follow in my footsteps and rid the world of sin. At the very least, listen to a lecture and grow even more connected with our community. I think it’d be good for him.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Kamo exhales out excitedly, “yes! Yes, that would be perfect for him. It’d give him a purpose, a calling. Oh, how wonderful!”
Mr. Kamo adds, turning to look at him, “I would be most proud to have a son who’s an active, participating member of the Church, upholding our values and protecting other families from the tragedy we faced.”
Choso smiles. Not at his father, nor his father, but at you.
“Anything to repay my gratitude and service you,” he says coyly, “and the community, of course.”
If they notice the hidden meanings, they don’t show it. They merely look beyond pleased at the son they’ve always wanted — or rather, think they want. They have no idea that, soon, Choso will leave this house, enter the world as an adult in his own right, and fuck the sin out of the neediest, most desperate women.
He’ll bring more and more people to the Church, but not using means they’d support.
For the era of their puritanism is coming to an end.
And the era of hedonism your race has sown into the world, one drained lustforce at a time, is beginning.
“I look forward to it,” you say, still tasting his salty cum on your tongue.
Choso’s eyes drink up your full figure through your habit, flashing red as he licks a forked tongue over his sharp row of teeth.
neteyam, convinced that mastering the art of kissing is essential for his future duties as olo’eyktan, asks you to help him practice. tags: smut, aged-up, fem pronouns, yearning, first times, ( awkward ) makeout session, grinding, in-denial, best friends to something (?) (7.4k wc)
Neteyam had accepted the weight of the title Olo’eyktan long before his adult fangs even came in, his fate carved into his bone the moment he was born as the eldest son of Jake Sully. With his father as his living example, he had spent his childhood curating a rigorous, strict curriculum for himself, a list of requirements he felt he must fulfill to be worthy of the title: he needed to be a lethal warrior, a sharp hunter, a wise diplomat, a patient teacher, and a protector who always put the clan before himself.
But as he grew older, watching his father’s eyes soften only when they landed on his mother, Neteyam realized there was a more vulnerable side to leadership he hadn’t accounted for. An Olo’eyktan needed a partner to stand by his side for life, a mate that would lead beside him. With that realization came a terrifying new pressure, a crucial duty he had only recently begun to obsess over. He needed to be good at keeping his mate happy.
Neteyam knew it was too early to be worrying about the heat of a mating den, but the golden child couldn’t silence the voice in his head that demanded perfection in all things. If he was going to lead, he couldn’t afford to be clumsy or inexperienced when the time came. And there was no better place to start the foundations of intimacy than learning the basics: knowing exactly how to kiss.
But there is one problem—he had absolutely no idea how to go about learning it. He couldn’t exactly ask his parents for a demonstration, and the thought of seeking advice from anyone else in the clan made him want to crawl into a hollow log and die. That left him with only one logical option, the one person who knew his secrets better than she knew her own breathing.
You.
You and Neteyam had been attached at the hip since you were barely tall enough to reach a direhorse’s knee, your bond so unbreakable that the clan members joked you were two halves of the same soul. It was a rare sight to see one of you without the other lingering close by. So, when his father finally released him from the endless grind of his daily duties, granting him a fleeting moment of freedom to ride the winds with you—he finally decided to ask you the question that had been bothering him.
The adrenaline was still buzzing under your skin, electric and loud, as you landed your ikran on one of the rocks of Ayram alusìng. You practically vaulted off the saddle, ripping your ionar away from your face and gasping in the cool air, breathless with exhilaration.
"Did you see that?" you crowed, bouncing on the balls of your feet as Neteyam dismounted beside you. "That spin? I swear I almost cleared the entire canopy! You have to admit, that was flawless."
Neteyam didn't immediately retort with his usual sarcastic quip about your ego. He was busy stroking the snout of his ikran, murmuring a quiet thanks to the animal, but his movements were stiff, mechanical.
You nudged him hard in the shoulder with your own. "Hey, don't feel bad just because I left you in the dust. If you practice more, maybe one day you'll be faster than me."
He laughed, but the sound was hollow. "Yeah. Maybe."
You paused, your grin faltering as you watched him. He refused to meet your eyes, his jaw set in that way it always did when he was overthinking something to death. "Okay, what's wrong? You're never this quiet after a flight. Did I actually embarrass you that badly?"
Neteyam looked at you then, his expression so serious that a startled laugh burst out of your throat. You expected him to crack a smile, to tell you to shut up, but he didn't. He just looked strained, his ears flicking back nervously.
The smile slid off your face. "Neteyam? You're scaring me. Just say whatever it is."
"Let's sit down," he murmured, jerking his chin toward a flat patch of moss near the edge of the cliff.
"Okay..." You trailed off, following him slowly. You plopped down cross-legged, grabbing a massive, broad leaf from the ground. You started ripping the edges of it idly, needing something to do with your hands as the silence stretched thick between you. You waited, watching him from your peripheral vision, expecting a lecture about safety or perhaps a confession about some mistake he'd made during training. But Neteyam just sat there, staring out at the floating mountains, his tail curling and uncurling anxiously against the rock.
"So?" you prompted, tearing a particularly satisfying strip of green from the leaf. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess? Because I'm guessing you broke one of Tuk’s toys again."
He shook his head slowly, finally turning to look at you. "No. It's not that."
"Then what?" you tossed the shredded leaf pieces aside. "Spit it out, skxawng. You know you can tell me anything."
He let out a long, shaky breath, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you want to squirm. "I need to ask you a favor. A big one."
"If this will cause me to get exiled or something…" you joked, though your voice was quieter now.
"No," he said, then paused. "I don't think so."
"Well, that's reassuring. Go on."
Neteyam rubbed the back of his neck, his stripes flushing darker. "I need to… I need to learn something. And I can't ask anyone else. I trust you more than anyone."
Your heart gave a weird little flip, but you ignored it. "Obviously. I'm your best friend. What do you need to learn? A new flying technique? Because I can definitely teach you that."
"No," he said quickly, shaking his head so hard his braids whipped against his face. "Not flying. It's... look, I need to get better at... certain things. Romantically."
“Uh-huh…”
“And I was thinking maybe you could help me by telling me who I could go to. To practice kissing with…?”
You blinked, tossing a piece of shredded leaf over the edge of the cliff. "To practice—? Neteyam, you want me to set you up?"
He huffed, looking frustrated with himself. "I just need to be prepared, okay? For the future. And I can't ask just anyone. I need someone who knows what they're doing, but who won't go blabbing to the entire clan five seconds later."
It took a second for the request to register, and when it did, you felt a strange swoop in your stomach. You and Neteyam shared every secret, and knew every embarrassing detail of each other's lives. But for some reason, this felt... different. You had always assumed that when it came to this kind of stuff—mating, courting, kissing—he would go to Lo'ak or one of his male friends. It was weird that he was asking you, a girl, for people who could teach him how to kiss.
Still, you were his best friend first and his confidant second. You pushed that weird, pinching sensation in your chest aside and decided to just be helpful.
"Okay," you said slowly, shifting your weight on the moss. "If you want someone who knows what they're doing... you probably want someone with experience."
Neteyam lifted his head immediately, eyes wide. "Exactly. Who?"
“Well,” you started, counting on your fingers. “There’s Tala. She's sweet, patient. I heard she lets her partners lead completely. If you want to feel in charge and practice your... authority... she's the one.”
He hummed, considering it. "She is nice."
"Or," you dragged out the word, grinning mischievously, "there's Naya. She doesn't hide it either. If you want to learn technique, she’s probably the best teacher. She won't let you get away with being clumsy."
Neteyam was listening intently, his brow furrowed as if he were analyzing a battle strategy, but inside, he was screaming. He had almost done it. He had almost asked you.
It would have been so easy. You were right there, tearing up that leaf, looking at him with that open, trusting expression. He knew you, trusted you, and honestly, the thought of touching anyone else made his skin feel weirdly tight. But he stopped himself. This wasn't just about him; it was about his duty. He couldn't risk complicating the most important friendship in his life just because he was nervous about his first kiss. If he messed it up, if he made things awkward between you, he would lose his anchor. And Neteyam couldn't be the Olo'eyktan without you by his side. He had to keep this line drawn
"Naya," he repeated, testing the name, trying to convince himself she was a good option. "She seems... efficient."
"Efficient?" You laughed, shaking your head at him. "It's kissing, Neteyam, not a hunt. But sure, efficient. Those are your best bets if you want to survive this 'practice' of yours without embarrassing yourself."
He didn’t go to Naya. He didn’t go to Tala, or anyone else you had listed out for him with that teasing grin of yours.
Neteyam went straight back to the pod, his jaw set tight enough to crack a tooth, and spent the evening staring at the woven ceiling of his room. He didn't breathe a word of this to you, of course.
The next day, however, his composure was nowhere to be found.
You saw it in the training grounds. Usually, he was a picture of lethal grace, his movements fluid and calculated as he sparred with the other young warriors. But today, he was distracted. His reflexes were a hair too slow; his gaze kept drifting toward the tree line when he should have been watching his opponent's weapon. He took a hit to the ribs that he should have easily blocked, and the sight of him stumbling back, wide-eyed and breathless, was so unlike him that it actually made you stop dead in your tracks.
You didn't ask him about it immediately, though. You assumed he was just spiraling. He was Neteyam, after all—the boy who treated a minor scratch like a fatal tactical error. He was probably overthinking the kissing thing, already running five different simulations in his head about how to approach a girl without humiliating himself. You figured he was just strategizing, his "big brain" working overtime to devise the perfect kissing protocol.
It was strange to see him so shaken, especially since you knew for a fact that half the clan was desperate for his attention. Since his shoulders had broadened, he had become the object of nearly every young woman’s fantasy. You had heard the giggles behind the woven screens, the hushed prayers to Eywa asking that the Olo’eyktan’s son look their way. He didn't need to worry. If he walked up to almost anyone and asked to kiss them, they would probably faint from sheer joy.
Watching him pace restlessly near the riverbank, a small, unworthy thought wormed its way into your own mind. Should you also be worrying about this?
It was an embarrassing admission, one you barely wanted to make to yourself in the quiet of your own head. You were the same age as him, you were supposed to be looking for a mate, or at least enjoying the courting dances. But you hadn't done anything. You had never been kissed, never been courted, never felt that rush of heat everyone talked about. For the longest time, you had told yourself it didn't matter because Neteyam was in the same boat. You were two static points in a rushing river, content to just exist together while the rest of the world mated and paired off.
But now, he was trying to leave the river. He was trying to swim.
And if he succeeded, where did that leave you?
You pushed the thought away, annoyed at your own self-pity. You were happy the way things were. You liked being his shadow, his partner in crime. Or at least, you thought you were.
That evening, you met him at the spot.
It was a hidden platform nestled high in the boughs of a massive, ancient tree, a wooden nest the two of you had built from scrap wood and braided vines when you were only tall enough to reach the first branch. It was your sanctuary. The only place in the village where the eyes of the clan couldn't reach you.
Neteyam was already there, sitting on the edge with his back to you, his legs dangling over the open air. The wind whipped his braids around his shoulders, but he didn't move.
"Hey," you said softly, climbing onto the platform and taking your usual seat beside him.
He didn't startle. He just glanced at you, his expression guarded. "Hey."
You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them, watching the sunset burn across the horizon in shades of violent purple and orange. For a while, the silence was comfortable, but underneath it, you could feel the hum of unspoken things.
"So?" you finally asked, keeping your voice light, casual. "How did it go? Did you survive?"
Neteyam stiffened slightly. He turned his face away, looking out at the forest canopy instead of you. "It... it was fine."
"Fine?" You raised an eyebrow, nudging his shoulder with yours. "That's it? I gave you the best candidates in the clan, and all you have to say is 'fine'? Did you go to Naya? She's efficient, right? Did she teach you the secrets of the universe?"
He let out a short, tense laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that."
"Liar."
The word slipped out before you could stop it, but you covered it quickly with a teasing grin. "Come on, Neteyam. Give me details. I'm your best friend. I need to know if my advice was crystal or garbage."
He hesitated. His fingers gripped the edge of the platform so hard his knuckles turned white. When he spoke, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "It was good. She was... patient. I learned a lot. I think I have a better idea of what to do now."
You listened, nodding slowly, forcing your smile to stay in place even as a sharp, pinching sensation started to bloom in your chest. It felt weirdly like heartburn, or maybe like you had swallowed a jagged stone. You told yourself it was just annoyance at his vagueness, or perhaps the wind was a little too cold tonight.
"That's good," you said, and the words sounded hollow to your own ears. "I'm glad you got it sorted out. Now you can stop walking around like you're about to face a Thanator."
"Yeah," he whispered, still refusing to look at you. "Now I can stop."
The following days fell into a rhythm that was maddeningly normal on the surface, yet fundamentally wrong underneath. You flew the formations, you trained until your muscles burned, you ate together. But the air between you felt thicker. Neteyam was still there, still your shadow in every sense of the word, but the easy, fluid lightness that defined your friendship had evaporated.
The silence wasn't peaceful anymore; it was heavy, filled with things he wasn't saying. The teasing quips that usually flew between you like arrows had vanished. He didn't make fun of your landing form when you nearly tripped over your own tail. He didn't brag when he managed to take down a target farther than you. He was just... polite.
Polite Neteyam was infinitely worse than angry Neteyam. Angry Neteyam you could handle. You could yell back, you could poke the beast until he snapped and growled. But this quiet, distant stranger who nodded at your stories and answered your questions with single syllables was driving you insane.
At first, you tried to rationalize it. You told yourself it was just the aftershock of his confession, the lingering insecurity of a boy who had obsessed over a skill he hadn't mastered yet. You figured he was just analyzing his performance to death, turning the memory of that supposed kiss over and over in his mind until it was nothing but dust. You tried to give him space, letting your own chatter fill the silence until it felt like you were talking to a wall, your voice bouncing back at you, hollow and lonely.
But as the days dragged on, your patience frayed like an old rope. You missed him. You missed the version of him who would shove you into the dirt and laugh until his ribs hurt, the version of him who would look at you like you were the only person in the clan who mattered. This stiff, formal boy with his guarded eyes and his carefully constructed distance was starting to feel like a betrayal.
You decided to confront him during sparring. It was the perfect environment—you were already sweating, already aggressive, the physical exertion making it harder for him to hide behind his mask of composure. The end of the round always left the two of you facing each other, heaving for breath, skin flushed and slick with heat.
You came at him hard that day, your hits aiming for his ribs with a little more force than necessary. He blocked you with ease, his movements efficient and flawless, but his expression was unreadable, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance.
"You're fighting like an old man," you taunted, twisting your wrist to knock his blade aside, the wood clacking loudly in the clearing. "What's the matter? Did your little practice session with Naya tire you out that much?"
Neteyam’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the blue stripe of his skin. He parried your strike, pushing you back a step, but he didn't retort. "Focus. Don't get sloppy."
"I'm not sloppy," you shot back, feinting left before lunging right, forcing him to retreat. "I'm curious. You've been moping around for days. Did the 'practice' not go as planned? Did she realize you have no game?"
"Enough," he bit out, dodging a sweep of your leg with a fluidity that was annoying. "Concentrate on the match."
"No," you huffed, circling him, watching for an opening. "I don't want to concentrate. I want to know why my best friend is acting like I kicked his direhorse."
You engaged him in a flurry of blows, the sound of wood striking wood echoing through the clearing, a rhythm that usually settled your mind but now only fueled your irritation. "Is it me? Did I do something wrong? Because you've been weird since that night on our spot."
Neteyam didn't answer. He just grunted, deflecting a heavy hit that would have bruised your shoulder if he hadn't caught it with a dull thud.
"Or what," you pressed, your voice rising with frustration as you realized he was just blocking, refusing to engage with you verbally. "Did you and Naya have a lover's quarrel? Are you courting her now? Is that why you can't tell me anything?"
The thought tasted like bile in your mouth. You didn't know why the idea of him courting someone made your stomach churn, why the image of him whispering sweet nothings to Naya made your grip on your wooden weapon tighten until your knuckles turned white.
"I swear, Neteyam," you snapped, swinging low. "If you're already hiding your child from me—"
You didn't see the opening until it was too late. You were too busy talking, too distracted by your own annoyance to notice the way his weight shifted, the way he stopped blocking and started hunting.
You lunged, expecting him to deflect. Instead, he stepped inside your guard, hooked his leg behind yours, and used your own momentum against you.
The world spun. Your back hit the hard-packed ground with a bone-rattling thud, knocking the wind out of you in a painful rush. Before you could even gasp, Neteyam was on you. He pinned your wrists to the ground above your head, his knees pressing into your thighs to keep you still.
It was a standard pin. You’d been in this position a hundred times, wrestling in the mud since you were tadpoles.
"Yield," he demanded, his face hovering inches from yours, his breath coming in sharp bursts that fanned hot against your cheek.
You stared up at him, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in his golden eyes. He looked angry, his ears pinned back flat against his skull, his pupils blown wide. But there was something else there too—something wild and frantic that made your heart stutter in your chest.
But you weren't about to lose that easily. Not when he was being this insolent.
"Not a chance," you wheezed, struggling against his hold, bucking your hips wildly.
Since you couldn't break his grip on your wrists, you decided to play dirty. It was a joke, a trick you hadn't pulled since you were kids, born of pure desperation to wipe that serious look off his face. You jerked your head up, aiming to headbutt him just enough to startle him so you could buck him off.
But Neteyam anticipated it. He jerked his head back to avoid the collision, shifting his weight to keep you pinned. The change in center of gravity threw him off balance just enough.
He stumbled, his grip on your wrists slipping. You didn't shove him away. Instead, you grabbed the side of the waistband of his loincloth and yanked, hard.
He lost his footing completely and toppled sideways with a grunt, rolling onto his back in the dirt. Before he could recover, you scrambled on top of him, laughing triumphantly as you straddled his waist, pinning his shoulders to the ground.
"Ha!" you crowed, breathless and grinning down at him, your hair falling over your face like a curtain. "Who's sloppy now?"
You expected him to laugh. You expected him to buck you off or make a snide comment about how he let you win to preserve your ego. You were waiting for the familiar spark of competition in his eyes, the warmth that always settled between you after a good fight.
Instead, he froze.
The laughter died in your throat as you looked down at him. Neteyam wasn't moving. He was staring up at you with an expression you couldn't read—his eyes wide, dark, and swimming with something that looked dangerously like panic. His chest was heaving under you, his breath hitching in his throat like he was choking on air.
For a second, time seemed to stretch, thin and taut. He looked terrified. Of you? Of this? You didn't know.
"Neteyam?" you asked, your smile faltering, your voice barely a whisper. "You okay?"
For a beat, he didn't blink. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat that felt like a lifetime, before snapping back up to your eyes. The raw need you saw there was so visceral it made your breath catch, a sharp, electric shock that ran down your spine.
Then, his face crumpled. Panic seized him, raw and ugly. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching hard enough to grind his teeth.
"Get off," he ground out, his voice strangled, like he was in physical pain.
"What?"
"Get off!" He shoved you, harder than he meant to, his hands rough against your shoulders, sending you tumbling backward into the dirt.
You sat up, dazed and confused, wiping the dust from your cheek, watching as he scrambled to his feet. He didn't offer you a hand. He didn't look at you. He just turned on his heel and walked away, his strides long and jagged, his tail lashing behind him like a whip.
You stared at his retreating back, your hands still tingling from the heat of his skin, completely lost. The silence he left behind was louder than any shout.
"Fine!" you shouted at the trees, irritation rising up to mask the weird, hollow hurt blooming in your chest. "Walk away, skxawng! See if I care!"
You didn't chase after him. You sat in the dirt for a long time, staring at the trees until the cool evening air prickled your skin, and then you picked yourself up and went home. You ignored him. Fully and completely.
The next few days were an exercise in cold war. You woke up, you trained, and you found reasons to be anywhere he wasn't. If he was on the flight line, you suddenly became very interested in helping the weavers gather fibers. If he was near the river, you took your meals with the young hunters who were usually too loud for your taste. You laughed at their jokes, you joined their conversations, and you pretended not to see the way Neteyam stood on the periphery of the camp, his eyes following you like a lost hawk, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
It was petty, maybe. Immature, definitely. But you were hurt, and you didn't have the energy to dissect why his rejection had stung so sharply when you were supposed to be just his friend.
Neteyam, for his part, was spiraling. He hadn't slept in two days. He was walking around in a haze of self-loathing that was potent enough to choke on. He felt like the biggest asshole to ever walk Pandora. Being cold to you was bad enough—he knew that, he hated himself for the way he’d shut you out—but the memory of you on the ground when he pushed you made him want to let himself get devoured by a thanator.
He kept seeing your face. The shock in your eyes when he shoved you. The way your laughter had died so abruptly, replaced by a confusion that cut deeper than any knife. You didn't deserve that. You had been with him since birth, literally. You were the one who held his hair back when he was sick and the one who patched his bruises when he fell. You believed in him when he was convinced he was a failure, carrying the weight of a title he hadn't even earned yet.
And you had helped him. You had helped him with the most humiliating, desperate secret he had, trying to teach him how to kiss even though it wasn't your job. You had tried to be a good friend, and what had he given you in return? A cold shoulder and a shove to the ground.
He wanted to give you the best. He wanted to be the friend you deserved, the steady presence you relied on. He wanted to scrub his brain clean of the way he had felt when you were straddling him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He didn't know when it happened. He didn't know how it started. He had chalked it up to familiarity for years—you were just there. You were part of him, like his arm or his tail. Being around you was as natural as breathing. But deep down, in the dark, quiet part of his mind where he kept his fears, he knew the truth was far more dangerous.
Normal friends didn't think about kissing their friends.
He was in trouble. He was in so much trouble.
But he couldn't keep going on like this. He couldn't keep watching you drift away toward other groups, other people, laughing without him. He needed to fix this. He needed to act better. He needed to push the feelings down, lock them away, and just be Neteyam again. Your Neteyam.
One evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep reds, he found himself climbing the vine ladder to the platform. It was a risk. You might not even be there. Or worse, you might tell him to get lost.
But luck, for once, seemed to be on his side.
When he hauled himself over the edge of the wooden platform, you were there. You were sitting with your back against the trunk of the tree, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring out at the forest with a distant look. You didn't look at him immediately, but your ears flicked back, betraying that you knew he was there.
Neteyam stood there for a moment, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt awkward, too large for his own skin.
"Hey," he managed to say, his voice rougher than he intended.
You didn't turn. You didn't tell him to leave, but you didn't invite him to sit either. "Hey."
The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. It wasn't the comfortable silence of your childhood.
Neteyam took a tentative step forward, his hands raised slightly, palms out, like he was approaching a spooked animal. "Can I... can I sit?"
You shrugged, a minimal movement of your shoulders. "It's a free world."
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and sat down. Not in his usual spot right next to you, but a respectable distance away—close enough to talk, far enough away that he wouldn't accidentally touch you. He leaned back against the wood, mimicking your posture, staring out at the view.
"I didn't kiss Naya," he said abruptly.
You blinked, turning to look at him with a frown. You scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet evening air. "What?"
Neteyam flinched at the skepticism in your voice. He turned his head, his expression earnest and almost desperate. "I didn't. I never went to her. I didn't go to any of them."
You stared at him, your mind struggling to process the non-sequitur. This was what he wanted to talk about? After days of giving you the cold shoulder, after shoving you in the dirt and walking away without a word, he was leading with a correction about his love life?
"Okay?" you said, your voice dripping with annoyance. "Why are you telling me this? You can kiss whoever you want, Neteyam. You don't need permission from me."
"I know that," he said quickly, his ears flicking back nervously. "But I wanted you to know. I lied to you the other night. When I said it was fine. It wasn't fine because it didn't happen."
You rolled your eyes, turning away to stare back at the sunset. "Great. Good for you. You wasted a week of my life being moody because you lied about a girl. Can we move on now?"
"No, listen," he insisted, his voice rising slightly with a thread of panic. "I lied because I couldn't do it. I couldn't go to them."
"Why not?" you snapped, turning back to glare at him. "Too good for them? Only the best for the future Olo’eyktan? Why did you even take my advice anyway?"
"Because it wasn't them," he blurted out, the words rushing out of him like water breaking through a dam. "It was supposed to be you."
The air left your lungs in a rush. You stared at him, your mouth slightly open, your brain screeching to a halt. "What?"
Neteyam looked like he was about to be sick. His face was flushed a deep, dark indigo, and he wouldn't look you in the eye. "That day. At Ayram alusìng. When I asked you who I could practice with... I wasn't asking you to set me up."
You felt your heart begin to hammer against your ribs, a slow, heavy thud that echoed in your ears. "I... what do you mean?"
"I meant..." He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "I wanted it to be you. I was trying to work up the nerve to ask you to teach me. But I got scared. I thought it would mess everything up. So I lied."
You stared at him, your mind reeling. You felt shocked, confused, and strangely, terrifyingly flustered. The idea of Neteyam—your best friend—wanting to practice with you seemed absurd, impossible. And yet, the way he was sitting there, vibrating with tension, made it feel terrifyingly real.
"Say it again," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut. "I want you to teach me. I want to practice with you. Please."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your brain was short-circuiting. You were just sitting there, frozen, while the implications of his request washed over you in waves.
Neteyam took your silence as rejection. His shoulders slumped, defeated. "It's okay," he murmured, starting to stand up. "I shouldn't have asked. It was stupid. I'll never ask—"
"Okay."
The word escaped you before you could think better of it, a sharp, breathless sound that stopped him in his tracks. He froze, looking back at you with wide eyes.
You swallowed hard, your face burning. "Yes. Okay. I'll... I'll help you."
Neteyam sat back down, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movements might scare you off. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw the raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you managed, your heart hammering so hard you felt light-headed. "But... I don't really know how either. I haven't... I mean, I haven't done this either."
He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, relieved and anxious all at once. "Okay. That's... that's good. We can figure it out."
The silence that followed was different. It was heavy, but not with tension this time. It was heavy with anticipation. You could feel the heat radiating off him from where you sat.
You moved closer, the rough wood of the platform scraping under your legs. You reached out, resting your hand tentatively on his knee. He jumped slightly at the contact, then leaned into your touch.
"Are you nervous?" you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice despite the hammering of your own heart.
"Terrified," he admitted, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "I feel like I'm going to mess it up."
"You won't," you said. "Just... come here."
The proximity was dizzying. You could see the flecks of lighter gold in his eyes, the way his breath hitched slightly when you leaned in. He stared at your mouth, then up at your eyes, then down at your hands, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.
"So," he whispered, his voice cracking on the single syllable. "We just...?"
"I think so," you murmured, your heart hammering. "Just... lean in."
He leaned in, but the angle was wrong. He hesitated, his eyes wide and searching, and when he finally moved, his forehead collided with yours in a dull thud.
You both flinched, letting out startled hisses of pain.
"Ow," you laughed, rubbing your forehead. "Watch the target, Neteyam."
"Sorry," he breathed, letting out a nervous chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze. "I’m... I'm really clueless.”
"It's fine," you said, dropping your hand from your forehead to rest on his knee. "Just try again. Slower."
He took a deep breath, exhaling it shakily against your cheek. This time, when he leaned in, he didn't rush. He moved with agonizing slowness, giving you plenty of time to pull away. You didn't. You held your ground, your eyes fluttering shut as his face filled your vision.
When his lips finally touched yours, it was... underwhelming.
It was just a press of skin against skin. He didn't move, just held his mouth there, frozen, like he was waiting for something to happen. You felt the puff of his breath against your upper lip, heard the loud, rushing sound of his own breathing, but there was no spark.
He pulled back an inch, his nose brushing your cheek. "Like that?"
"Um," you opened your eyes, blinking rapidly. "I think... maybe you need to move them? A little?"
"Oh. Right. Movement."
He leaned in again. This time, his lips parted slightly, and he pressed them against yours firmly. He moved his head, a jerky, experimental tilt to the side, and the friction increased. It felt clumsy—too much teeth, too much pressure, like he was trying to eat rather than kiss.
You tried to follow his lead, but it was impossible to find a rhythm. You felt awkward, self-conscious, and strangely tall. Your nose kept bumping into his cheekbone, and your hands were hovering awkwardly in the air, unsure where to land.
Neteyam seemed to sense the discord. He let out a frustrated huff against your mouth and pulled back, his brow furrowed. "This feels wrong. I feel like I'm attacking you."
"You're not attacking me," you reassured him, though your lips felt a little raw. "We're just... figuring it out. Here, let me..."
You scooted closer, closing the gap between your legs. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands to steady him. His skin was hot, burning under your palms. "Stop thinking about technique. Just... relax."
"Okay," he whispered, his eyes on yours. "Relax. Okay."
You leaned in this time, guiding him. You slanted your lips over his, softer than before, and kissed him with intent. You felt his breath hitch, a sharp intake of air through his nose, and then, finally, he softened.
He stopped fighting the logic of it and just let it happen.
The shift was instantaneous.
Whatever awkwardness had held him back vanished the moment he committed. His lips, which had been stiff and unsure, suddenly moved with terrifying precision. He stopped the jerky, uncertain motions and instead copied the exact pressure you were using, then—maddeningly—doubled it.
He tilted his head, aligning your mouths perfectly to avoid the awkward nose-bumping, and deepened the kiss. It wasn't clumsy anymore; it was intentional. He was watching your reactions, cataloging every gasp and shiver, and using it against you.
"Oh," you breathed, barely breaking the contact, surprised by the sudden competence. "That's... that's better."
"Yeah?" he murmured against your mouth, his voice dropping an octave, sounding suddenly much more confident.
His hands, which had been hovering awkwardly, suddenly found your waist with a surety that made your knees weak. He pulled you forward, eliminating the last inch of space, and kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
It became wet, fast. You didn't know who opened their mouth first, but suddenly the seal between your lips broke, and his tongue was sweeping into yours. It wasn't hesitant now. He explored your mouth with a slow, thorough intensity that made your head spin.
Neteyam groaned, a sound you felt vibrate through your chest, low and possessive. His hands abandoned your waist to slide up your back, pressing you closer until your chest was flush against his. You could feel his heartbeat, thudding rapidly against your own—or maybe that was yours.
He was a terrifyingly fast learner. Within seconds, he went from an unsure novice to the most overwhelming experience of your life. He nipped gently at your lower lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and when you gasped, he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, angling his head to change the sensation.
"Neteyam," you gasped, pulling back for a split second to breathe, your eyes fluttering open to find him already looking at you.
His eyes were dark, blown wide with arousal, but his gaze was sharp, focused.
"Too much?" he asked, his voice rough and breathless.
"No," you whined, embarrassed by how needy you sounded. "Just... don't stop."
He smirked—a real, cocky smirk that was so purely Neteyam it made your stomach flip. "As you wish."
He leaned back in, capturing your lips again, and this time, his hands were bolder. They slid down to your hips, gripping you firmly, and before you could process the movement, he tugged you.
You gasped as you lost your balance, your legs swinging over his hips until you were straddling his lap. The new position changed everything. You settled onto him, and the friction was immediate and overwhelming.
Neteyam froze for a split second, a strangled sound catching in his throat as he realized exactly where you were sitting. But then his instincts took over.
His hands gripped your ass, pulling you flush against him, and he rolled his hips up into yours. The movement was devastatingly controlled.
You cried out into his mouth, your head falling back as pleasure shot through you. He was hard—you could feel the distinct outline of him pressing against you through the loincloth—but he didn't grind frantically like you might have expected. He moved with a slow rhythm, dragging you against him to maximize the friction.
The kiss became sloppy, open-mouthed and breathless. You were panting into each other's mouths, saliva mixing, the wet, slick sounds of your lips echoing obscenely in the quiet night air.
"Feels good," he slurred against your jaw, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down the line of your throat, sucking on the sensitive skin where your pulse raced. "So good... you taste so good."
"Yeah—fuck, how are you so good?" you whined, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips rolling of their own accord, meeting his thrusts. "Don't stop."
You were grinding against him with abandon now, chasing a feeling you didn't quite understand but desperately needed. He was guiding your movements, his large hands spanning your waist, setting a pace that was driving you both out of your minds. You felt his tail wrap around your thigh, squeezing tight, anchoring you to him.
It was lewd. It was intense. And Neteyam, the boy who had been trembling with nerves five minutes ago, was now kissing you like he had invented the act.
You felt the tension in your belly coil tighter and tighter, a winding spring of pleasure that was becoming too much to handle. You were getting lost in it, lost in the heat of his mouth and the strength of his hands.
And then—reality crashed in.
Maybe it was the drag of his fangs against your skin a little too hard, or the realization of exactly what you were dry-humping on a platform fifty feet in the air, but suddenly the haze cleared. You felt the blatant, rock-hard outline of him beneath you, and felt your own desperate movements, lewd and unmistakable.
You froze.
Neteyam froze a second later, his breath hitching in his throat. He seemed to realize the position you were in—you on his lap, his hands gripping your ass, your bodies locked together in a rhythm that had nothing to do with kissing and everything to do with mating.
Slowly, agonizingly, you pulled back.
The air between you was frigid compared to the heat of a moment ago. Your lips were swollen, your chest heaving, and you could see the dark flush of arousal staining Neteyam's neck and chest. He looked wrecked.
You scrambled off his lap, your movements clumsy and ungraceful. You practically threw yourself backward, putting as much distance between you as possible. You ended up near the edge of the platform, crossing your legs tightly, your face burning so hot you thought you might spontaneously combust.
Neteyam didn't move. He stayed where he was, his hands resting on his thighs, staring at the wood where you had just been sitting. He looked stunned.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You hugged your knees to your chest, trying to hide your trembling, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole. You had just dry-humped your best friend. What was wrong with you?
Finally, Neteyam let out a shaky breath. He ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. He didn't look at you.
"That was..." he started, his voice rough and hoarse. "That was nice."
You stared at him, your eyes wide. "Nice?"
He glanced at you then, a sheepish, crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. Nice. Really... really nice."
You let out a nervous laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a fraction. "Yeah. It was... okay. I mean, for a first try."
He leaned back against the tree, looking up at the stars, though you could see his ears were still pinned back with embarrassment. "I think we're going to need a lot more practice."
"Maybe," you said, your heart still racing, your body thrumming with leftover energy. "If you can handle it."
♬ synopsis : thrown under stalker threats, you're forced to live every second under the eye of jay—a cold bodyguard you absolutely can't stand. but as his vigilance cuts through the chaotic noise of your world, the boundaries between you begin to dangerously blur.
♬ wc : 26.1k
warnings (MINORS DNI) : stalker, threats, eventual smut. unprotected sex, tit play, fingering, oral (f receiving), pet names (baby, beautiful, good girl, jay calls reader naughty girl just once)
♬ author's note : finally done with this ficcc smh. i was so unsure whether i should publish it or not, but it would've been such a waste if i didn't. so i hope you guys enjoy this fic that i nearly scrapped :/
the transition from "goddess" to human always happened in the dark.
one second, you were standing at the center of the stage, bathed in a blinding spotlight. ten thousand lightsticks pulsed in perfect synchronization to the fading beat of your final song. the screams of the crowd were a physical force, vibrating through your boots. with a practiced yet breathtaking smile, you blew a kiss to the crowd, the camera catching the reflection of the stage lights in your eyes.
"thank you! i love you, seoul!"
but the moment you stepped behind the heavy velvet curtain of the wings, the smile vanished. the stage lights were replaced by the buzzing atmosphere of the backstage corridors. the adoring screams faded into the chaotic chatter of staff, coordinators, and dancers rushing past you.
reaching your private dressing room, you let out a breath you felt like you'd been holding for hours, slamming the heavy door shut behind you to block out the noise.
you walked over to the vanity, staring at your reflection in the mirror bordered by bright bulbs. your makeup was flawless, your hair perfect, but the eyes staring back looked frayed at the edges.
"yn."
you jumped, your hand flying to your chest. in the corner of the room stood hayoon, your head manager. normally, hayoon was a whirlwind of energy, loudly organizing schedules or humming along to your tracks. right now, she was dead silent, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone.
"hayoon," you breathed, trying to laugh it off. "you scared me. what are you doing— why are you lurking in the dark?"
when she didn't answer and looked down to lock her gaze on the screen of her phone, your smile faltered. the cold drop of dread, a feeling that had become all too familiar over the last three months, pooled in the pit of your stomach. "what is it? did another post go viral? did someone make another fake rumor?"
"no," hayoon whispered. she then looked up, and the anxiety in her eyes made your breath hitch. "it's... it's not an online rumor." before she could stop you, you crossed the room and snatched the phone straight out of her hand.
"yn, wait, don't look—"
your eyes stared at the screen. it was an anonymous direct message sent to hayoon's personal business account. attached to it was a photo that made your heart stop.
the image was taken from a security camera perspective—or rather, someone hiding in a corner. it showed the interior of the elevator in your highly secure apartment building. in the photo, your own back was turned, wearing the exact hoodie you had worn yesterday morning when leaving for rehearsals.
you looked so tired yesterday. the elevator smells like your perfume. come home tonight. don't keep me waiting.
the phone slipped slightly in your trembling fingers. the security gates, the keypad locks, and the heavy glass doors of your premium complex had failed.
they knew exactly where you slept. they had been standing right behind you.
"we've already called the police, and the building security is reviewing the footage," she said frantically, grabbing your cold hands. "but yn... mr. han just called. he wants you in his office. now."
later, when the heavy, frosted-glass doors of the office slid open, the silence that greeted you was heavy. han, your ceo, had his tie loosened, jacket draped messily over a chair, and he was pacing the length of his office. on his marble desk laid scattered security reports and a tablet displaying the very photo you had just seen on hayoon's phone.
"yn," he called, stopping his pacing the moment you stepped into the room. his voice lacked its usual calmness. "sit."
you chose to remain standing. you crossed your arms tightly over your chest, trying to anchor yourself. "i'm fine," you lied, forcing your voice to remain steady. "the elevator photo... yes, it's creepy. but we can handle this thing quietly, right? we can change my keypad lock. i'll get a dual-authentication system. we can hire a private security form to patrol the lobby of my building. there's no need to make a scene or alert the press."
you desperately wanted to downplay it. in your world, a loss of control was fatal. if the media caught wind of a serious security breach, your upcoming comeback would be delayed, your sponsors would panic, and your fragile grasp on a normal life would slip away entirely.
han let out a humorless laugh, rubbing his temples. "do you think a new keypad lock is going to stop this person, yn? you think this is just a fan who got lucky?"
"they didn't just take a photo," he spoke when you tried to intrude, voice dropping into a harsh whisper. he walked over to his desk, picked up a clear evidence bag, and held it up. your breath caught in your throat. inside the plastic bag was a delicate, silver charm bracelet—one you had noticed missing from your jewelry box three days ago.
"our team found this on your doormat twenty minutes ago," he said, eyes drilling into yours. "they didn't just see you enter the elevator. they have been inside your apartment. they could have watched you sleep. they took your things, and they left this as a reminder that they can touch you whenever they want."
the room seemed to tilt. the air left your lungs, and a cold, sickening wave of nausea washed over you. the only place on earth where you could drop the idol mask had been violated.
"this is no longer a matter of image or anything," han continued, placing the bag on the desk with a heavy thud. "this is a matter of survival. i cannot, and will not, let anything happen. which is why i took matters in my own hands."
you swallowed hard, your throat dry. "what do you mean?"
"i've hired a private, full-time bodyguard for you. he is highly trained, elite, and committed. from this moment on, he will be with you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. he goes where you go. he sleeps in your guest room. he will protect you."
anger, sharp and defensive, flared up through your fear. the thought of a stranger invading the tiny sliver of privacy you had made you feel utterly suffocated. "no," you shook your head. "no, please. a stranger living in my apartment? i'll feel like a prisoner. i can't live like that. i don't need a babysitter."
"i'm not asking for your permission, yn," he answered coldly before pressing the button to his desk intercom. "bring him in."
the heavy doors behind you clicked open, swinging inward with a slow gravity. you spun around, breath catching as a tall silhouette stepped into the room.
describe him how you wanted, but he was undeniably imposing. he wore a crisp, tailored black suit that looked like armor on his broad shoulders, hugging a powerful frame built for violence. a dark silk tie was knotted perfectly at his collar, and his hands were loosely clasped in front of him.
but it was his face that made you freeze. striking features were cast in an expression of stone, dark eyes swept the room—not with the wide-eyed awe of a fan, but with the cold precision of someone scanning for threats. his gaze passed over the furniture, paused briefly on the bag on the desk, and finally landed on you. there was no flicker of excitement. no recognition of the worldwide-famous idol standing in front of him.
"yn, this is jongseong. you can call him jay," han introduced from behind you, his voice returning to a position of authority. "former elite special forces, top of his class in private intelligence security. i paid quite a grand amount of money to break his contract with a foreign embassy to bring him here, so i hope you respect him."
jay took two steps forward, polished dress shoes echoing softly against the marble floor. he stopped exactly three steps away from you, close enough for you to feel the aura radiating off him, but far enough to respect boundaries.
he bent at the waist, executing a perfectly angled bow. "it's an honor to meet you, yn-ssi."
you stared at him, chest heaving slightly. up close, you could see a faint, jagged scar cutting just below his left jawline, disappearing into his collar. he looked lethal and, worst of all, he looked like a reminder that your freedom was gone.
"he will accompany you back to your apartment tonight," han continued, ignoring the fury radiating off your posture. "his bags are already in the car. jay, she's all yours. keep her safe."
jay straightened up, dark eyes looking back onto yours. "understood, han-nim," he replied quietly.
you clamped your jaw shut, a toxic mix of terror, violation, and burning resentment swirling in your gut. without a word, you spun on your heel and marched out of the office, desperately trying to outrun the shadow that you knew was already following right behind you.
the heels of your boots clicked sharply against the concrete of the private garage. you kept your strides long and fast, hayoon scurrying to keep up on your left, her head buried in a tablet as she quietly arranged a route back to your apartment.
but no matter how fast you walked, you could hear the heavy rhythm of another set of footsteps behind you. you didn't need to look back to know jay was there. you could practically feel the weight of his gaze, a pressure between your shoulder blades.
just as you reached the sleek black van waiting in the vip bay, you stopped dead in your tracks. hayoon nearly stumbled, blinking up at you. "yn? is everything—"
you didn't look at her. instead, you spun around and faced the man. jay stopped instantly, looking down at you with that same infuriating, unreadable expression.
"look, jay— or whatever your name is," you snapped, crossing your arms tightly. you injected every ounce of the persona you used to fend off overly aggressive executives into your voice. "i don't care how much money my ceo paid, or what kind of elite background you have. i value my privacy and my space. having a stranger breathe down my neck at all times is going to drive me insane."
from the corner of your eye, you saw hayoon go pale, silently waving her hands for you to stop, but you ignored her. you stepped closer to him, tilting your chin up to look him dead in the eye.
"i don't need a fucking babysitter," you whispered, voice trembling slightly with a mix of fury and exhaustion as tears started to swell in your eyes. "so here are the rules. you stay ten steps back at all times. you don't speak unless spoken to. and when we are in my apartment, you pretend i don't exist. got it?"
the silence that followed was suffocating. the hum of the garage's ventilation system felt incredibly loud. jay didn't flinch. he didn't get defensive, nor did he apologize. he just stared down at you, his dark eyes absorbing your outburst calmly. for a second, you wondered if he was even human.
then, he leaned forward just an inch, enough to let you know he wasn't intimidated by your stardom. "my job isn't to babysit you, yn-ssi," he said quietly. "it's to keep you alive."
before you could process his words, he stepped past you. he reached out and opened the heavy sliding door of the van, shielding the top of the frame with his large hand so you wouldn't bump your head.
he gestured inside, "please get in, yn-ssi. we are exposed out here."
your jaw tightened, a sudden lump forming in your throat. the anger was gone, replaced by a sobering reality. without a word, you climbed into the back of the dark van, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life.
the crushing weight followed you all the way home, morphing into a heavy awkwardness the moment the door of your apartment clicked shut behind the two of you.
your apartment had always been your sanctuary. it was a private world where you could shed your idol image and simply breathe without a camera tracking your every movement. but the moment jay crossed the threshold, the air in the area shifted. suddenly, that sanctuary of yours felt like a cage.
in the weeks that followed, you learned that living with a bodyguard was less like having a roommate and more like being haunted by a highly disciplined ghost. jay was a lethal presence, yet he managed to move with a terrifying lack of noise.
you quickly became aware of the changes in your environment. the most jarring was the entryway. every morning, when you stumbled out of your bedroom, your eyes would dart to the genkan. there, positioned next to your chaotic pile of sneakers, sat a single pair of polished black dress shoes.
jay occupied the guest room at the end of the hall, but he barely seemed to leave a footprint. he never touched your things, never stayed in the living room, and never cooked. yet, his presence was absolute.
you would wake up at five am for an early broadcast, creeping out into the dark hallway in your oversized sweatpants and messy hair, only to freeze. there he would be, already standing by the kitchen island. he was always dressed in a sharp black suit, tie knotted perfectly, looking as if he hadn't spent the night sleeping but rather standing on standby.
and because his quiet invasion of your apartment rattled you so deeply, you decided to fight back the only way you knew how.
by freezing him out completely.
if you had to endure him at home, you were going to make sure he got nothing from you on the job. you erected a towering wall of silence, treating him less like a human being and more like a piece of security equipment you had been forced to carry around.
over the next few weeks, your daily interactions devolved into a routine of short rejections.
when the van picked you both up in the early hours of the morning, jay would sit up straight in the front passenger seat. he would look at you reflection in the rearview mirror, deep voice slicing through the quiet cabin. "is the temperature okay, yn-ssi?"
you wouldn't even look up from your phone. "it's fine."
during a chaotic music show promotion, while the room hummed with the frantic energy of stylists, jay stood like a statue by the door. when a loud burst of laughter echoed from the hallway, he would subtly shift his weight, his eyes darting to the entrance before turning to you. "are you expecting any guests today?"
you would lazily flip the page of your magazine, voice dripping with indifference. "nope."
even at the end of a grueling, fourteen-hour day, when the back exit of a recording studio was swarming with a sudden crowd of fans, he would hold the heavy door open by a crack, assessing the perimeter. "do you want to take the lower parking level to avoid the crowd, yn-ssi?"
you would pull your cap down over your eyes, stepping right past him without a glance. "whatever."
you kept waiting for the icy routine to break him. you kept waiting for his mask to slip, for a flicker of annoyance to cross those eyes, or for him to finally snap and complain about your attitude. you wanted him to show a weakness, a shred of frustration that proved you were getting under his skin.
but it never happened.
realizing your silence couldn't break him only fueled a stubborn and childish desperation to try another tactic. if you couldn't freeze him out, you would outrun him. you needed to prove, if only to yourself, that you still owned your life. you needed to find a single crack in his perfect appearance.
thus began a stealthy game of cat and mouse across the venues of seoul.
the first real attempt happened during a wardrobe fitting for an upcoming awards show. the styling room was a claustrophobic maze of clothing racks, rolling mirrors, and frantic designers. jay, respecting your privacy, stood guard just outside the main door. spotting a narrow exit in the back, you gave your head stylist a quick smile. "i need a second to get something. don't let anyone in."
before she could question you, you slipped through the exit, slipping into a dim hallway. your heart hammered against your ribs, a thrill of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins as you turned a corner, then another, convinced you had finally bought yourself five minutes of unmonitored freedom.
you took a sharp left toward the main lobby only to freeze. there, standing quietly beside a row of vending machines at the end of the hall, was jay.
he was simply standing at ease, calmly adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. as your boots clicked to a halt, his dark eyes lifted to meet yours. he simply executed a brief nod and stepped smoothly into stride behind you.
you tried again a week later at a broadcast station during a live music special. the corridors were a nightmare, flooded with dozens of backup dancers, staff pushing heavy equipment cases, and massive idol groups rushing to and from the stage. taking advantage of a sudden wave of a twelve-member boy group passing between you and jay, you veered sharply down a corridor, blending into the sea of stage outfits.
you darted down a flight of stairs, ducking into a quiet room on the lower level. breathless, you let out a laugh, leaning your back against the closed doors.
you had done it. you had actually lost him.
turning around to look for a bottle of water, your voice caught in your throat. jay was already inside the room. he was standing by the emergency exit door on the opposite wall, hands loosely clasped in front of him. he looked up from his watch, his face a flawless mask.
"the blueprints for these older broadcast stations are confusing, yn-ssi," he said, deep voice completely level, as if he were merely discussing the weather. "but the emergency stairwells all lead to this corridor. please let me know if you require a change of scenery next time, so i can sweep the room beforehand."
you realized with a sinking dread that you weren't dealing with some babysitter. it hung heavily in the air, enduring through the grueling weeks of promotional schedules and bleeding right into the suffocating confinement of a thirteen-hour flight.
you sat in the plush business class cabin, staring blankly out the window at the blanket of clouds. you had your armor on—the black hat pulled low, a white medical mask covering half your face, and dark glasses hiding your bloodshot eyes. it was the standard idol uniform for survival.
across the aisle, jay sat in perfect posture. while you had spent the flight tossing and turning, he had remained alert, eyes fixed on the flight tracker screen or subtly scanning the cabin whenever a flight attendant walked past. you were still determined to ignore him, keeping your face turned toward the window.
hayoon hurried up from the economy class section the moment the seatbelt sign clicked off after landing, her face tight with worry as she bent down to whisper in your ear.
"yn, i just got a text from the ground team," she said, voice trembling slightly. "your flight information was leaked a few hours ago. the arrival lobby is... it's bad. there are hundreds of fans and fansites already blocking the gates. the airport police are trying to deploy extra security, but it's completely gridlocked."
a familiar spike of anxiety pierced through your chest. you closed your eyes, taking a slow breath. just another arrival, you lied to yourself. just walk fast and keep your head down.
you stood up, adjusting your hat. as you stepped into the aisle, jay moved instantly, his massive frame shifting to block the path ahead of you, creating a small pocket of space. he didn't look at you, keeping his eyes trained on the exit doors of the aircraft.
"always stay right behind me, yn-ssi," he commanded quietly. "do not stop walking for any reason. no matter what happens, keep moving."
the walk through the terminal felt like marching into a pressure cooker. even from a distance, the echo of chanting and cheering bounced off the ceilings, growing louder and more overwhelming with every step you took.
the moment the automatic doors of the arrival lobby slid open, the volume of the crowd hit you.
it wasn't a violent riot, but the density of the crowd was staggering. a sea of fans, casual onlookers, and paparazzi stood packed behind the ropes, a wall of phones and cameras instantly raising into the air. the blinding white strobe lights of flashlights exploded across your vision, turning the path ahead into a dizzying blur.
"yn! look over here!"
"just one glance, please, yn!"
you ducked your head, keeping your eyes locked on the floor, trying to match jay's steady pace. flanked by hayoon and your other manager, you tried to maintain the facade, but the space was rapidly shrinking.
and suddenly, the crowd spilled into you.
a wave of bodies closed the gap, and the momentum instantly separated you from your team. hayoon was cut off, pinned behind a group of fans trying to hand you gifts, while your other manager was pushed several steps ahead, desperately trying to clear a path that was closing up just as fast.
within seconds, you were completely trapped, your breath catching as the lights and voices began to blur into an inescapable drone.
before the panic could fully drag you under, the flashing lights vanished. a massive frame violently cut through the sea of bodies, blocking out the glare of the cameras. the sudden scent of cedar and rain enveloped your senses as jay stepped directly into the eye of the storm.
he didn't hesitate. he didn't ask for permission.
with unyielding authority, he wrapped a protective arm around your shoulders. his hand, large and remarkably warm, gently but firmly pressed against the back of your head, tucking your face securely against his chest. he used his entire upper body to create a physical canopy over you, shielding you from the intrusive lenses and reaching hands.
"step back. move away, please," jay's voice boomed. it wasn't a shout, but the force of his tone made the fans nearest to you instinctively shrink back.
he became an immovable barrier. you could feel his frame take the rough jostling of the crowd as he began to move. his muscles braced against the weight of people pushing forward, yet his steps never faltered.
pressed against him, your ears were filled with the steady thud of his heartbeat. you clutched the fabric of his suit jacket with white knuckles, letting him bear your weight as he carried you through the press of the crowd.
jay didn't slacken his grip for a second, moving you with him until the door of the van appeared in your blurred vision. he guided you inside, his large hand protecting your head from the frame, and dove in right behind you.
the sound of the door sealing shut brought an immediate silence. the tinted windows instantly cut off the flashing lights, reducing the swarming mob outside to muffled noise as the driver slammed on the gas and the van surged into the open street.
you were finally safe.
but your body hadn't received the memo. you sat curled up in the corner of the plush leather seat, your chest heaving as you tried to draw in enough air. you wrapped your arms tightly around your torso, trying to force your body to stop shaking, staring blindly at the floor mat as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.
a soft rustle broke the quiet of the car. a heavy yet warm weight settled over your trembling shoulders. you blinked, realizing jay had shed his suit jacket and draped it over you.
a moment later, a cool bottle of water appeared in your line of sight. "drink," he ordered.
you raised your head slowly. he was kneeling slightly on the floor of a moving van to bring himself down to your eye level. his eyes, usually so cold, were searching your face with a quiet intensity. his hands were steady as he loosened the cap of the bottle for you, but you noticed the slight tension in his jaw.
you reached out, hand shaking so badly your fingers brushed against his warm knuckles as you took the water.
he leaned in just a fraction closer. "i've got you. you're safe now, alright?"
you stared at him, the bottle pressed against your palms. looking into his eyes, you felt a sudden, strange warmth bloom beneath the terror. the icy wall you had built so carefully around your heart started to shatter.
the fracture only widened during the silent ride back to the complex, and it dismantled your thoughts once you were finally behind closed doors.
the entire evening passed in a blur. as you stood under the streaming water of your shower, washing away the dirty feeling, your mind refused to reset. every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see the flashing cameras or the surging crowd.
you felt the weight of his arm around your shoulders. you heard the deep cadence of his heartbeat against your ears.
even later, as you padded around the kitchen in your softest oversized pajamas, the apartment felt entirely different. you found yourself glancing toward the hallway leading to the guest room. for weeks, his presence had felt like a suffocating invasion. but tonight, it felt like an anchor.
by midnight, the apartment was completely dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the seoul skyline filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. the silence was deafening, and the leftover adrenaline kept sleep out of reach. you needed to do it. you needed to clear the air.
taking a slow breath, you stepped out of your bedroom and walked down the long hallway.
stopping right outside the guest room door, your hand curled into the fabric of your sleeves. suddenly a wave of intense nervousness washed over you. what am i even doing? you through, your mind spiraling into a mess. it's midnight. he's off the clock. am i being weird? he was just doing his job. he's paid to do this.
you raised your hand, your knuckle hovering a mere inch away from the dark wood, debating whether to just turn around and sprint back to your room.
before you could make a choice, the door suddenly clicked and swung open. you gasped softly, taking a step back.
jay stood in the doorway. and for the first time since you had met him, the armored monument was gone. he wasn't wearing the sharp black suit or the tie. instead, he was in a simple, loose-fitting black t-shirt and dark gray sweatpants. his dark hair, normally seen styled back, fell softly over his forehead, brushing against his eyebrows. the casual look softened the sharp angles of his face, making him look dangerously human.
he froze for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes widening slightly as they swept over your pajama-clad frame, before his professional mask quickly slipped back into place.
"yn-ssi," he said, his deep voice carrying a raspy edge from the late hour. he instantly stepped to the side, adjusting his posture out of habit. "is everything alright? did security report a breach?"
"no," you denied quickly. "no, nothing's wrong. i'm fine."
jay blinked, his gaze softening just a fraction as he looked down at you. "then... do you need anything? i can get you some water or check around the building if you're having trouble sleeping."
"i don't need you to check on anything, jay," you breathed, a genuine smile finally breaking through your nerves. you took a half-step closer, looking up into his eyes. "i just... i came to say thank you for today. at the airport."
he went entirely still, chest rising and falling with a slow breath. he bowed his head slightly, the movement formal despite the casual clothing he had on. "there's no need to thank me, yn-ssi. i was simply executing my duty. keeping you out of harm's way is my job."
hearing that rigid response made something twist in your chest. "stop doing that," you murmured, tilting your head.
he paused, brows furrowing slightly. "doing what, yn-ssi?"
"that," you pointed out, gesturing vaguely to him. "calling me 'yn-ssi' and the whole stiff bodyguard thing. we live together, jay. you just dragged me out of a crazy crowd today. i think we're past honorifics."
he shifted his weight. "well, your ceo's protocols dictated that i maintain a professional boundary—"
"i don't care about his protocols," you interrupted gently. "when it's just us, call me yn."
the hallway fell into a thick silence. jay stared down at you, jaw tightening slightly as if he were physically fighting against years of training. the casual drape of his t-shirt shifted as he let his arms drop to his sides, the distance between you feeling small in the dark. he swallowed, vocal cords clicking in the quiet. "alright," he mumbled, the mask slipping just enough for you to see the warmth hidden underneath. "yn."
the way your name rolled off his tongue sent a fluttering warmth straight to your chest. it sounded completely different without the corporate weight attached to it—softer, heavier, and too intimate.
"and... one more thing," you added, voice dropping into a quiet murmur. you looked down at your hands, fingers relentlessly tugging at the edge of your sleeve. the stubborn pride that had sustained you for weeks was gone, leaving you exposed. "i'm sorry."
jay didn't answer. he waited, his attention anchored on you.
"for these past few weeks," you confessed, forcing yourself to look back up and meet his eyes. "i was awful to you. when i called you off on your first day, the cold answers, trying to get away from you... i was treating you like the enemy when you were just trying to do your job. it was really childish. i'm sorry."
for a second, you thought you saw the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. it was a look so devastatingly handsome on his usually stone-faced expression that it caught you off guard. "you don't need to apologize," he said softly. he leaned his shoulder lightly against the doorframe, a gesture so casual it made your heart skip a beat. "i knew what i was signing up for. and for what it's worth... your escape attempts weren't entirely terrible. you actually almost had me at the broadcast station."
a laugh escaped your lips, the last remnants of the day's tension finally disappearing. "almost?"
"almost," he repeated, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. then, his expression grew serious again, the gaze holding yours. "i know this is a lot. having your life upended, having me in your space. i don't expect you to like it... or like me. but you never have to apologize for being stressed, yn."
hearing him use your name again, so naturally this time, made your chest flutter in the best way possible.
you nodded, taking a reluctant step back down the hallway. "goodnight, jay," you whispered.
"goodnight," he replied, his deep voice wrapping around you like a blanket. he stayed standing in the doorway, watching over you with that same protective aura, but the cold look was gone.
as you turned and walked back to your bedroom, the apartment didn't feel like a cage anymore. and as you finally climbed into bed, pulling the sheets up to your chin, you realized you weren't afraid of the intrusion anymore.
when your alarm blared at six am, the lingering peace from the night before was instantly put to the test.
your mind instinctively braced for the uncomfortable dance of avoiding the stranger living in your guest room. but as you padded down the hallway while rubbing your eyes, the tight knot in you stomach didn't tighten. if anything, it loosened.
the kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through the windows.
jay was already there, standing by the island. he was back in his work uniform, looking as neat as ever. but the tension that usually radiated off him was noticeably absent. his shoulders were relaxed, and his posture, while still authoritative, lacked the edge of the previous weeks. as your slippers scuffed against the hardwood floor, he turned his head. "good morning, yn."
the name left his lips smoothly, without a trace of hesitation, as if he had been practicing it. "morning, jay," you murmured, stepping fully into the kitchen.
usually, this was the exact moment you would snatch a glass of water, keep your head down, and go straight back to your bedroom until it was time to leave for the car. instead, you walked right up to the kitchen island and pulled out one of the barstools, sitting down with a small sigh.
jay paused, eyes tracking your movement with subtle surprise. "did you manage to sleep?" he asked, pushing a mug across the surface toward you. an aromatic steam of chamomile and honey rose to your nostrils.
"a little," you admitted. wrapping your hands around the warm glass. "better than usual, actually." you took a slow sip, looking at him over the rim. "you?"
"i don't need much sleep," he replied. "used to it by now."
"right. super bodyguard powers," you teased lightly, testing the waters. a twitch tugged at the corner of his lips. it wasn't a full smile, but it was enough to soften his sharp features. "something like that."
you took another sip of the tea, leaning your forearms on the marble counter. "honestly, jay... how do you do it? you spent weeks standing around like a statue, never touching my food, never even using the couch. do you just turn off like a robot when i go to sleep?"
he let out a low breath. it was a sound so close to a chuckle it made your heart do a backflip. "old military habits," he responded simply with a small shrug. "back then, staying on guard was normal. when i took this job, they told me to stay out of your way and do my work quietly. so... i tried to stay out of your hair."
"well, you kind of failed," you rested your chin and looked at him with a smirk. "you were way too scary to ignore. i honestly thought you were some secret agent sent to judge my messy life."
jay glanced down at the counter where your abandoned mug, an old snack wrapper, and stray lyric pages that laid scattered, then back up at you. "i did notice the lyric sheets on the floor," he said dryly. "nobody warned me i'd be protecting someone this messy."
your jaw dropped dramatically. "hey! that's my creative process. bodyguards aren't allowed to judge that."
"i'm not judging, yn," he argued. "i'm just observing."
a comfortable silence settled over the kitchen, the weight now light unlike how it used to be. "anyway... hayoon's picking us up at seven," you brought up. "recordings all day, then a late studio rehearsal."
"i know," he nodded once. "i already checked the traffic, and i talked to the venue manager to make sure we used the back entrance."
you looked at him—really looked—taking in the sharp cut of his suit, the quiet confidence in his eyes, and the effortless way he kept everything running smoothly just to keep you safe. "thanks, jay."
he gave a gentle nod, "anytime."
over the next few days, the quiet truce bled into every corner of your routine, completely changing the air between you whenever you stepped out into public.
by thursday, you were backstage at a major network studio for yet another music show recording.
the prep room was a noisy and cramped disaster. stylists were frantically steaming out outfit options, makeup artists were surrounding you with brushes and hairspray, and your managers were yelling over the noise to coordinate.
in the past, jay would have stood right outside the door or leaned against the far wall in silence. but today, he was inside the room, standing only a few feet from your vanity. his posture was still straight and alert, but he seemed more at ease. when hayoon squeezed past him holding three massive garment bags, jay reached out to take two of them off her hands, hanging them up for her without being asked.
"okay, tilt your head up for lip gloss," your makeup artist instructed, dabbing a soft tint across your lips.
you tilted your chin up, eyes catching jay's reflection in the mirror. he was scanning the room, but the second he noticed you watching him through the glass, his eyes met yours. you offered him a small smile, which he returned with a nod.
"hey, jay," you called out later on over the sound of a hair dryer, turning around in the revolving chair once the artist stepped back. jay shifted his focus entirely to you, taking a small step closer. "yes, yn?"
"hayoon brought way too much food today," you pointed toward the overflowing table near the couch. there were boxes of food, fresh fruit, and iced drinks meant for your team. "grab a sandwich or something. you've been standing there for three hours."
hayoon froze in the middle of checking her ipad, blinking in utter shock as her eyes darted between you and jay. even the stylists in the room went silent. everyone knew how fiercely you had tried to ignore jay for the past weeks, so seeing you casually offer him food was like watching a completely different person.
"i'm on duty, yn," he said softly. "i don't need to eat while watching over the area."
"it's just a sandwich, jay, not a security breach," you teased, leaning back in your chair with a soft laugh. "and the only area you're watching right now is full of clothing and makeup."
hayoon cleared her throat, looking like she had just witnessed a miracle. "uh... yeah, jay, seriously. help yourself. she never shares her sandwiches, so take it before she changes her mind."
a faint smile appeared on his face. he walked over to the table, grabbed a sandwich, and held it up slightly toward you in a toast. "thanks," he said. you smiled back, turning back to the mirror as the hairstylist resumed her work.
by the time the weekend rolled around, you had grown more used to jay. it was four-thirty am on saturday, and the world outside was still pitch black. your schedule for the day was brutal. you had a pre-recording followed by a fan sign event on the other side of the city.
you stumbled out of the apartment lobby, half-asleep, wrapped in a hoodie that felt way too heavy for your exhausted frame. your eyes were burning, your brain felt like a mush, and the thought of putting on a bright persona in less than two hours made you want to crawl straight back into bed.
jay opened the van door for you, holding a hand over the top frame to make sure you didn't bump your head in your zombie-like state.
"morning," you mumbled, climbing into the leather interior and slumping into your usual seat. "morning," he replied, sliding in after you and closing the door.
you closed your eyes, resting your forehead against the cool glass window, waiting for the dreaded morning nausea and caffeine headache to kick in.
"here," a deep voice muttered beside you.
you opened your eyes. jay was reaching toward the cup holder in front of you, placing a tumbler right in your line of sight. you blinked, looking at the cup, then up at jay's face. "what's this?"
"iced vanilla latte," he answered. "with oat milk."
you sat up a little straighter, taking the tumbler into your hands. it felt cool against your palms, but the warmth of the gesture hit you. you took a sip, and your eyes widened slightly. it wasn't too sweet, and you could taste the exact oat milk brand that never messed up your stomach.
"wait..." you glanced at jay, bewildered. "where did you get this? it's four in the morning."
"there's a twenty-four hour place two blocks over" he rested his hands in his lap. "i walked over while you were getting dressed."
"jay, you walked two blocks in the dark just to buy me coffee?" you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. "you know hayoon just grabs whatever's at the studio, right?"
"i know that," jay said. "and last time, you took one sip of it, realized it was regular milk, and set it down for the rest of the day."
you froze, the cup held halfway to your mouth. "you... noticed that?"
"it's my job to notice," he shrugged. but the way his eyes held yours in the dim light of the van said something entirely different.
from the front seat, hayoon turned around, looking back at the two of you with surprised eyes. "wait, jay... she didn't even tell me she stopped drinking regular milk. how did you figure that out?"
"i just paid attention."
a flustered heat bloomed in your cheeks. you took another long sip of the latte just to give your hands something to do, trying to hide the small smile threatening to break across your face. "you really don't miss anything, do you?" you leaned your head back against the seat, feeling a hundred times more awake than you had only minutes ago.
"not when it comes to you," jay replied. the statement was delivered with his usual calm tone, but in the closed space of the moving van, it felt heavy and somewhat intimate.
"well..." you started, tapping on the tumbler with your fingertips. "for the record, it's perfect. thank you, jay."
he glanced over at you, a warm look washing over his face. " it's my pleasure."
the unspoken ease from that day carried you through the rest of the week, but slow progress didn't mean the boundaries had vanished.
it was late thursday evening, and you were stuck in a dance studio at the agency headquarters, running through the choreography for your upcoming comeback for the last three hours. sweat was dripping down your neck, your limbs felt like lead, and your throat was dry.
jay stood in his usual position by the door, framed by the mirrors. he had been standing there silently, his sharp eyes tracking every move, every jump, every stumble.
"alright, let me see it from the chorus again!" your choreographer shouted from the front of the room, clapping his hands sharply. "yn, your feet were kind of off. pick up the pace."
you wiped your damp forehead with the back of your hand, taking a heavy breath. "got it. one more time."
"actually," the choreographer corrected smoothly, looking at his watch, "let's do three more times. we need this clean before tomorrow's camera test."
you swallowed down the lump in your throat, nodding reluctantly. your knees were aching, but this was the job. you fell back into your starting position, waiting for the track to play. suddenly, a commanding voice cut through the speakers.
"she needs a break."
the music cut out instantly. the choreographer blinked, startled, turning around to look at the corner of the room. jay had stepped away from the door, taking a slow pace into the center of the floor. his expression was unreadable, but his shoulders were squared.
"excuse me?" the choreographer asked, a subtle edge entering his voice. "we're in the middle of a session."
"she's been practicing for hours without water," jay pointed out, completely unfazed by the annoyance. he didn't look at the choreographer. his eyes were fixed on you, noting the tremor in your knees. "her form is slipping because of physical exhaustion. pushing further right now increases the risk of an injury. take fifteen minutes."
the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. bodyguards were hired to protect idols from crowds and stalkers. they should never interfere with agency staff, and they certainly didn't dictate schedules.
"jay..." you murmured softly, cheeks burning as every pair of eyes in the room darted between you and him.
the choreographer frowned, opening his mouth to pull rank, but the composure radiating off jay made him pause. jay didn't yell pr raise his voice, but the menace in his posture made it clear he wasn't asking for permission. "fifteen minutes," the choreographer finally muttered, waving a dismissive hand as he picked up his tablet. "everyone take fifteen."
as everyone dispersed to do their own things, jay walked directly over to where you were standing. he reached down, picked up your towel and a fresh water bottle from the cooler, and handed them to you. "drink," he commanded quietly.
you took the water, but instead of opening it, you looked up at him with your brows pulled together. the room was almost empty now, but the air felt heavy with tension.
"jay... you can't do that," you whispered, keeping your voice low so the remaining staff couldn't overhear.
jay paused. "you were about to collapse, yn."
"i know my limits, jay," you said gently, though there was a clear line in your tone. "i appreciate that you're looking out for me. i really do. but that's my choreographer. when you step in like that, it makes me look unprofessional, and it puts you in a bad spot with my management."
jay stared down at you. for a second, his expression revealed a flash of protective frustration. he tightened his jaw, taking a slow breath. "i understand," he looked at the floor. "i overstepped. i apologize."
"you don't have to apologize," you murmured, softening as you noticed the faint tension in his hands. you cracked open the water bottle and took a long sip, giving him a reassuring look. "just remember... we're still at work."
jay give a single nod, stepping back. "understood."
the rest of the rehearsal passed in a blur. jay had remained by the door like an absolute statue, eyes fixed on the room, but he didn't interrupt again. true to your word, you pushed through the remaining routines, though every muscle in your body was screaming for help by the time your choreographer finally called it a night at eleven pm.
around thirty minutes later, the agency building was practically abandoned.
you were sitting on the cold floor of the dance studio, leaning your back against the mirror. your sneakers were kicked off, your hair was tied into a messy ponytail, and you were far too exhausted to move.
a quiet scuff of dress shoes broke the silence as jay walked back into the studio, carrying a small paper bag. he stopped a few feet away from where you were sitting, looking down at you with that familiar gaze. "the van is waiting downstairs whenever you're ready," he added, deep voice carrying a quiet softness that echoed. "no rush."
"give me a few minutes," you groaned softly, tilting your head back against the mirror and closing your eyes. "my legs feel like jelly."
instead of standing guard by the entrance like he usually did, he did something that caught you completely off guard. he unbuttoned his suit jacket, set the paper bag on the floor, and folded his massive frame down, sitting on the floor a few feet away from you.
you opened your eyes, blinking in surprise as you looked over at him. seeing a man in a crisp suit sitting cross-legged on a dance studio floor at midnight was an endearingly absurd sight. "what's in the bag?" you asked, nodding toward the brown paper.
jay reached in and pulled out a bottled honey tea and a small container of sliced fruit. he set them down on the floor between the two of you, right within your reach. "sugar and hydration," he answered simply. "since you didn't eat dinner."
you stared at the bottle, then gazed at his dark eyes. "jay," you mumbled, taking the food he had given. "about earlier... during practice."
"you were right," he interrupted quietly, his voice dropping into a rumbling hum. "i let my personal judgment interfere with your work. it won't happen again."
hearing him say personal judgment made your chest flutter.
"i wasn't mad that you cared," you said softly, looking down at the bottle in your hands before meeting his gaze again. "i was just trying to protect you. my management... they're strict. if they think you're overstepping, they'll surely replace you. and i—" you paused, the words catching in your throat as you realized how much you had come to rely on him. "i don't want another bodyguard, jay."
jay went completely still. his chest rose and fell with deep breaths. "they won't replace me," he shook his head, voice carrying a conviction that made you blink. "i'm not going anywhere."
you looked at him for a long moment, taking in the steady, unshakeable sincerity in his eyes. there was still a boundary between you—you were still the idol, and he was still the man hired to stand in front of danger for you. but sitting on the floor of a dance studio at nearly midnight, that line felt thinner than ever. "good," you whispered, a tiny smile playing on your lips as you cracked open the bottle of tea. "because i don't think anyone else knows how to make my coffee order."
a faint curve softened jay's lips, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners. "then i'll make sure i keep the job."
the silence settled back over the studio, but it wasn't heavy anymore. it felt somewhat easy. you looked over at him still sitting a few feet away, keeping that professional cushion of space between you. "you know," you murmured, shifting and pulling your knees up to your chest, "you're sitting way over there like i'm going to bite."
jay blinked, a faint flicker of surprise passing over his features. "i'm giving you space."
"well, don't," you shrugged, then patted the floor next to you. he hesitated for a moment, eyes searching your face to see if you were serious. but finding no hesitation in your expression, he let out a low breath. he slid closer until he was sitting right beside you against the mirror. the warmth radiating off him was immediate, filling the space beside you. you could smell the subtle, comforting scent of his perfume.
"better," you murmured, leaning your head back. "so, since we're stuck here until my legs start working again, tell me something about you. real stuff. not the bodyguard stuff."
jay looked straight ahead, thinking. "there's not much to tell. my life before private security wasn't very interesting."
"i frankly don't believe that," you countered, nudging his arm lightly with your shoulder. "you spent years in the military. you look like you were born holding a weapon. but what did you actually want to be when you were a kid? don't tell me you wanted to be a suit-wearing wall."
a tiny huff of a laughter escaped jay's chest, the rare sound making your stomach do a soft flip. "a mechanic," he replied quietly. "my grandfather had an old garage outside the city. when i was ten, i spent the entire summer trying to rebuild an old motor. took me three months, covered in oil every day."
you turned your head to look at his side profile, fascinated. "a mechanic? really? why didn't you stick with it?"
"life happened," he responded, though there was no bitterness in his tone, just a calm acceptance. "the military paid for my training, and after i got out... security was where my skills fit best." he turned his head to meet your gaze. "it turns out i'm good at keeping things safe."
"you are," you agreed, voice barely over a whisper. "too good, sometimes."
jay stared down at you, gaze lingering in your eyes, then tracing the curve of your tired face. "what about you?" he asked quietly, turning the question back to you. "before the stages, the hair, the makeup... who were you?"
"just a kid who liked singing in her bedroom," you smiled faintly, looking up at the high ceiling. "i thought being an idol meant just singing and dancing all day. nobody tells you about the flashing cameras, the lack of sleep, and especially not the feeling like— like you belong to everyone except yourself."
you stopped, suddenly realizing how heavy you words sounded. you bit your lip, feeling a little embarrassed for opening up so suddenly. "sorry. that was dramatic."
"no," jay denied immediately. his tone was gentle and so fiercely grounded, it cut right through your sudden insecurity. he shifted slightly, his large hand resting on the floor just an inch away from yours. "it's not dramatic. you work harder than anyone i've ever seen, yn. you're allowed to be tired."
hearing him say that—validating the quiet struggle you hid from your fans, your managers, and the entire world—made a strange warmth blossom in your chest. "thanks, jay," you murmured, tilting you head up to look at him.
his eyes held yours in the bright lights of the empty studio, the unspoken connection between you stretching thick and sweet.
it took another twenty minutes just to gather the energy to stand up. and by the time you arrived back to the apartment and the elevator dinged on your floor, your body had officially given up. the exhaustion hit you all at once.
you managed to stumble through the front door, barely registering the warmth of the room. but instead of making it down the hallway to your bedroom, your knees gave out at the living room. you dragged yourself over to the large sofa and collapsed onto it, burying your face directly into the pillows.
"yn," a voice called out. you let out a muffled groan into the cushion, completely immobilized by fatigue. "can't move. leave me here to die. tell hayoon i tried."
a low sigh echoed in the quiet living room, followed by the heavy steps of dress shoes against the floor. jay stood over the sofa for a moment, taking in the sight of you buried under your oversized coat, clinging to a pillow like a lifeline.
he crouched down beside the sofa, bringing himself eye-level with you. "you can't sleep like this," he said. "your coat is dirty, and you'll ruin your back with that position."
"too tired," you mumbled, rolling in your position as your eyes remained stubbornly closed. "too heavy."
"i'll help," he whispered. without waiting for an answer, jay reached out. his warm hands worked with gentle care as he unzipped your heavy coat, peeling the thick material off your shoulders. you let out a quiet sigh of relief as the heavy weight lifted away, unburdening you.
then, jay shifted down toward your feet. he rested your foot lightly on his knee, his fingers working to untie the knot on your boots. he pulled them off one by one, setting them neatly beside the coffee table. through the thin material of your socks, the touch of his hands were warm, lingering just a second longer than necessary as he carefully rested your feet back onto the edge of the sofa.
he stood back up to his full height, looking down at you as you buried your cheek deeper into the sofa cushion. "can you walk back to your room?" he murmured.
"no," you whimpered, barely coherent, your arm flopping uselessly over your face. "my legs are broken. sofa is my new home."
"it's twenty steps away, yn," he said, amused. "twenty steps too many. if i stand up right now, i'm going to melt into the floor like a puddle. just leave me here. i'm one with the cushions," you argued faintly into the pillow.
a chuckle escaped jay's chest. "alright," he whispered. "have it your way."
before your sluggish brain could process what he meant, jay leaned down over you. one of his large, warm hands slid effortlessly beneath your knees, while the other braced firmly against your back. with zero effort, he lifted you completely off the sofa and up into his arms.
your eyes snapped wide open in shock, a soft gasp catching in your throat as your heart suddenly hammered against your ribs.
the shift in gravity was seamless. up close, his strength was staggering. you weren't small, but to jay, you were weightless. you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck to steady yourself, your breath hitching as your chest pressed against his.
he was solid and warm, smelling intoxicatingly like expensive perfume. you could feel the steady beat of his heart right beneath your cheek. up close, you took in the fine details you were usually too shy to notice—the faint shadow of a stubble along his jawline, the breadth of his chest beneath his suit, and the focused intensity in his eyes as he held you like you were fragile.
"jay," you breathed out, voice a tiny murmur right next to his hair. "i've got you. keep holding on to me," he whispered back smoothly. his voice was a low rumble in his chest that vibrated straight into yours, sending a shiver down your spine.
he didn't strain, his breathing didn't even change pace, and his step didn't falter once as he carried you down the hallway.
"you're ridiculously strong," you admitted softly, your face sinking slightly deeper into the crook of his neck, unable to resist the sudden craving to be closer to his warmth. "is this part of the job description too?"
"carrying exhausted idols?" he questioned, eyes flickering down to meet yours. "only when they refuse to walk twenty steps."
"i was genuinely incapacitated," you protested weakly, though a helpless smile curved your lips. "you're just showing off now."
"maybe a little."
when he reached your bedroom, he pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped in. he walked over to your bed, slowly bending down to set you onto the soft mattress. he didn't drop you or rush to pull away. he lowered you down with agonizing care, holding you close until your head hit the pillow.
as he began to pull his arms back, your fingers lingered against his shoulders, reluctant to let go. jay went still above you, hands resting on either side of your head on the mattress, trapping you in his breathtaking orbit.
in the dim moonlight pouring through your bedroom window, his eyes searched yours, blown wide and dark. the space between your faces was impossibly small, so close you could feel the warm brush of his breath against your lips.
"thank you, jay," you muttered, heart pounding loudly in the quiet room. "for carrying me."
jay stared down at you, gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before rising back to meet your eyes. "i'll always carry you if you need me to, yn."
slowly, jay reached down, pulled the heavy blanket up over your shoulders, and gently tucked you in. his knuckles brushed lightly against your cheek as he pulled his hand back, the fleeting physical contact lingering like a spark against your skin.
"go to sleep," he whispered softly.
"goodnight, jay."
the long flight to paris was quiet, the main cabin lights dimmed to a soft blue as the plane coasted thirty-five thousand feet above the ground.
the label had spared one expense, booking a cluster of business class seats for your team. hayoon and your main stylist were already fast asleep a few rows ahead, completely passed out from the relentless pre-departure prep.
that left you and jay sitting side-by side in the middle paired seats.
the small privacy divider between your seats had been drawn back, creating a tiny bubble in the darkened cabin. the low hum of the jet engines drowned out the rest of the world, making every breath feel magnified.
you pulled your knees up to your chest, swaddled in an oversized cream cardigan, staring blankly at the flight map glowing on your screen.
8 hours remaining.
a tight knot of anxiety fluttered in your stomach. the fashion gala wasn't just another schedule. the luxury brand you represented expected absolute perfection, and the international press was notoriously ruthless.
"you're overthinking."
you turned your head. jay had leaned back in his seat, his suit jacket off and folded neatly beside him. in just his crisp white shirt with the top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his forearm, he looked less like a bodyguard and more like a dangerously attractive traveling companion.
"is it that obvious?" you asked, resting your chin on your knees as you looked over at him.
"you've been tapping your thumb against your knee for twenty minutes," he replied. his eyes were fixed on you, attentive despite the late hour. "and you haven't touched your water."
you let out a soft breath, looking down at the condensation forming on the glass in your cup holder. "it's just... paris is a lot, jay. the fittings tomorrow, the front-row press, the paparazzi at the airport... the label made it very clear that one minor slip will be fatal."
jay shifted in his seat, turning his body slightly toward yours in the narrow space. "let the label worry about the press," he said. "my only job in paris is keeping you safe and grounded. everything else is just noise."
"what if the noise gets too loud?" you whispered. "what if i mess up, or choke during the interviews?"
"you won't," he reassured with zero hesitation, voice filled with so much certainty it made your chest ache. "i've seen you work, yn. you're brilliant at what you do. but if it gets overwhelming, you don't look at the cameras, and you don't look at the crowd."
"then, what do i look at?"
jay leaned in closer, eyes holding your captive. "you look at me. no matter how loud it gets, i'll be standing right where you can see me. i won't let anyone crowd you, and i won't let you fall."
a sudden, sharp jolt of turbulence shook the heavy aircraft, causing the plane to dip slightly. you let out a startled gasp, your hand instinctively reaching across the small gap between your seats. without thinking, your fingers clamped onto jay's forearm.
his flexed muscle beneath your grip went rigid, solid as marble. before you could pull back and apologize, jay turned his arm, his large warm palm opening to meet yours. his long fingers wrapped securely around your hand, giving it a steadying squeeze. "it's just the air current," he comforted you softly, thumb tracing a comforting arc over the back of your hand. "it's okay."
the plane smoothed out almost immediately, but neither of you moved.
your heart began to rapidly beat against your chest—not from the turbulence, but from the electric heat radiating off his palm. the touch was different from when he had carried you to your room last week. back then, you had been to exhausted to process it. now, wide awake in the quiet of the plane, every nerve ending in your hand was aware of his skin against yours.
you looked down at your hands laced together, then slowly looked back up at his face. jay was staring down at your joined hands. a faint flush was creeping up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the open collar of his shirt. his chest rose and fell with a slightly heavier breath, his usual unflappable composure visibly cracking under the physical contact.
he swallowed hard, eyes flickering up to meet yours, filled with a vulnerability that made your breath catch in your throat.
"your hand's really warm," you murmured, throat suddenly feeling dry.
he cleared his throat, thumb pausing its gentle movement against your knuckles, though his grip didn't loosen. "is... is it too much?" he asked quietly, voice carrying an edge of nervousness. "i can pull back if—"
"no," you interrupted quickly, fingers tightening around his. a shy smile tugged at your lips as you saw the unshakeable bodyguard looking genuinely flustered over holding your hand. "don't. it... helps, actually. keep holding it."
jay stared at you for a long second, taking in your soft smile, before the tension in his shoulders finally melted away. a quiet breath of relief escaped his lips. "okay," he nodded. "i won't let go."
you leaned your head back against the plush seat cushion, your fingers intertwined with his.
that quiet warmth lasted until the wheels of the plane hit the tarmac of the airport.
the moment the plane docked at the gate, the bubble popped. jay gently released your hand, stepping back into his professional skin so fast it was almost dizzying. he buttoned his suit jacket and adjusted his posture. the flustered man from the darkened cabin was gone, replaced once again by the unyielding man.
"stay close to me," he instructed quietly as you gathered your things. when you exited the aircraft and headed toward the terminal exit, your heart pounded. "the local security reported a larger crowd than anticipated."
hayoon walked up beside you, clutching her tablet with a panicked look. "yn, the french team says there are at least three hundred fans and fifty photographers waiting at the exit. the agency wants you to do a quick wave, but don't stop."
"got it," you breathed out, trying to steady the sudden flutter in your chest.
the sliding doors of the exit opened, and the quiet airport atmosphere instantly vanished, obliterated by a deafening wall of sound.
"yn! yn! over here!"
flashes exploded like blinding white lightning, dozens going off simultaneously. the roar of shouting fans, screaming press, and heavy shutter clicks echoed off the marble floors. high-powered camera lenses thrust over the metal barricades, barely three feet from your face.
you put on your practiced, dazzling smile, raising a hand to wave as you moved forward, but the crowd pushed against the barricades. the local french security guards struggled to hold the line as aggressive paparazzi began surging past the barriers, backing up to snap close-ups.
suddenly, a push from the side sent the crowd surging forward. a heavy camera lens almost clipped your shoulder.
before you could flinch, a figure stepped into the gap effortlessly. in one swift, fluid motion, jay extended his broad arm, wrapping it securely around your shoulders and tucking your head right against his chest. he turned his body, using his shoulders and back as a human shield to block the blinding flashes and invading cameras.
"back up! step back, please!" his voice bellowed out, an impressive english accent slipping out.
the authority in his tone made two aggressive paparazzi instantly freeze and stumble backward.
sunk into the side of his suit jacket, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the blinding terror faded. you couldn't see the flashing lights anymore—only the dark fabric of his lapel. his arm around your shoulder was tight, protective, and immovable.
just like what happened in the airport last time.
he didn't just lead you through the crowd. he carried your momentum, guiding your steps smoothly across the chaotic area toward the car. "it's okay. you're okay," he murmured down into your hair, voice low and calm despite the madness raging around you. "a few more steps. the car is right there."
a sleek black sedan was idling at the curb with its door held open by a local driver. jay ushered you inside first. you slid across the black leather seat, breathless, your cheeks flushed. jay then ducked into the car right behind you, slamming the heavy door shut.
the deafening noise of the airport vanished instantly, replaced by the dead silence of tinted, soundproof glass. outside photographers had their lenses nearly pressed against the dark windows, but they couldn't see in.
you slumped back against the seat, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. jay turned to you immediately, his hands hovering over your shoulders, eyes frantically searching your face for any sign of distress. "are you alright? did anyone touch you? did you get hit?"
"no... no, i'm fine," you gasped out, looking up at him.
that mask of his was slipping again, revealing the concern underneath. his tie was slightly loosened from the physical push of the crowd, a stray strand of dark hair falling over his forehead, and his chest was heaving as he stared down at you.
"jay," you whispered softly, reaching out to touch his wrist. "i'm okay. you got me out."
jay looked down at your hand on his wrist, taking a slow breath to force his surging adrenaline down. his shoulders finally dropped, but he didn't pull away. in fact, in the tight area, his broad frame was still leaned in far too close, his knees practically resting against yours. "you're shaking," jay mumbled, eyes softening as he looked down at your hands.
before you could say anything, he reached up with his free hand. his fingers were slightly warm as he gently brushed a lock of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
an electric heat zipped straight through your stomach. your breath caught, a hot blush instantly creeping up your neck.
jay seemed to realize what he had just done a second too late. his fingers froze right by your jaw, his own throat working as he swallowed hard. a rosy tint appeared across his cheekbones. he slowly pulled his hands back, resting them on his lap. "sorry," he muttered quickly. "i... stray hair."
"it's fine," you squeaked out, clutching your bag a little tighter in your lap to hide how flustered you were. you swallowed, trying to find your voice. "you... you were really fast back there. and fluent in english."
a smile played at the edge of his lips. "military deployment in europe. you pick up a few things."
"right," you nodded, shifting on the leather seat, though you didn't actually move any further away from him. "well, for a second back there, i thought you were going to throw one of those photographers over your shoulder."
he let out an exhale that was almost a laugh. "i considered it."
you looked over at him, taking in his slightly disheveled hair and the loosened tie. the panic from the airport mob was gone, replaced by a fluttering tension that made the air feel heavy. "you told me in the plane," you whispered, leaning in. "when the noise gets too loud, i look at you."
he froze. his eyes flickered down to your lips before rising back to meet your gaze, filled with an intensity that made your pulse race. "and i'll always be right here for you to look at, yn," he promised.
the promise lingered in the air for the rest of the drive, wrapping around you like a warm shield even after the car pulled into the private underground basement of the hotel.
the hotel was pure, dizzying parisian opulence. your label had booked the entire top floor for the agency's executive team, but your personal space was a massive suite featuring grand gilded mirrors, towering marble fireplaces, and sweeping velvet drapes.
for three hours, the suite was a chaotic hive of activity. stylists, tailors, and managers bustled in and out, unboxing bags, adjusting rack after rack of fashion pieces for tomorrow's fitting, and barking updates over their phones. through it all, jay stood by the tall doors of the foyer.
by ten pm, the last bit of staff had finally bustled out, leaving behind a stack of schedule printouts and a suffocating silence.
you stood in the center of the massive living room, still wearing your soft travel clothes, feeling small and utterly dwarfed by the size of the room. the exhaustion of the flight and the lingering adrenaline from the airport had finally caught up to you, settling deep into your bones.
a soft knock at the open suite door broke your trance. jay stepped inside, carrying out his final security sweep for the night. he checked the heavy balcony latches, inspected the connecting door to the adjacent staff room, and verified the lock on the main entrance. "everything is secure," he said, turning back toward you. he had finally taken off his suit jacket, wearing just his dark waistcoat over his white shirt, his holster snug against his side. "i've checked with hotel security. the floor is restricted, and no one gets past the elevator without a pass."
"thank you, jay," you murmured, offering him a tired smile. "you should get some sleep too."
"my shift is just starting," he replied, walking toward the front door. "i'll be right outside in the hallway until the morning team arrives at six."
you blinked, stepping forward slightly. "wait... in the hallway. for like, eight hours?"
"it's standard protocol in public hotels," he explained, voice entirely matter-of-fact. "it keeps a visual barrier between you and any potential hotel intruders."
"jay, there's massive sofa right there," you said, gesturing toward the velvet couch in the living room. "the suite is huge. you don't have to stand in a cold corridor all night."
jay paused with his hand on the door handle. "i can't stay inside the suite overnight, yn," he responded to your offer. "if anyone from your label or the hotel staff sees me coming out of your room in the morning, it creates a massive risk for your reputation. i won't let my presence compromise you."
your heart did a painful twist. he wasn't thinking about his own comfort or how tiring an eight hour hallway shift would be. he was focused on protecting you, even from the whisper of a scandal.
he stepped backward into the carpeted hallway, giving you a slow, reassuring nod before pulling the door closed.
you were left alone in the suite. the silence in the room was loud. you walked over to the front door, standing only inches from the polished wood. you raised a hand, resting your palm flat against the cold surface.
without thinking twice, your fingers wrapped around the handle. you turned it and pulled the door open. jay jumped slightly, instantly turning around. his posture snapped back, eyes wide with immediate concern. "yn? is something wrong?"
"yes," you said firmly, crossing your arms over your chest and stepping right into the doorway. "something is wrong. i can't sleep."
"do you need me to call room service? or get hayoon—"
"i need you to stop being so stubborn," you interrupted, cutting him off. you looked down the long and empty hallway, then looked right up into his eyes. "jay, the morning team isn't coming until six am. hayoon explicitly told me everyone is sleeping until eight because of jet lag. besides, nobody is walking down this hall at one am."
"yn, protocol—"
"the protocol doesn't care if you drop from exhaustion before my biggest schedule of the year," you argued gently as you took a small step closer to him. "you flew for more than ten hours, got shoved by paparazzi, and spent three hours standing in my room while stylists screamed at each other. you need to rest too."
jay stared down at you, jaw set in a hard line. "my job is to keep you safe—"
"and my job right now is asking my bodyguard to step inside so i don't spend the whole night worrying about him standing outside my door," you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. you looked at him through your lashes. "are you really going to make me sleep alone in this giant, creepy hotel room?"
jay let out a long breath through his nose. his shoulders dropped an inch, his composure cracking under your stubborn persistence. "you're unbelievable."
"i take that as a compliment," you grinned, stepping back into the suite and holding the door wide open for him. "come inside, jay. please."
he stood in the hallway for one last second, searching your face. seeing the genuine warmth and resolve in your eyes, he finally gave in. he stepped over the threshold into the room, and you quietly pushed the door shut, locking it. "i'll take the sofa," he said quietly. "if you need anything—"
"jay," you murmured, walking over to the linen closet by the hallway and pulled out a hotel blanket and a soft pillow. you walked back over and handed them to him, your fingers brushing his as he took them. "thank you for coming in. seriously."
he nodded once. "goodnight, yn."
"goodnight, jay," you whispered, a soft blush warming your cheeks as you walked toward your bedroom.
you closed your bedroom shut. you changed into a pair of cotton pajamas, slipped under the heavy blanket, and closed your eyes.
an hour passed. then two. despite the plush mattress and the physical exhaustion dragging at your limbs, sleep refused to come. your mind was racing—replaying the chaotic atmosphere in the airport, worrying about the schedule tomorrow, and of the man resting on the couch just outside.
feeling the walls closing in, you quietly slid out of bed. the living room was nearly pitch black, save for the faint silver moonlight filtering through the windows. on the sofa, jay was lying on his back, long legs stretching past the armrest. he had unbuttoned his suit jacket, his white shirt slightly rumpled, and his even breathing suggested he was finally asleep.
you tiptoed across the carpet, heading toward the glass doors that led to the balcony. as gently as you could, you lifted the latch and slid the door open.
click.
the tiny sound of the latch was almost silent, but the moment you stepped onto the cool terrace, you heard a swift rustle of fabric behind you. before you could even take a full breath, the balcony door slid open wider, and jay's tall shadow stepped into the moonlight.
"yn?" his voice was still rough with sleep, thick in the quiet night. his eyes scanned the balcony before landing on you. "is everything alright? is someone out there?"
"no, no," you whispered quickly, turning around and wrapping your arms around yourself. "just jet lag. couldn't sleep."
he relaxed his guard, letting out a long breath. the midnight breeze swept across the balcony, blowing a strand of his dark hair across his forehead. without his usual composure, standing on a balcony at two am, he looked vulnerable—and ridiculously handsome.
a sudden gust of wind blew off, making you shiver visibly in your thin pajamas.
without a second thought, jay reached behind him, grabbing his suit jacket from where he had draped it over the sofa back. he stepped back out, moving behind you with quiet strides.
"you're going to catch a cold." he draped his jacket around your shoulders. the fabric was warm and drenched in his scent. you pulled the lapels tight around your chest, melting into the heat of it. "thank you," you muttered, looking up at him over your shoulder.
other than stepping back into the room, jay rested his large hands against the iron railing right beside you, looking out at the city skyline. below, the streets glistened like glass under the yellow streetlights, and in the distance, the eiffel tower glowed against the dark sky.
you leaned your elbows on the railing next to his, your shoulder lightly resting against his arm.
"is paris everything you thought it'd be?" you asked, watching the faint mist drift over rooftops. "or is it just another city on a security detail map for you?"
he let out the smallest chuckle you'd ever heard. "most cities look the same when you're looking at them through a rearview mirror or behind a cordon line. buildings, roads, and potential threat points." he paused, eyes softening slightly. "it's rare i actually get a second to just stand still and look at one."
"so look," you murmured, leaning your head back slightly to glance up at his profile. "no cameras, no agency reps, no threats. just paris. what do you see?"
a genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "i see a city that takes its streetlights very seriously. and a lot of chimney pots."
your let out a soft laugh into the cool air, shaking your head. "you really have zero romantic bone in your body, don't you? what's the threat level of an eiffel tower light show?"
"a mild distraction," he shrugged, turning his head to look down at you. "it's a perfect time to commit a crime because nobody pays attention to their surroundings while staring at sparkles."
"you're hopeless," you giggled, burying your lower face slightly into the collar of his jacket. "what do you do when you're not guarding people? do you ever just... sit on a porch and do nothing?"
"i ride my motorcycle," he said quietly. "usually early in the morning before traffic starts. long highways with nowhere in particular to be."
you blinked, shocked. "you ride a motorcycle?" you asked. he nodded, "i do."
you tilted your head, "why did i picture you just standing in a dark room recharging like a robot?"
a low laugh came from him—a rich sound that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. "i have hobbies too, yn. i read. i cook when i have time."
"you cook?" you raised an eyebrow, genuinely fascinated. "what's the signature dish of a top-tier security guard?"
"stew," he answered without missing a beat, a tiny glint of humor in his eyes. "simple, hard to ruin, plus it lasts three days. not exactly michelin star standard, but it works."
"i'd take a bowl of home cooked stew over those five course dinners any day," you admitted wholeheartedly, resting your chin on your hands as you leaned over the railing. "you have no idea how much i miss normal food. half the time, hayoon even counts out my almonds."
jay's smile faded slightly, replaced by an attentive warmth. he shifted his weight, turning his frame toward you. "what's the first thing you want to eat when this whole tour is over?"
"convenience store ramen," you answered right away, a dreamlike sigh escaping your lips. "the cheap spicy kind. at three in the morning, sitting on those plastic chairs outside under the streetlights with a soft-boiled egg."
he looked at you for a long beat. in the slightly dim light, his eyes held a softness that made your chest tighten.
"deal," jay murmured. "deal?" you asked, perking up an eyebrow.
"when we get back, after the show schedules end," he started. "i'll take you to the convenience store at three in the morning. i'll buy the ramen, and i'll make sure nobody bothers you while you eat it."
you stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his offer. it was such a mundane thing, but coming from him, it felt like the most luxurious promise in the world. "you'd really do that?" you whispered. "sit outside in the freezing cold while i eat junk food?"
"i've stood in worse places," he replied, his fingers on the railing shifting just a little closer to yours. "besides... you deserve to just exist for an hour without being an idol."
in the cool air, wrapped in his heavy jacket with his broad shoulder resting warm against yours, the heavy stress of tomorrow faded into nothingness for a while.
but when the sun rose again and the real test was about to begin, the stress washed over you once again.
the suite was finally empty after hours of chaos. the styling team had just rushed out the door to catch their transport to the venue, leaving you standing alone in front of the large mirror.
you barely recognized the woman staring back at you.
your label had pulled out all the stops for fashion week, dressing you in a silk, floor-length gown in a deep shade. the off-shoulder sleeves draped elegantly over your upper arms, exposing the line of your collarbones. but the true detail was the back that completely got cut away to expose your spine, held together by a tiny clasp at the nape of your neck. your hair was swept up into an updo to display the design, and your makeup was flawless.
you looked every inch the global idol the world expected to see.
picking up your small clutch, you walked toward the entrance door of the suite. your heart wasn't hammering only for the cameras waiting at the venue. it was also for the man standing on the other side.
you turned the handle and pulled the door open, stepping out into the carpeted hallway. jay was standing by the elevators, speaking quietly into the microphone at his wrist. when he heard the door click, he turned around, and the words he was speaking immediately died in his throat.
if you thought jay looked handsome in his standard suits, seeing him in a meticulously tailored black tuxedo was devastating. the sharp cut of the dark fabric emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and chest, while the white shirt and black bowtie made him look more like a high-society heir.
you stood there, suddenly aware of how bare your shoulders and back felt in the cool air.
jay didn't move. his hand slowly dropped to his side, eyes sweeping over you—taking in the draped silk, the exposed slope of your shoulders, and the long line of your neck before finally landing on your face. he breathed heavily, gaze darkening, making the air between you feel incredibly thin.
"is it... too much?" you asked nervously, shifting your weight. "they wanted something good for the cameras, but i feel a little bare."
jay swallowed hard, the movement visible above his bowtie. he took a slow step toward you, as if pulled by a magnetic force he couldn't fight. "no," he murmured. "it's not too much." he stopped just two feet away, looking down at you with an expression so unguarded it made a hot blush explode across your chest and neck. he wasn't looking at an idol or a client. he was looking at you.
"you look..." he started, voice trailing off as he shook his head slightly, trying to clear the fog in his brain. "you are absolutely beautiful, yn."
the honesty in his voice sent a blinding jolt of electricity straight to your heart. "thank you," you breathed out, voice trembling slightly. you looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your lips. "you clean up pretty well yourself."
a faint grin appeared at the edge of his lips. and for a second, he looked like he wanted to close the final two feet between you and forget the event entirely.
instead, the elevator chimed at the end of the hall, breaking the spell. jay blinked, the harsh reality of his job snapping back into place. he cleared his throat, adjusting his tuxedo cuffs. "the car's waiting downstairs," he said as he stepped aside and extended a hand toward the open elevator doors. "stay close to me tonight."
"always," you replied, brushing past him.
the drive to the venue felt like a surreal blur. sitting side by side in the dimmed seat of the sedan, the heat between you was palpable, even if neither of you spoke. jay sat beside you, eyes continually scanning the streets, but every time the streetlights washed over the car, you could see his jaw clenching.
when the car finally turned onto the venue, the night exploded into blinding light. hundreds of press outlets, fan sections, and security barricades lined the grand staircase. high-powered spotlights illuminated the area, cutting through the dark city.
when the car rolled to a halt at the edge of the red carpet, jay ducked out first. the moment he stepped outside, a barrage of flashbulbs went off. he opened your door, holding his hand over the frame.
"eyes on me until you reach the photographer's mark, alright?" he instructed quietly, his voice slicing through the roar of the crowd as he reached to offer you his steady arm. you nodded and placed a hand on his forearm, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric.
the moment your heels hit the carpet, the sound was deafening.
"yn, over here!"
"look to the left, yn!"
"yn! beaux-arts magazine!"
flashes erupted in a continuous, blinding wave. shutter clicks buzzed like a hive of hornets, echoing. fans shrieked from behind the metal barricades, waving hand banners and lightsticks.
you let go of jay's arm to take your place on the step, turning smoothly to the wall of lenses. you threw back your shoulders, allowing the silk gown to drape perfectly against your skin, and put on your practiced smile.
to the global press and the thousands of cameras, you were the star of the evening.
but behind the blinding white flashes, the overwhelming noise began to swarm in your ears. the dizzying lights started to merge into a disorienting glare. your heart accelerated inside your chest, your breath catching in your throat as the familiar wave of anxiety threatened to break your smile.
look at me. his voice from the airplane played in your mind.
glancing slightly to the side, your eyes searched the dark perimeter. standing just off the edge of the carpet was jay. he stood like an immovable pillar in his tuxedo, hands resting in front of him, eyes locked onto you. amidst a sea of screaming strangers, his gaze was unwavering.
the moment your eyes met his, the chaotic flashes and roaring noise faded into a background hum. the tension in your shoulders melted.
you gave the cameras one final and radiant smile before stepping off the mark and moving up the steps that led to the main entry doors. jay fell seamlessly into step two paces behind you, broad shadow sweeping over the carpet as he flanked your side.
as you reached the doors, jay reached past you to push them open. for a second, as you passed through, he leaned down close to your ear, his warm breath fanning across the sensitive skin of your bare shoulder.
"flawless," he whispered, low enough that only you could hear.
a sudden, thrilling shudder ran straight down your back as you stepped inside the ballroom, leaving blinding lights behind.
inside the venue, the air was warm, sweet with the scent of white orchids, expensive perfume, and vintage champagne. golden chandeliers cast a rich glow, illuminating the sea of international fashion royalty.
to anyone watching, you were navigating the room with effortless grace. you accepted glass flutes of champagne, posed for shots with famous directors, and offered elegant small talk to brand executives.
after hours of back-to-back introductions, the main hall became suffocatingly packed. a crowd of vips and photographers began surging around the central area, choking the narrow passageway leading toward the private lounge.
"excuse us," jay sounded from right behind you, calm yet commanding enough to make people step aside. he stepped up beside you to clear a path through the dense crowd. because of how tightly squeezed the guests were, there was barely any clearance between the tabled and the people around them.
to keep you from being jostled by anyone, jay stepped closer—so close you could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
slowly, he raised his hand. instead of hovering, his large palm settled gently against the small of your back, making your breath hitch in your throat.
his hand rested right over the exposed skin where your gown was cut away. his skin was a grounding contrast against the soft silk of your dress. a jolt of hot electricity shot straight up to your neck, making your toes curl inside your heels.
you glanced up at him through your lashes. jay was looking straight ahead, his jaw set in an impassive line as if he were simply performing a protocol. but as your eyes traveled up to his face, you caught the subtle heavy breathing. his throat worked as he gulped, and a dark flush had crept up the back of his neck beneath his shirt collar.
when you finally broke through the crowd into a quieter area, jay slowly slid his hand away from your back. the sudden loss of his heat felt like a cold breeze against your skin.
"the private lounge is just around the corner," he mentioned. "you can catch your breath there."
"thanks to you," you mumbled softly, cheeks flushed as you looked at him, the ghost of his touch still burning against your skin.
you then turned the corner into the dimly lit hallway toward the lounge. the muffled sound of music and chatter echoed softly, giving you a rare second to catch your breath away from the sea of people and cameras. before you could even step through the doorway, a slurred voice called out to you.
"ah, the star of the night!" a european fashion investor in his late fifties wearing a velvet suit and holding an empty champagne glass stumbled out from the door. his eyes locked onto you, a wide grin spreading across his features. "i've been trying to get an introduction all evening," he purred, taking fast steps toward you. "you look stunning in that dress. truly breathtaking."
you instinctively took a step back, keeping your professional smile firmly glued to your face. "thank you so much. it's an honor to be here tonight—"
"no, no, don't be so modest," he interrupted your words, stepping even closer. before you could react, he reached out, hand moving toward your shoulder to pull you into an unwelcoming embrace. "come, let me introduce you to my associates. we should discuss your next campaign over a real drink—"
but before he could finish his sentence and touch you, jay stepped in between you. his frame completely cut off the investor's path and shielded you from view. his movement was so fast it caught the investor off guard, making the man stumble backward. "step back, sir," jay ordered.
the investor blinked, face flushing with anger as he looked up at the towering bodyguard. "who the hell do you think you're talking to? i'm one of the primary sponsors for this entire gala! move out of my way."
the man made a mistake of trying to push past jay's shoulder because jay didn't even flinch—not even the littlest bit.
he took a step closer, eyes narrowing into a terrifying stare. "you've had too much to drink, sir," he pointed out in a calm voice, yet each word was delivered with terrifying precision. "you will turn around, step back into the lounge, and keep your hands to yourself. am i clear?"
the fury coming from jay was so palpable it made the air thick. the investor looked away from jay, the anger in his eyes instantly evaporating into fear.
"r—right," he muttered, backing up and raising his hands defensively. he quickly turned on his heel and disappeared.
jay didn't turn around immediately. he stood there for a long beat, chest heaving with controlled breaths as he forced his adrenaline back down. the professional veneer he had worn all night was gone and now replaced by an intensity he couldn't hide anymore.
slowly, he turned around to face you. his eyes scanned your face frantically. "are you alright?" he questioned, voice carrying a breathless edge. "he didn't touch you, right?"
you shook your head as you looked at him. your heart started pounding, not from fear of the investor, but from the sight of jay fiercely defending you. "no, i'm fine."
jay looked down at you, swallowing a lump in his throat. the restraint holding him back was fraying by a thread. "we're leaving. i'll have the driver bring the car around the private exit."
"okay," your voice was small.
he extended his hand, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist and guided you down the back corridor toward the private exit.
later on, when the car finally pulled into the hotel's private underground garage, jay was out the door in an instant, opening yours and extending his hand. the moment your palm met his, his long fingers closed firmly over yours, guiding you through the elevator and up to your floor without letting go until you reached your suite.
waiting inside were your lead makeup artist and hairstylist, looking completely exhausted from the long night.
"oh, thank god you're back!" hayoon gasped, taking your clutch and ushering you to the vanity they had set up in the living room. "we've been waiting to get this makeup off you before we go to sleep."
for the next twenty minutes, jay stood guard in his spot by the foyer while the stylists got to work. they quickly pulled out the hundreds of hairpins holding your updo together until your hair fell in soft waves past your shoulders. with soft cotton pads, they wiped away the makeup, leaving your skin clean and glowing in the lights.
"alright, that's the face and hair," hayoon sighed as your stylists began cleaning up. "the gown is super delicate silk, so just unhook the back clasp yourself when you're ready to slip into bed. hang it on the padded hanger in the closet after that."
you nodded, listening carefully to get everything correct soon. "i will. thank you, hayoon. goodnight."
"goodnight. get enough sleep, okay?" she smiled at you. and with a final wave, hayoon and the stylists gathered their heavy bags and bustled out the front door.
you stood in the center of the living room, feeling completely stripped down. your hair was down, your face was bare, but you were still wearing the gown.
jay stepped back inside. he had loosened his bowtie, unbuttoning the top collar of his shirt. his eyes found yours across the room. "i'll be right out here," he said. "if you need anything before you go to sleep."
"thanks, jay," you whispered, holding his gaze for a beat before turning toward your bedroom. you left the door cracked halfway open so the warm light from the living room spilled across the floor.
exhaustion settled deep into your bones, heavy and dragging. you walked over to the nightstand, throat feeling completely parched after hours of talking to people and smiling for the media. the crystal water carafe sat beside a glass.
with shaking hands, you lifted the carafe and tipped it over the glass. but your fingers, stiff and numb, slipped. the glass tipped over and fell with a sharp sound. "oh—!"
a sudden deluge of cold water splashed violently across the nightstand, surging over the edge and spilling down the front side of your outfit. the liquid soaked through the fabric, turning it dark and heavy.
panic surged through you. the gown. it was a one-of-a-kind haute couture piece on loan, worth more than a sports car. and silk was ruined by water spots if left to set.
"shit, shit, shit," you muttered under your breath, gathering the dipping fabric in your hands to keep it from soaking through any further.
you reached up behind your neck to unhook the clasp so you could strip the dress off immediately, but your hands were slippery and trembling. you blindly fumbled at the nape of your neck, nails catching uselessly against the tiny hook. it wouldn't budge. in fact, in your frantic movements, the tiny hook jammed tightly.
before you could even call out, heavy footsteps echoed across the floor. the bedroom was pushed wide open, and jay's frame filled the entryway, eyes wide and scanning the room for danger.
"yn! what happened?" he demanded as he looked over at the spilled water, and then to you.
"i—i dropped the glass," you stammered, holding the cold silk away from your body, shivering as the cold liquid seeped against your skin. "it spilled everywhere. the gown is getting soaked, but the back clasp is jammed. i can't get it off."
you gulped, then asked, "can you help me?"
for a second, jay froze. the urge to retreat into his professional boundary was warring violently with the need to take care of you. and slowly, visibly, the bodyguard yielded to the man.
he closed the distance between you with deliberate strides, boots making no sound against the thick rug. as he stepped up behind you, the smell of him enveloped you, warm and grounding. "don't move," he mumbled. "let me look."
you let out a shaky breath, letting your arms drop to your sides. you stood still as he loomed right behind you.
his large hands lifted, approaching your skin with caution. the pads of his thumbs finally made contact with your skin to feel for the jammed clasp. his breath caught in his throat. his hands froze against your neck for a second before he forced himself to focus.
"is it stuck?" you inquired, voice trembling as you looked down at the floor, aware of how bare your back felt against him.
"the hook caught the thread lining," he replied, voice vibrating right near the shell of your ear. "i'm afraid if i pull too hard, i'll tear the silk. i have to unloop it."
"do you always have to be this precise, or is unhooking dresses part of your security training?" you joked, a small laugh rumbling from your chest to mask the wild pounding of your heart. a quiet chuckle left jay, the sound sending a wave of heat through you.
"they don't teach this in the military," he murmured, knuckles accidentally brushing against the soft skin behind your ear as he worked the stubborn knot. "and no... i'm not usually this precise."
your breath hitched. "you're not?"
"no," he whispered, fingers fumbling with the clasp. his face was inches away from your hair, resulting in his warm breath fanning gently across your bare shoulder, making goosebumps erupt over your skin. "with anyone else, i'd probably just cut the thread and be done with it. but i don't want to ruin anything that's yours."
the quiet honesty in his voice hung heavy in the air. the dripping water, the ruined gown—all of it faded into insignificance. there was only the heat of his hands, the sound of your shared breathing, and the unbearable tension between you.
soon enough, the small click of the clasp releasing echoed through the room. the heavy silk immediately loosened around your collarbones, sliding an inch down your back. you reflexively gathered the front of the gown against your chest with a hand, holding it tight to keep it from slipping any further.
you slowly turned. his face was mere inches from yours, his sharp jawline set so hard the muscle was visibly twitching. "jay..." you called with a small voice. "are you always this careful with your clients?"
jay's dark eyes flickered down to your shoulder, then to your lips, before snapping back up to meet your gaze. for three agonizing seconds, the air in the room felt devoid of oxygen.
then, his eyes turned cold. it was like watching an iron curtain drop over his face. he took a sharp step backward, creating space. he didn't answer your question. he didn't even look you in the eye. instead, he turned slightly toward the doorway, hands smoothing down the front of his shirt. "you should change into something dry so you don't catch a cold. i'll tell hayoon to laundry the dress first thing in the morning."
you stared at him, stunned by the sudden wall he had just thrown up. "jay, wait—"
"i'll be right outside like always," he cut you off, voice clipped and distant as he made a move toward the door. "get some rest, yn. you have more activities tomorrow."
"look at me."
jay stopped mid-step with his back still to you. his massive shoulders were rigid, hands clenching into tight fists at his sides.
"jay," you repeated, taking a step toward him. "look at me and tell me that. tell me i'm just a client."
"you are my client, yn," he replied, voice strained, though he still refused to face you. "my job is to ensure your physical safety. nothing more, nothing less. i stepped out of line tonight by invading your personal space, and for that, i apologize. it won't happen again."
the textbook corporate answer made a disbelieving laugh escape your lips. "you're lying," you whispered, stepping around him until you were standing directly in his path, forcing him to look at you. when his eyes finally locked onto yours, he swallowed hard. and for a mere moment, he cracked, revealing a storm raging beneath his stiff posture.
"yn, step back," he warned softly. "please."
"no," you denied stubbornly, standing your ground, looking right up into his tortured gaze. "why are you pushing me away? why do you act like caring about me is a crime?"
"because it is!" the sharp roar tore from jay's chest. he took one sudden step forward, his body completely towering over you, closing the distance until his chest was practically pressing against yours.
"it is a crime, yn," he rasped out, eyes burning with a fire as he looked down at you, breathing ragged. "because my only job, the only thing i am supposed to do, is keep you alive. i'm supposed to look at a crowd and keep you away from any possible danger. i'm supposed to look at people and see threats. i am not supposed to spend every second of every day losing my fucking mind wondering if you're cold, or if you've eaten, or if you're smiling at someone else."
he raked a hand through his hair, dragging it back with an agitated groan, pacing a tight circle before rounding back to you.
"do you have any idea what the last four months have been like for me?" his voice dropped into a desperate whisper. "watching you stand under those cameras every night, seeing you look so pretty in those dresses, feeling you lean against me when you're tired... i'm falling apart, yn. i crossed a line the second i stopped seeing you as a client and started seeing you as the only thing in this miserable world i care about."
he stopped right in front of you, hands hovering in the air near your waist, trembling violently with the effort of keeping himself from pulling you into his arms.
"i'm scared," he confessed, voice breaking on the last word. "because if i'm looking at you, if i'm thinking about how much i want to touch you, how much i want to keep you... then, i'm not doing my job. and if something happens to you because i was distracted by how much i love you, i will never, ever, recover."
jay stood frozen before you, his broad chest heaving, hands hovering midair as if terrified that if he touched you, he would break the final thread of his control. his eyes were filled with desperation, searching your face for any kind of disgust or reaction.
rather than that, you felt a wave of overwhelming warmth flood your heart. you then raised your free hand and placed you soft palm directly against his cheek.
jay flinched at the contact, a sharp gasp catching in his throat. his skin was burning hot beneath your fingers, his sharp jawline tight as a bowstring. he looked down at you like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the fall.
"you idiot," you whispered softly, letting out a breathy laugh as a tear slipped down your cheek. "you absolute idiot."
jay blinked, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "yn..."
"do you really think you're the only one losing your mind?" you asked, voice trembling with an emotion so deep it made your knees feel weak. you smoothed your thumb gently across his cheekbone, feeling the pulse leaping beneath the skin. "do you i think i look for you in every crowd because you're good at your job? do you think i feel safe on those planes and red carpets because of your security credentials?"
he stared at you, his breathing shallow, completely paralyzed by the gentle touch of your hand.
"i look for you," you confessed, looking him dead in the eye with no effort to hide anything anymore. "because you're the only real thing in my life. because when the entire world is screaming and flashing lights in my face, catching your eye is the only thing that keeps me breathing. i haven't seen you as just my bodyguard for a long time, jay. i'm completely, hopelessly in love with you."
his breath hitched violently. the relief that washed over his features was breathtaking. the fear in his eyes melted away and replaced by a flame that made your pulse race.
"say that again," he rasped out.
"i love you, jay," you whispered sweetly, closing the tiny remaining distance between you until the toes of your bare feet brushed his boots. "i love you, and i don't give a single fuck about the rules."
jay let out a gut wrenching groan, and the months of restraint and professional boundaries evaporated into thin air.
his hand shot forward, cupping the back of your neck with a possessive tenderness, long fingers threading deeply into your hair. his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your body flush against his solid chest.
before you could even catch your breath, he bent down and captured your lips in a deep kiss.
a quiet gasp escaped your mouth against his, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, claiming you entirely. it was an explosive, electric collision of everything you both had been suppressing. his lips were hot, demanding, and entirely intoxicated by you.
you let go of the gown completely, letting the heavy silk crumple and fall to the floor at your feet, leaving you only in your undergarments. you threw both of your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, fingers entangling in his soft hair.
jay shuddered against you as he felt the soft curve of your waist and chest pressed directly against his white shirt. his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer, his thumb stroking the bare skin with a desperate heat as if proving to himself that you were really here, really his.
he pulled back for a second, just enough to catch a deep breath, his forehead resting against yours. his eyes were blown wide, glazed with pure devotion. "there's no going back from this," he murmured. "you know that, right? once i cross this line... i don't think i can let you go."
"good," you whispered, fingers tightening in the hair at the nape of his neck. "don't ever let me go, jay."
a sharp exhale tore from his chest as the last remaining shred of his legendary discipline shattered into dust.
before you could blink, jay's hands slid down from your back, calloused palms sweeping over the curve of your hips. with effortless, terrifying strength, he lifted you completely off your feet. you let out a soft gasp, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, pulling yourself flush against him.
he took three steps toward the massive king sized bed in the center of the room. he lowered you onto the sheets gently, immediately following you down. the size and weight of his frame shadowed over you, trapping you beneath him in a cocoon of expensive cologne and blinding heat.
his lips found yours again, deeper, hotter, and entirely unchecked. the kiss was no longer cautious—it was a hungry and feverish demand, his tongue tasting every inch of your mouth while his hands mapped out the bare skin of your waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into your hips to hold you right where he wanted you.
you arched your back into his touch, a helpless whimper catching in your throat as his lips trailed down from your mouth, leaving a trail of fire along your jawline, down the exposed curve of your neck, and onto the sensitive hollow of your collarbone.
"jay," you gasped out, hands dragging desperately down his broad back, clutching at the thin cotton of his shirt.
"i've dreamed about this," he groaned against your skin, voice dropping into a rough growl right near your ear. his hands moved up, fingers entangling in your locks, holding your head and tilting it back as his eyes locked onto yours. "every night in the hallway... every time i watched you leave... i was losing my mind."
he shifted, one of his heavy thighs sliding between yours, the solid press of his body sending a wave of pure heat straight to your core. his fingers trailed down from your collarbone, brushing agonizingly slow over your bare stomach, making every nerve ending in your body flare to life.
"tell me what you want, yn," he growled low, knuckles lightly tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "tell me, and i'll give it to you."
"want you... to make me feel good."
hearing your words, with a small groan, he crashed his lips back onto yours. the kiss was feverish, full of desperation and broken composure. his mouth moved from yours, trailing small kisses from your jaw to your neck, biting slightly on the skin before soothing it with his tongue. the feeling of his teeth received a whimper from you.
he looked at your chest before locking his eyes with yours. "can i...?" he asked for permission. and when you nodded, he wasted no time reaching and unclipping your bra, throwing them elsewhere you couldn't care less of.
when your breasts were freed, he took a moment to stare at them before taking his hesitant hands to cup them. you let out a soft sigh at the feel of his slightly rough hands on them, arching your back as a sign you wanted more.
seeing your reaction, jay leaned down and flicked a bud with his tongue. you hissed, hand moving to grip on his upper arm.
he took it in his mouth instantly, suckling on them as he fondled with the other. you threw your head back at the pleasure, a moan escaping your lips. he then moved to the other, giving it the same stimulation.
"love your tits, yn... fuck," he breathed out. he left one last peck before going down to your stomach.
the pace he held was painfully and annoyingly slow, making you squirm. "mmh... fuck, jay, please— just... just touch me," you pleaded, growing impatient. he chuckled lowly, the sound giving you shivers. "patience, baby. wanna take my time with you," he said before continuing his actions, receiving a whimper from you.
when he finally reached the waistband of your panties, he hooked his fingers around it and slowly pulled it down. with your legs spread, he got a clear view of your aching vagina. "shit... what a pretty pussy," he praised, fingers finding your clit. you shut your eyes and whined, "ah—! jay... more, pleaseee."
"as you wish, beautiful."
he took no time to kneel, leaving a kiss on top of your pussy. you clenched around nothing at the feather-light peck. jay poked out his tongue, dragging a long lick from your hole to your clit, making your hip buck up to his face. "tastes so fucking good," he mumbled before immediately diving in, leaving no space for you to prepare.
you threw your head back on the bed with a loud cry. your hand reached to grip his hair. "agh—! jay, shit!" you spat, thighs quivering from the sudden pleasure. he grunted at the taste of you, "so fuckin' sweet." he gripped onto your thighs, keeping them in place when you started closing them around his head.
to top it off, he inserted two fingers into your hole, curling them in an instant. your back arched off the bed. you let out a choked gasp, fingers tightening and tugging on his hair. he pumped his fingers in and out at a punishing speed, tongue sucking on your clitoris.
it felt so good. too good.
you looked down at him, and the view you received was breathtaking. jay's eyes were already looking up at yours, his hair was tousled, and his nose and chin were all covered and glistening from your juices. it only turned you on more, grinding your hips.
"close... 'm close—" you managed to mumble. "yeah? you want to cum?" jay hummed, voice sending vibrations through you. you nodded with a whine.
"cum for me. cum all over my face, baby."
you moaned loudly as you climaxed, body jerking. your pussy tightened around jay's fingers as you let go.
as you came down from your high, you evened your heaving chest. jay slipped his fingers out without forgetting to suck them clean. "god, yn. you looked so hot coming all around my fingers like that," he whispered seductively. you couldn't give a proper response, too blissed out.
he straightened, leaning down to close the distance between you again. you returned the kiss, able to taste yourself on his tongue. jay leaned back, searching your face for any sign of discomfort. "you okay? want to keep going? no pressure, baby, we can stop right here if you want."
you shook your head. "n—no... want more... please," you looked up at him through your eyelashes. your sweet voice intoxicated jay, "okay. anything you want."
in the blink of an eye, his shirt was off, revealing his toned body that he'd been hiding all this time. your breath caught in your throat, blinking once. he laughed softly at your reaction, "like the view, hm?" he asked. you rolled your eyes with a grin, "don't be so full of yourself, jay"
he bent down to give you a single peck before working on his pants, sliding them down along with his boxers. his thick, hard, throbbing cock slipped out, slapping against his stomach. it was thick, red, and veiny, you nearly drooled at the sight. you sat up, and when jay felt your fingers wrapping around his shaft, he let out a moan. "shit... your hands—" he grunted, gritting his teeth.
but when you started stroking him, he held your wrist, making you stop your movements. "just lay down, baby. want to focus on you tonight."
so you obliged. you shifted toward the middle of the bed, laying back down. jay climbed up on the bed, kneeling between your legs. "do you have a condom?" he questioned. "no. want you raw inside me, jay," you answered in a small voice.
he smirked, "naughty girl."
he took a hold of his dick, lining it up with your pussy. the skin-to-skin contact made you shudder. he started grinding against you, the head of his cock brushing your clit every once in a while. "put it in, baby, please," you croaked. he smiled, "anything you say."
he lined up with your entrance. afraid to hurt you, he slid in halfway first. the stretch of his length was burning, but it felt incredible. "hah—" you sighed shakily. jay grunted, "ngh— so tight," he mumbled to himself before biting his lip.
he looked at you sincerely, "is it too much? can i keep going?" his voice was soft, full of care. it made your heart flutter how he cared for you in such a situation. "yes, please keep going," you whimpered.
he nodded before pushing in, then burying himself to the hilt, resulting in the both of you moaning. you felt so full. "my god, jay. so big... so full," you gasped, rolling your eyes back. "yeah? mmh, you're so tight around me," he growled.
jay slowly pulled back, leaving the tip in, then pushed himself back in. you cried out, fingers gripping tightly onto the sheets. "agh—! moremoremore," you chanted.
fulfilling your needs, jay started thrusting in and out of you softly. he gripped onto your waist. "feel so good around me." and suddenly, he moved quicker, making you whimper uncontrollably. he continued to fuck himself into you, grinding slightly every time he bottomed out, the movement making him go deeper.
"harder, jay. please... need it so bad," you moaned out. he grinned, "god, you're going to make me lose my mind."
he propped himself up and held your thighs open with his hands. he drove himself inside you harder, the sounds of your skin slapping against each other filling the room. you threw your head back, "jay! nghhh, so good!" you screamed, unable to contain your sounds.
"mhm... you're such a good fuckin' girl, baby. taking my cock so well," he praised.
the nickname made you clench around him, receiving a groan from him. "shit— do that again," he ordered. when you did, he scrunched his eyebrows and left his mouth open. the mere sight of him made you moan. he looked so fucked out—hair messy, abs tensed, and you caught a little sliver of drool on the tip of his lips.
the room was so hot it made you dizzy. you bit your lip hard, you swore you could taste your blood. "jay! i'm gonna cum again!" you whimpered. "yeah, fuck... you going to cum around my big cock?" he whispered, cocking an eyebrow at you.
you nodded, "mhm, please!"
he grunted, thrusting harder to reach his climax. "mmh— wait for me, baby. you can wait just a little longer, right?" he asked ever so softly, bending down to land a kiss on your neck. "you're a good girl, right?"
you nodded quickly at his words, "mhm! yeah, yeah, i'm a good girl— you're good girl—!"
he smiled, satisfied. "fuck, yeah. my good, beautiful girl," he muttered, shoving in and out of you with an even faster pace, if that was even possible. you couldn't think anymore, the pleasure taking over your mind. "i'm close, yn, fuck—" he threw his head back.
"come with me."
at his words, you quivered. you released with a moan, tightening around him unconsciously. jay's pace faltered slightly as he gave one last thrust, shooting his load inside you with a loud groan. the both of you breathed, chests rising and falling deeply. jay's body limped, falling to lay down beside you, cock slipping out.
you laid tangled in the white sheets, breathing slowly evening out as the wild adrenaline in your veins melted into a deep exhaustion. beside you, jay shifted. he pulled the blanket up over your shoulder, tucking the soft fabric around your chest to protect you from the cool night air.
he gathered you against his bare body, his muscular arm sliding beneath your waist to draw your body flush against his solid frame. you rested your head right over his heart, listening to the steady thud of his pulse. his fingers gently smoothed the damp strands of hair away from your forehead and face. "how are you feeling?" he asked.
"perfect," you whispered, voice tired. you pressed a soft, lingering peck against the skin of his collarbone. "just a little tired."
"i know, baby," he mumbled against your temple, resting his lips gently against your skin for a long moment. "just rest. i've got you."
he shifted carefully, propping himself up on one elbow so as not to disturb you. he reached for a washcloth that rested on the bedside table. with painstaking care, he wiped the traces of sweat from your neck, shoulder, and chest. every brush of the cloth was accompanied by a press of his lips against your skin. "jay," you breathed out. "you don't have to..."
"i want to," he muttered, eyes shining as he looked down at you. he set the cloth down and cradled your jaw in his hand, thumb caressing your cheekbone. "for months, all i could do was watch over you from a distance. i had to pretend i didn't care. taking care of you now... it's all i want."
the unfiltered honesty in his voice broke down the very last piece of your heart. you reached up, placing your hand over his.
he laid back down, pulling you tight against his side. he tucked your head beneath his chin, wrapping his arm around you so completely that you felt sheltered from the outside world. his thumb drew circles against your hip. "go to sleep, yn. i'm right here."
you let out a long sigh, burying your face into the crook of his neck. with the beat of his heart beneath your ear, you finally closed your eyes and drifted off.
when you finally woke, the sunlight was already streaming through the curtains, painting the bed in warm light.
you stretched lazily, hand reaching out across the sheets to find the familiar feeling of jay—only to meet empty linen. you blinked your eyes open, sitting up slowly. a momentary flutter of anxiety touched your chest before you caught the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wafting into the bedroom.
slipping out of bed, you wrapped jay's oversized shirt around yourself, rolling the sleeves up past your wrists and letting the hem fall to your mid-thigh. it smelled intensely of him, the warmth grounding you immediately. stepping out on bare feet, you walked silently into the living room.
standing by the dining table was jay. he was wearing a simple t-shirt and dark trousers, hair still damp from a quick shower. he had his back turned to you, completely focused on arranging a room service breakfast tray that had gotten delivered. in the center of the table stood a small glass vase with a yellow sunflower he must have requested.
you leaned against the doorframe, a soft grin spreading across your face. as if sensing your gaze, jay turned his head.
the moment he saw you, the edge in his posture disappeared. a smile broke across his sharp face, a quiet happiness you had never seen him in before. "good morning, beautiful."
he set down the things he was holding and crossed the room. the moment he reached you, his hands settled gently on your waist, pulling you flush against him. he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that tasted of clean mint and sweet coffee. it wasn't rushed or full of caution, it was deep and full of an unfiltered joy that made your heart soar.
"good morning," you muttered against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck and rising on your tiptoes to press another quick kiss to his jawline. "i woke up and thought you ran away."
a rumble left his chest, "not a chance. you're stuck with me now."
he pulled back just enough to look down at you, eyes dancing as his gaze dropped to the large shirt hanging off your shoulders. "though i have to say," he added, thumb lightly rubbing the bare skin of your hip where the shirt split open, "that shirt looks significantly better on you than it ever did on me."
you flushed and giggled. "it's really comfy. and it smells like you."
"keep it," he said. he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your hair, his calloused fingers lingering against your cheek. "come on. i had room service bring up breakfast before hayoon starts blowing up your phone."
he took your hand, lacing his fingers firmly through yours, and led you over to the dining table. he pulled out the chair for you with effortless charm, pressing a warm peck to the top of your head before settling into the chair beside you.
as nice as it was, the peace of that morning didn't last long. by two in the afternoon, the suite's serene tranquility had been thoroughly replaced by the usual hurricane of a busy day.
the vast, modern art museum was a maze of soaring concrete walls, towering glass installations, and harsh studio strobes. flashes fired in blinding bursts, echoing through the space along with the frantic voices of french art directors, lighting technicians, and your team bustling about with clipboard. "hold that angle! shift the main light a little to the left! come on, everybody, we have five minutes before the press junket crew arrives!"
standing near the base of a pillar paces away, jay didn't blink. to the team in the room, he was the definition of intimidation and discipline. he stood in his sharp dark suit, shoulders squared, hands clasped in front of him, face carved out of stone. his eyes scanned the busy hall, assessing every crew member and wandering people stepping near.
no one would ever guess that a few hours ago, the same man was ever so gently feeding you your breakfast.
you sat perched on a prop chair under the blinding spotlights while a stylist fussed with the collar of your blazer. taking a small breath, your eyes looked through the crowded room until they found him in the shadows. and he felt your gaze right away, eyes locking onto yours through the sea of moving crew members.
you caught his eye, taking advantage of a moment where the team wasn't surrounding you. keeping your face calm and expression neutral so no one else would notice, your lips barely moved as you silently mouthed across the room, "i miss you."
his eyes softened for a second. he subtly shifted, turning his back slightly to hayoon who was walking nearby. checking his surroundings quickly, he looked right back at you. his jaw barely moved, but his lips formed the words, "ten minutes."
you tilted your head, "and then?"
a tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. he kept his hands clasped firmly, maintaining his stance for the room, but his gaze kept yours possessively. his lips moved slowly, "i'm taking you."
a dizzying wave of heat surged through your veins. your heart did a violent flip against your ribs, and a smile almost broke through your professional composure before you caught yourself and looked down at your lap, your cheeks burning.
"alright, final poses for the press preview!" the director shouted, stepping in front of the camera rig. you immediately sat up straight and delivered a flawless look straight into the lens.
afterwards, the ride back to the hotel had been a torturous exercise in restraint. trapped in the backseat of the car with hayoon reviewing tomorrow's schedule, you and jay couldn't exchange a single word. he sat in the front passenger seat this time, eyes glued to the side mirrors. but every time his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, the tension thickened.
the second the doors to the suite clicked shut and hayoon's footsteps faded down the hallway, the heavy silence of the room snapped.
you barely had time to kick off your painful high heels before a pair of large hands settled firmly around your waist from behind. jay pulled your back flush against his chest, burying his face into your shoulder with a long exhale. the icy bodyguard vanished in a single heartbeat, replaced by the man who had been starving for you all afternoon. "finally," he pressed a warm kiss to the sweet spot right below your ear.
"ten minutes, huh?" you teased, turning in his arms to look up at him. you reached up, fingers going to the knot of his dark tie, loosening it with ease. "guess it had to be two hours instead."
"two hours too long," he groaned. he didn't waste another second, slipping his hands beneath your knees and lifting you off your feet. you wrapped your arms around his neck as he carried you the few steps over to the sofa, sitting down and pulling you right into his lap.
he didn't rush to anything. he just held you there, arms wrapped securely around your waist, tucking your head beneath his chin. "you were incredible today," he murmured, fingers stroking your back. "watching you under those lights... it took everything in me not to drag you out of there."
"i felt you watching me," you admitted, breathing in the comforting scent of cedar and clean cotton. "it was the only thing keeping me sane there."
he reluctantly let go of you, taking your hands in his. he rubbed his broad thumbs in slow circled over your palms and the sensitive skin between your fingers, working out all the tension you'd been holding throughout the day. a soft sigh escaped you, "jay... you don't have to pamper me like this."
"i want to, pretty," he replied raising your hand and pressing a kiss right to the middle of your palm. he stared at you for a moment, expression shining with a warmth that made your heart swell painfully tight. "i told you. when it's just the two of us, taking care of you is the only thing that matters."
the grounding comfort of that quiet evening didn't shield you from the relentless pace of your promotion schedule, though. just two days later, the setting shifted to a soundstage on the outskirts of the city for a live session broadcast.
when your manager stepped away to the green room to approve the broadcast's international distribution rights, jay seized the moment.
without breaking his performance, he caught your eyes and tilted his head towards a darkened area hidden behind the massive panels. you took a slow breath, casually stepping off the lighted stage to "adjust your monitor pack" while the floor director was distracted by a microphone issue.
before you could even react, jay pulled you into the narrow space. his hand settled at the small of your back as the other hand came up to cup your jaw. he leaned down, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss.
a gasp escaped your throat against his mouth. you threw your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him as close as physical space would allow. the adrenaline of being mere feet away from crew members and your entire team made the kiss feel more addicting.
jay groaned low in his throat, thumb caressing the skin behind your ear, deepening the kiss until both of your chests were heaving against each other in the dark.
"jay..." you breathed, pulling back a little, lips flushed and eyes heavy with heat. "hayoon... she's going to notice i'm gone."
"i know," he rasped, his forehead resting heavily against yours as his eyes searched yours in the dim shadows. "i just need thirty seconds with you. i couldn't handle seeing your there and watching you sing for another minute without touching you."
his hand slid down from your jaw, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. he pulled out a silver ring—a personal heirloom you had seen him wear on his finger whenever he was off-duty. taking your hand, he slipped it into your palm, closing your fingers tightly over it. "keep it with you," he raised your knuckles to his lips, giving them a small peck. "a reminder that no matter how many people are watching you... i'm the one right behind you."
your heart did a violent flip. you squeezed the cool ring in your hand, giving him a smile. "i'll keep it safe."
footsteps echoed over the flooring right outside, accompanied by the muffled voice of hayoon calling your name. and in a blink of an eye, jay stepped back, creating a distance and adjusting his earpiece as if he had just escorted you into the backstage alcove for a security sweep. "clear to re-enter the stage, yn," he said.
the heavy ring jay had slipped was kept in your bag throughout the trip, even until the thirteen-hour flight back to south korea.
but as the heavy iron security gate of the agency's private underground garage rolled shut behind the van, the coziness of paris vanished into the damp chill of seoul.
the second the engine cut out near the elevator bay, jay stepped out of the front passenger seat. as he scanned the dark parking area, his jaw was set in an unyielding line. "perimeter clear. team two, cover the stairwell access," he clipped out into his wrist mic.
hayoon stretched with a groan. "god, i hate these late night arrivals. come on, let's get you upstairs to the main office to sign off on the tour schedule, then we can finally send you home."
jay opened the heavy door, extending a hand to steady you as you stepped onto the slick concrete floor.
for a split second, as your fingers brushed his palm, your eyes met his. you searched his gaze for the man who kept you grounded the whole trip. he was there, but it was buried under layers of sharp alert. he gave your fingers one tiny squeeze before releasing them completely. "keep close to me, yn," he instructed as you started walking. "the cameras on the east side are under maintenance tonight."
hayoon walked a few steps ahead, tapping her phone as she pressed the button for the elevator. "sign-off should only take a few minutes upstairs, then—"
a sharp clatter echoed from the dark recess behind a massive pillar to your right.
before your brain could even process the sound, jay moved. "get back," he ordered, hand forcefully driving you behind his frame, shielding your entire body with his own.
out from the shadow of the pillar sprinted a figure in a black hoodie, face obscured by a medical mask. his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely unhinged. "yn!" he shrieked. in his right hand, reflecting the lights, was a utility knife. "you're back! you're finally back to me!"
he lunged directly for you, the blade raised high, ignoring the massive wall of a man standing in his path.
jay didn't retreat. driven by a combination of his years of training and a terrifying desperation to protect the woman he loved, he stepped directly into the attack line.
as the stalker slashed down, he grabbed his wrist with blinding speed, his hand locking around the man's arm like a vise. without missing a beat, jay drove his left elbow hard into the man's ribs with a sickening crack, instantly shattering the man's momentum. but before he could even scream in pain, jay executed a violent takedown. he twisted the man's arm back, forcing the blade to clatter, and slammed him onto the floor.
jay was on top of him in a heartbeat. he pinned the struggling, sobbing stalker to the floor with a knee driven into his shoulder blades. "don't move! don't you fucking move!" jay snarled, voice trembling with a rage you had never heard from him before.
"jay!" you gasped out, voice shaking as you took a timid step forward, tears pricking in your eyes. "jay, stop!"
your voice broke through the haze consuming him. he blinked rapidly, head snapping around to look at you. his eyes swept over your trembling body. "backup to the garage, now," he barked into his mic. "intruder subdued. call local police immediately."
and within seconds, the screech of tires and shouting security personnel flooded the basement, tearing the man away and cuffing him as police lights began flashing against the walls.
within thirty minutes, you were whisked up the elevator to the top floor. the moment the doors to han's office opened and you stepped inside, han nearly dropped his handset. "thank god," he managed to breath out. "yn, are you alright? police are handling the press. tell me—"
"i'm fine," you responded. "not a scratch."
he let out a shuddering sigh, turning his gaze toward the man standing behind you. "jay... jesus christ," he said. "if your instincts hadn't been that sharp, if you were even half a second slower... i don't even want to think about what would have happened. you saved her life tonight. i owe you everything."
jay offered a nod, eyes fixed on the windows. "i was doing my job," he replied, voice devoid of emotion. "it should never have come that close to begin with. the maintenance protocol was breached. i'm submitting a security failure report before morning."
han nodded, "we'll review security protocols tomorrow. right now, get her home safely. take the car through the private residential tunnel."
the drive to your apartment was conducted in a suffocating silence. jay didn't speak a single word. he drove this time, both hands locked onto the steering wheel, knuckles white against the dark leather. but there was an ice, impenetrable wall built up around him, so thick it felt like the air in the car had frozen over.
the moment the door of your apartment slicked shut, you expected the tension to break. you expected him to pull you into his arms, to hold you close.
instead, he froze. he didn't take off his suit jacker, nor did he unbutton his collar or loosen his tie. he stood near the door, posture as stiff and formal as a stranger's. "jay?" you called, turning around to face him. "are you... okay?"
"the residence is secure, yn-ssi," he said evenly, eyes fixed on the wall behind you, refusing to meet your gaze. a cold knot formed in your stomach. you took a step toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. "jay, stop calling me that. talk to me. you saved me tonight—"
the moment your fingers neared his sleeve, he took a step backward. "i am on duty until the morning team arrives," he continued. "i'll be outside in the hallway. please make sure the balcony doors remain locked, and get some rest."
"jay, look at me," you pleaded, voice breaking as tears started forming in your eyes. "please."
for a mere second, his eyes shifted toward yours. and what you saw in them cut deeper than any words could have. beneath the stoic mask, his eyes were shadowed with agony. in his mind, those moments in paris had dulled his sharp edges, making him hesitate down in that garage. he believed his personal love for you had almost cost you tour life.
he swallowed hard, "goodnight, yn-ssi."
and without waiting for your answer, he turned on his heel, stepped out into the hallway, and let the door click shut between you—putting a wall back between his heart and yours.
the days following that night in the garage, the secret paradise you and jay had built was gone. in its place stood a suffocating wall of pure professional protocol.
every interaction felt like a heartbreak. on set at television studios, jay performed his duties with robotic perfection. he checked your dressing room, stood guard near doors, and escorted you everywhere—yet he was more distant than he had been on his first day on the job.
he would avoid you in any way possible. he never made eye contact with you, and never even bothered to help you if any kind of physical touch was involved.
to anyone looking into han's office, the tall man standing at attention before the massive oak desk looked like the picture of composure.
but inside jay's head, it was a silent war. every time he closed his eyes, he saw that garage. he heard the metallic clatter of the blade, the manic eyes of the stalker, and he felt that sickening, split second freeze in his own heart.
i hesitated, the thought burned through his chest like hot acid. down in that dark corner, he hadn't reacted like a bodyguard but like a terrified man watching the center of his universe face destruction. and he couldn't afford to love you if it meant getting you killed.
"jay, be reasonable," han said, leaning back in his chair with a troubled sigh. he tapped his pen against a crisp set of documents. "you're the best head of security this agency has ever hired. you disarmed a threat in under five seconds. the press is calling it a miracle, the board is thrilled with you, and yn is completely unharmed. why on earth are you handing me a reassignment request?"
"my performance in the garage was compromised, sir," jay stated. "i allowed a threat to enter the primary perimeter before initiating defensive maneuvers. my emotional assessment of the client's safety is no longer objective."
han frowned, leaning forward as his eyes narrowed. "emotional assessment— jay, you've been working too many shifts. you're exhausted. take two days off. let the others handle tomorrow—"
"no, sir," jay interrupted, voice carrying a quiet, desperate authority than made han pause. "a temporary leave will not rectify the vulnerability. i'm formally requesting a full transfer. i have already drafted a recommendation for sector seven. their senior operative, seojun, is highly decorated and entirely objective."
han stared at him for a long moment before letting out a frustrated breath and picking up his pen. "if i sign off on this, there's no coming back, jay. you'll be reassigned to a corporate asset in singapore by the end of the week. you won't be on her detail ever again.
good, jay thought, even as a jagged blade twisted violently in his gut. she'll be alive.
"understood, sir," jay replied with a nod. "please sign the transfer authorization."
and it was well past midnight when you heard the news yourself. you walked down the hallway after rehearsal, holding your phone to check for any updates. not too far away, han was stepping out of the side stairwell, a thick folder tucked under his arm. he was on his phone, voice carrying clearly down the empty corridor.
"i know it's sudden," he said. "jay hand-delivered the transfer papers this afternoon. he's stepping down as her primary guard... sector seven is sending operative seojun to take over."
you froze in your tracks. "look, i tried to talk him out of it," han continued. "he won't budge. says his judgment is compromised. he's getting reassigned to singapore by the end of the week—"
the rest of his words faded farther, but the silence he left behind felt like a physical blow to your chest.
jay was erasing himself from your life.
your blood turned to fire. the sadness that had been weighing down your heart for the past few days burned away, now switched by a wave of fury. he was making this choice for you. he was deciding that his love was a weakness, that your connection was a flaw to be excised, and he was planning to go away without even giving you the dignity of a goodbye.
turning on your heel, you marched straight back toward the practice rooms. you didn't need to ask where he was. you knew him. you knew that while the secondary guards covered outside, jay would be doing his final inspections inside.
as you rounded the corner toward the main studio at the end of the hall, you saw the thin strip of yellow light. you reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
there, jay stood near the sound system, checking the area with a tablet in hand. the second the heavy doors swung shut behind you, his shoulders went rigid. he didn't turn around right away. he took a measured breath, closing his tablet before turning to face you. "yn-ssi," he called. "it's late. rehearsals ended an hour ago. you should be heading back."
"singapore, jay? really?" you asked, voice ringing sharp through the room.
a small hitch caught in his breath, but his face remained carved out of marble. "i don't know what you mean—"
"don't lie to me!" you snapped, taking two fast steps toward him. "i just heard mr. han on the phone. hand delivered transfer papers? operative seojun taking over? you leaving for singapore by the end of the week?"
jay's jaw tightened, eyes fixing on a point over your left shoulder, stubbornly refusing to look directly into your eyes. "my assessment is correct," he admitted. "operative seojun is highly qualified. his protocols are superior, and he has no personal history that could interfere with his work."
"personal history—" you let out a harsh laugh in disbelief, tears of frustration streaming out. "is that what paris was to you? fucking personal history? a flaw in your security metrics?"
"it was a mistake," he clipped out. "my primary duty is to keep you breathing. down in that garage, i hesitated. i let my feelings cloud my tactical response. if i am distracted because i am thinking about how to hold you, how to protect my own heart... i'm a liability to your life."
"you're a coward!" you shouted. jay flinched, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. "call me whatever you want, yn-ssi. but by weekend, my job ends. you'll be safe."
"i won't be safe, god damn it, jay!" you cried out, taking another step forward, closing the distance he desperately tried to maintain.
with trembling fingers, you held up your left hand, where his heavy silver ring sat gleaming under the lights. "what about this, jay?" your voice broke. "you slipped this ring into my hands and told me it was a reminder that you'd be right behind me at all times. was that a lie? was it just another shitty security protocol?"
his eyes snapped down to the ring, his breath locking in his throat. the sight of his band resting against your soft skin hit him like a blow, threatening to shatter every wall he had built.
"i don't want a perfect shield, jay! i want you!" your tears spilled over your eyelashes, fast down your cheeks. "do you have any idea how terrifying it is to stand on those stages? to face thousands of screaming people, never knowing who is safe and who wants to hurt me?"
jay's breath hitched, eyes flickering to meet yours, the mask beginning to fracture under the weight of your raw vulnerability.
"the one and only reason i can stand under those lights, the only reason i can sing without shaking, is because i know you're standing there," you whispered, hands trembling. "knowing you love me isn't a distraction, jay. it's the only thing that gives me the courage to survive this life."
you looked up at him, "so if you walk away now... if you board that plane to singapore... you aren't saving my life. you're breaking it."
the heavy silence that followed your words stretched across the empty studio. for a long second, jay couldn't move. he stood completely frozen, breath deepening each passing second, eyes staring into yours as the weight of your tears crashed over him.
suddenly, a noise escaped his throat—a sound raw with days of suppressed torment, guilt, and unrelenting love.
before you could draw another breath, jay closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. his hands cupped the sides of your face, fingers tangling slightly into your hair as he yanked you against him, knocking the air right out of your lungs. he bent his head down, pressing his forehead hard against yours, whole body trembling against yours like a structure on the verge of collapse. "god, yn..." he rasped. "don't say that... please, don't say that to me."
"it's the truth," you sobbed, hands coming up to clutch tightly at the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to his chest. "it's the truth, jay."
"i was terrified," he whispered, his hot breath fanning across your flushed skin, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears as he looked down at you. "when i saw that blade... when i realized how close he came to taking you away from me... my heart stopped. i felt weak. i felt like every second i spent loving you made me slow, made me reckless."
his thumb slid up to gently wipe the tears from your cheekbones. "i thought if i walked away, if i put someone colder between you and the world, you'd be safe," he murmured. "i was ready to burn my own life to ashes if it kept you breathing. but i can't... god, help me, i can't survive watching another man stand in place."
"then don't let him," you whispered fiercely, reaching up to hold his jaw. "stay with me. fight for me. love me."
jay closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as if your hand was the only thing keeping him grounded in the dark. a deep sigh wracked his broad shoulders, washing away the cold person he had forced himself to be, leaving only the man who belonged to you.
he slid his arms down, wrapping them tightly around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, placing his head into the crook of your neck. "i'm tearing up the transfer," he said against your skin, pressing a deep peck to the side of your neck that made your heart flip.
"no seojun. no singapore. nothing that steps between us."
one year later.
the roar of thousands of fans was still ringing in your ears, a deafening ocean of cheers that echoed off the stadium after the final confetti cannon had fired.
outside the exit, the rainy seoul night was a sea of blinding camera flashes and shouting press. it was the encore of your world tour, and the world saw an idol at the peak of her career.
right at your shoulder stood jay. dressed in that black suit of his, shoulders squared and sharp eyes scanning the crowd, he looked impenetrable. "keep moving forward," he rumbled smoothly as he cut a path through the media surge, guiding you toward the van.
later on when the door of your apartment swung shut, the silence of your private sanctuary washed over you like a warm blanket, swallowing the faint echoes of the screams you had heard.
the posture jay had maintained all evening finally softened. he unbuttoned his suit jacket, shedding the heavy fabric and tossing it over the back of an armchair. he reached up, pulling his tie loose with a slow tug, unfastening the two top buttons of his shirt to reveal the collarbones beneath. he rolled up his sleeves up his forearms, kicking off his shoes before turning to look at you.
"come here," he muttered.
without a moment's hesitation, you closed the distance, stepping straight into his frame. his arms locked around your waist, sweeping you off your feet. you let out a soft laugh, burying your face in the familiar scent of him. he carried you across the room to the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions and pulling you right into his lap.
he bent his head down, burying his face into your hair and letting out an exhale that seemed to drain the last drops of tension from his massive frame.
"you know," you started, resting your chin against his shoulder, "for a second out there by the barricades, i thought you were actually going to snap that reporter in half. you were giving him the scariest death stare ever."
a rumble of amusement vibrated in his chest. he pulled back to look at you, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. "he shoved a giant microphone right in your face," he recalled with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "he was way too close. honestly, you should be thanking me for being in my best behavior."
"oh yeah, suuuper great of you," you giggled, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the light rasp of a stubble against your fingertips. "pretty sure mr. han almost had a heart attack when you blocked the camera with your hand out of nowhere."
"he's fine. he'll live," he replied with a shrug, leaning into your hand and letting his eyes flutter shut to enjoy your touch. "besides i've got my priorities straight."
"is that so?" you smiled, thumb lightly tracing his lower lip. "and what are those?"
he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before finally brushing his lips against yours in a sweet kiss that felt like pure relief. "keep you safe," he mumbles against your lips. "love you unconditionally. and make sure you know you're stuck with me forever."
"sounds like a lifetime sentence, big guy," you whispered back, wrapping your arms around his neck.
heyy, can you do somthing like where the reader is a dancer and her body really hurts and when she gets home she cries and ni-ki comforts her ?? btw i LOVE your fics you such a good writer 🙂↕️
Always
Bf Riki x dancer reader
Sypnosis: Riki comforts you after a harsh dance session
Warnings: fluffff, tiny bit angst
now playing🎧- always- Daniel Caesar
📍a/n: IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE, guys ill try to finish all the request asap 😔😔😔 enjoyyyy!!!!
The walk from the subway station to the apartment complex usually took you exactly seven minutes, but tonight, it felt like an endless trek across a desert. Every step send a dull, throbbing ache straight up your shins, radiating into your knees and lower back like a localized earthquake.
You were twenty-four, a professional contemporary dancer in a city that demanded perfection, and today had been the absolute breaking point. A grueling, ten-hour technical rehearsal for the upcoming showcase had pushed your physical limits past the red line. The choreographer had been relentless, marking the seven-minute piece over and over again until your muscles burned with lactic acid and your toes felt raw inside your slippers.
By the time you finally pressed your thumb against the keypad of the apartment door, your entire body was trembling from sheer exhaustion.
The lock clicked open, and the instant you stepped into the entryway, the warm, comforting scent of cedar and clean laundry washed over you. The living room was bathed in a soft, low amber glow. Riki was sitting on the couch, a sketchpad resting against his knees, his sharp eyes focused intently on a blueprint design he was rendering for his firm.
He looked up the moment the door clicked shut. His expression, initially relaxed and welcoming, shifted instantly into a laser-focused frown the second his eyes landed on your posture.
You hadn't even taken off your coat yet. You were just leaning against the shoe console, your head hanging low, your shoulders shaking minutely.
"Sweetheart?" Riki’s low, smooth voice cut through the quiet apartment. He set his sketchpad on the coffee table, immediately standing up. "You’re late. I was starting to get—"
He stopped mid-sentence. You had finally looked up, and the flickering light revealed the silent, heavy tears streaming down your pale cheeks. The sheer, overwhelming physical pain from your throbbing muscles had combined with the mental exhaustion of trying to look flawless all day, and the dam had completely burst.
A small, broken sob escaped your lips.
Riki closed the distance between you in two long strides. He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand to know what happened or who had upset you. He just stepped directly into your space, his large, warm hands coming up to gently cradle your face, his thumbs instantly wiping away the hot tears.
"Hey, hey... I've got you," he murmured, his tone dropping into that fiercely protective register that always made your heart ache. "What hurts? Tell me where it hurts, baby."
"Everything," you wept hoarsely, your voice cracking as you leaned your forehead against his chest, completely unravelling. "My legs... my back... I can't even stand up straight, Riki. It hurts so bad."
Riki let out a soft, aching breath against your hair. Without a word, he carefully unbuttoned your heavy winter coat, sliding it off your stiff shoulders and letting it drop onto the entryway bench. Then, with the effortless grace he always possessed, he bent his knees and slid one massive arm behind your back and the other beneath your thighs, lifting you into his arms.
You let out a tiny, startled gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck. Even though you were independent enough, in riki’s arms, you felt incredibly small, perfectly shielded from the rest of the world.
He carried you down the short hallway and into the bathroom, setting you down with painstaking gentleness on the closed lid of the toilet. "Stay right here. Don't move an inch," he commanded softly, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to the top of your head before turning around to turn on the bathtub faucets.
You watched through blurry eyes as he knelt on the cold tile floor, rolling up the sleeves of his black sweater. He tested the water temperature with his wrist, adjusting the handles until a thick, soothing steam began to rise from the porcelain tub. He reached into the cabinet, pulling out the heavy bag of lavender Epsom salts he had bought specifically for you months ago, pouring a generous amount into the rushing water.
"Come here," riki murmured, turning back to you. He helped you strip out of your damp, sweat-stained rehearsal clothes, treating your aching joints as if they were made of fragile glass.
When you finally slid into the scalding, mineral-rich water, a long, trembling sigh escaped your lips. The heat instantly began to loosen the tight, angry knots in your calves and lower back, the pain dulling from a sharp knife to a manageable throb.
Riki didn't leave. He pulled over his low wooden desk stool, sitting right beside the edge of the tub. He reached for a small bottle of massage oil, pouring a few drops onto his palms and rubbing them together until his skin was entirely warm.
"Give me your foot," he ordered gently.
You lifted your right leg out of the water, placing your wet, calloused foot into his lap. Riki’s large hands closed around it. He used his broad thumbs to apply a firm, perfectly calculated pressure to your aching arch, working out the intense tension from hours of dancing en pointe.
A soft whimper of relief left your throat, your head dropping back against the rim of the tub as you closed your eyes.
"The choreographer made us run the allegro section twelve times in a row," you whispered, the residual tears finally drying on your face as the comfort took over. "I felt like my shins were going to snap. I was so scared I’d lose my balance and ruin the formation."
Riki paused his movements for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes looking up at you with an intense, fierce adoration. "You could never ruin it. You’re the most incredible dancer I’ve ever seen, sweetheart. But you push yourself too hard. You don't have to carry the physical weight of that studio home with you."
He shifted his grip, his long fingers moving up to massage your tight calf muscles, his thumbs tracing the long lines of your leg with a rhythmic, soothing motion that made your whole body feel like it was floating.
"When we're in this apartment, you aren't a performer," riki murmured, his voice a deep, grounding anchor in the steam-filled room. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be strong. You can just break down, and I'll always be here to piece you back together."
By the time the water began to cool, you felt entirely human again. Riki stood up, wrapping a massive, plush heated towel around your body the moment you stepped out of the tub. He practically carried you into the bedroom, guiding you into a pair of his own oversized, incredibly soft sweatpants and a matching hoodie that smelled entirely of his cologne.
He pulled the heavy duvet back, tucking you into the mattress before sliding in right beside you.
The moment riki’s broad frame settled into the bed, you eagerly crawled across the sheets, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck. His large arms instantly locked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on top of your damp hair.
His long fingers lazily stroked up and down your back, providing a lingering, warm pressure that kept the aches at bay.
"Better?" Riki whispered into the dark room, his breath ticking against your forehead.
"Mm," you hummed, your eyelids growing incredibly heavy as the utter exhaustion finally transformed into a deep, peaceful drowsiness. You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, your heart overflowing with a quiet, profound gratitude. "Thank you, Riki. For everything."
Riki’s grip tightened just a fraction, holding you securely against his chest as the quiet night settled over the city. "Always, baby. Sleep now. I've got you."
hello! idk if you're comfortable with this type of request but can i request an op81 x heiress!/royalty! read x mv3? max and oscar are a really good duo! 🥰🥰 thank youu
The Weight of Gold - MV3 & OP81
served with: max verstappen x fem!heiress!reader x oscar piastri
sypnopsis: as the heiress to F1's most powerful sponsor, Y/N has spent her entire life trapped in a cage of expectation. But when her father announces to the press, without her consent, his sham commitment to a mega-team, Max and Oscar enter the picture. As their paths cross around Y/N, the 2 rivals forge a silent, unbreakable alliance. They don't care about appearances, paddock gossip, or the threat of losing sponsorships. They're going to help Y/N regain control of her life and they have no intention of forcing her to choose between them when things settle down.
wc: 15.6k
note: hey besties!! I finally finished this fic, it took longer than I thought and it was longer than planned too 🤣🤣 I hope it's what you had in mind for your request and if not, I'm sorry 😪 I hope you enjoy it a lot, love you all!! 😽 (P.S. I hope being the heiress of a company is what you were expecting) ring inspo
The polished, untouchable heiress was a mirage. It just took Max and Oscar two entirely different moments to see the girl trapped underneath.
For Max, it happened three months before the Monaco breakdown, during the unrelenting rain of the Silverstone weekend.
Max was in a foul mood. Free Practice 2 had been a disaster of red flags and zero grip, and he had retreated to the quietest corner of the Red Bull Energy Station to escape the frantic engineers. The hospitality area was supposed to be empty, shut down for the evening to everyone except essential personnel.
But as Max rounded the corner toward the espresso bar, he heard a sharp, very un-heiress-like string of curses.
He stopped, leaning silently against the doorframe.
Y/N was standing in front of the massive, industrial espresso machine. She was wearing a flawless, structured white blazer, looking like she belonged on the cover of Forbes, but her posture was rigid with absolute fury. She jammed a button on the machine. Nothing happened. She hit it again, harder this time.
"Come on," Y/N hissed, her voice vibrating with a raw, desperate exhaustion that caught Max entirely off guard. "Just one cup. Do not do this to me."
The machine whirred, hissed aggressively, and spat a stream of cold, murky water all over the pristine marble counter—and directly onto the sleeve of her blazer.
Y/N froze. For a second, Max thought she was going to cry. The perfect, smiling asset that her father paraded around the grid looked completely shattered over a broken coffee machine.
Instead of crying, Y/N let out a breath, grabbed a fistful of napkins, and aggressively slammed them onto the counter. "Fine," she whispered fiercely to the machine. "Be useless. See if I care."
She kicked the base of the heavy metal counter with the toe of her designer heel—a sharp, violent thud that echoed in the empty room.
A low, involuntary chuckle escaped Max’s chest.
Y/N whipped around, her eyes wide, the mask slamming back into place so fast it gave Max whiplash. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and the furious, real girl vanished behind a polite, deadened smile.
"Max," she said smoothly, though he could see her pulse jumping at her throat. "I apologize. I didn't realize anyone was still here."
Max didn't smile back. He didn't like the mask. He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly toward her, his eyes locked on hers. He didn't stop until he was entirely in her personal space, close enough to smell the vanilla perfume and the bitter scent of the spilled espresso.
He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and flipped a hidden override switch on the back of the machine. The digital screen hummed to life, glowing a warm green.
"You have to reset the boiler after the cleaning cycle," Max said, his voice a low rumble. He pulled a fresh cup, locked the portafilter in place, and hit the extraction button. A perfect, dark shot of espresso began to pour.
Y/N stared at the coffee, then slowly looked up at him. The polite smile faltered, just a fraction. "Right. Thank you."
Max picked up the cup and held it out to her. When her fingers brushed his to take it, he didn't let go right away. His blue eyes dragged over her ruined white sleeve, and then back up to her exhausted, guarded eyes.
"For what it's worth," Max murmured, his voice dropping into that blunt, intense honesty he reserved for very few people. "I liked you better when you were kicking the counter."
He finally released the cup and walked away, leaving Y/N staring after him, the first tiny crack forming in her armor.
For Oscar, the realization came a month later, beneath the glittering chandeliers of a VIP gala in Monza.
The room was suffocatingly loud, packed with team principals, celebrities, and the corporate elite. Oscar hated these events, but McLaren expected him to make an appearance. He was seated at a table near the back, quietly observing the room with a glass of sparkling water, when he noticed her.
Y/N was seated three tables away, trapped in a conversation with two tech billionaires and her father. From a distance, she looked perfect. She was nodding at the right intervals, offering polite, composed smiles, and holding a champagne flute with absolute elegance.
But Oscar was a driver who made his living noticing the micro-details that everyone else missed.
He watched the way her knuckles were entirely white where she gripped the stem of the glass. He noticed that her polite smile never once reached her eyes—they looked glassy, thousand-yard-staring through the men talking at her.
Then, Oscar saw her shift her weight slightly under the table. Her foot slipped out of her towering stiletto heel, just for a second, seeking relief on the carpeted floor. It was a tiny, desperate motion. She was miserable. She was being held hostage in plain sight.
Oscar set his water glass down. He didn't overthink it; he just acted.
He navigated through the crowded tables with quiet efficiency, approaching her father's circle just as one of the tech executives was launching into a droning monologue about market shares.
"Excuse me," Oscar interrupted smoothly, his voice polite but carrying enough authority to halt the conversation.
Her father looked annoyed, but seeing the McLaren driver, he forced a smile. "Ah, Piastri. Enjoying the evening?"
"Very much," Oscar lied effortlessly. He didn't look at her father; his dark, observant eyes dropped entirely to Y/N. "Actually, I was hoping to steal your daughter for a moment. McLaren’s aerodynamicist was just debating the drag coefficient of the new rear wing, and Y/N promised she'd settle the bet."
It was a completely absurd excuse. Y/N’s father knew it. The tech billionaires looked confused.
But Y/N looked at Oscar like he had just thrown her a life raft in the middle of a hurricane.
"Of course," Y/N said quickly. She slipped her foot seamlessly back into her heel and stood up, placing the untouched champagne on the table. "Duty calls. Gentlemen."
Oscar offered his arm, a perfectly gentlemanly gesture for the cameras, and she took it. Her grip on his forearm was tight, her fingers trembling slightly.
He led her away from the tables, bypassing the aerodynamicists entirely, and steered them out onto a quiet, dimly lit balcony overlooking the Italian gardens. The heavy glass doors shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the gala instantly.
Y/N dropped his arm, turning her back to the glass doors. She let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders slumping as the perfect posture dissolved.
"Aerodynamics?" Y/N asked, looking over at him.
Oscar leaned against the stone balustrade, crossing his arms comfortably. "It was either that, or tell them I needed you to explain the geopolitical history of the tire blanket ban. I went with the more believable lie."
For a second, Y/N just stared at him. And then, it happened.
A laugh slipped out of her. It wasn't the polite, breathy chuckle she gave the board members. It was a real, bright, surprised laugh that completely transformed her face. The heavy, guarded look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a brilliant, unfiltered relief.
Oscar felt the air knock out of his lungs. It was like watching a completely different person step out of the shadows.
"Thank you," Y/N breathed, a genuine smile lingering on her lips as she looked at him. "I think I owed you a rescue."
"Anytime," Oscar replied softly, his eyes tracing the new, relaxed lines of her face. He filed the sound of that laugh away in his mind, making a quiet, concrete decision right then and there.
He was going to make sure she never had to fake a smile around him again.
Once Max and Oscar had seen the girl beneath the heiress, they couldn't unsee her. And more dangerously, they couldn't stop looking for her.
As the European leg of the season dragged on, a bizarre, unspoken phenomenon began to occur in the paddock. Wherever Y/N was forced to stand for prolonged PR appearances, either a dark blue Red Bull cap or a papaya McLaren jacket would inevitably appear on the periphery.
It started subtle.
In Hungary, when a gaggle of aggressive photographers cornered Y/N near the VIP turnstiles, Oscar "accidentally" stopped to tie his shoe directly in their path, creating a bottleneck that allowed her to slip away into the Red Bull hospitality suite unnoticed.
Two weeks later in Spa, it was Max. Y/N had been forced to stand in the pouring rain on the grid while her father gave an excruciatingly long television interview. Max had finished his own media duties, but instead of retreating to the dry garage, he casually leaned against his car’s front wing, angling an oversized team umbrella just enough to shield her from the worst of the downpour. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak to her. But he stood in the freezing rain for ten solid minutes until her father finally moved on.
They were orbiting her. Separately. Silently.
But it was only a matter of time before their orbits collided.
The collision happened in the sweltering, suffocating humidity of the Singapore Grand Prix.
Y/N had been running on three hours of sleep, paraded through endless late-night sponsor dinners. By Saturday afternoon, the exhaustion was radiating off her in waves.
Max had been tracking her movements since Thursday. He had seen the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup artist couldn't quite hide, and the slight tremor in her hands when she handed her father a microphone during a press event. Max's protective instincts were practically vibrating.
After Free Practice 3, Max bypassed his debrief entirely. He grabbed a bottle of electrolyte water and walked straight out the back of the Red Bull garage, intending to pull Y/N into his driver’s room the moment she stepped out of the FIA hospitality suite.
But when he rounded the corner, she wasn't there.
Max’s eyes narrowed, scanning the crowded paddock. He spotted the trailing edge of her father's entourage heading toward the Paddock Club, but Y/N wasn't with them.
Max moved with predatory focus, checking the usual hiding spots. The terrace. The media center fire escape. Nothing.
Finally, acting on a gut instinct he couldn't entirely explain, Max crossed enemy lines. He walked straight into the McLaren hospitality center.
The papaya-clad mechanics and PR reps stared at the reigning World Champion striding into their territory, but nobody was brave enough to stop him. Max ignored them all, heading straight for the private driver rooms at the back.
He didn't bother knocking on Oscar's door. He just opened it.
The blast of icy air conditioning hit Max first. Then, he saw her.
Y/N was curled up in the corner of Oscar's small, heavily air-conditioned driver room, fast asleep. She had a McLaren team towel draped over her legs to combat the chill, and her head was resting against the plush fabric of the sofa. The tense, rigid lines of her face were completely smoothed out. She looked peaceful.
Oscar was sitting in the armchair opposite her, scrolling through data on his tablet. He didn't look up when the door opened, completely unbothered by the intrusion.
"Close the door, Max," Oscar murmured quietly, finally flicking his dark eyes up to meet Max’s. "You're letting the heat in."
Max stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. He looked from the sleeping girl to the McLaren driver, his jaw tight. The bottle of electrolyte water in his hand suddenly felt redundant. Oscar had already placed a fresh, unopened bottle on the coffee table right next to Y/N’s phone.
"Her father is looking for her," Max said, keeping his voice to a low rumble so he wouldn't wake her.
"I know," Oscar replied calmly, setting his tablet down. "I told his assistant she got called into a meeting with Zak about the branding on the rear wing. Bought her an hour."
Max crossed his arms, staring at Oscar. The territorial fire that always burned in Max’s chest flared, urging him to grab Y/N, wake her up, and drag her back to his own territory. But as he watched Oscar—who was sitting guard with the exact same lethal, quiet devotion that Max felt—the fire shifted into something else. Recognition.
"You're tracking her," Max stated bluntly.
"So are you," Oscar countered smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze locking with Max's in a silent challenge. "I saw you block that Netflix crew from her in the pit lane yesterday."
"I saw you accidentally spill your water on that creepy tech investor who wouldn't leave her alone in Miami," Max shot back.
The two drivers stared at each other in the dim light of the room, the sleeping heiress breathing softly between them. They were apex predators in a cutthroat sport, trained to exploit weaknesses and destroy the competition. Sharing was not in their DNA.
But Y/N wasn't a championship trophy. She was a girl drowning in a gilded cage. And for the first time, Max and Oscar looked at each other and realized that neither of them had the power to pull her out alone without causing a PR explosion that would drag her down with them.
Max let out a slow, sharp exhale, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He walked over, setting his electrolyte water on the table right next to Oscar's.
"Her dad’s people will start swarming this building in twenty minutes," Max said, his tone shifting from adversarial to tactical. "If you take her out the back exit, I'll go out the front and start an argument with Laurent in plain sight. Every camera in the paddock will turn toward me."
Oscar’s mouth twitched into a slow, begrudging smirk. He looked at Max, the silent rivalry transforming instantly into an ironclad alliance.
"Distraction duty again, Verstappen?" Oscar asked quietly. "Careful. I might start thinking you're a team player."
"Shut up, Piastri," Max muttered, though a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his own mouth. He looked down at Y/N one last time, his eyes softening completely, before turning back to the door. "Twenty minutes. Don't let them see her."
"I won't," Oscar promised.
Max slipped out the door, the click of the lock sealing the unspoken treaty. The grid didn't know it yet, and neither did Y/N's father, but the war had just officially begun.
-
The roar of the engines had faded hours ago, replaced by the equally deafening hum of the Paddock Club. Y/N stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her champagne glass untouched, functioning exactly as she was trained to: as the perfect, smiling centerpiece of her family’s empire.
Her father, the CEO of the title sponsor plastered across half the grid, was currently holding court by the bar. Every time he glanced her way, Y/N knew it was an unspoken command to straighten her posture, to laugh politely at a stale joke told by a billionaire investor, to look the part of the dutiful heiress. Her heels dug into the carpet, a sharp, constant reminder of the cage she was standing in.
"If you grip that glass any tighter, it's going to shatter."
The voice was calm, pitched perfectly just under the noise of the room. Y/N didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She allowed her shoulders to drop a fraction of an inch as Oscar stepped up beside her. He wasn't in his race suit anymore, dressed instead in his team kit that looked effortlessly comfortable compared to her suffocating silk dress.
"If it shatters, it might give me an excuse to leave," Y/N murmured, finally unclenching her jaw.
Oscar took a sip of his water, his eyes tracking the crowded room with mild detachment. He was always like this—the quiet center of a hurricane. "I could always accidentally spill this on you. Ruin the dress. Tragic wardrobe malfunction. You'd have to retreat to your hotel."
A genuine, albeit tired, smile touched Y/N’s lips. "Tempting, Piastri. But my mother would simply have a backup dress materialized within three minutes. I'm stuck here until the board members are sufficiently charmed."
Oscar shifted slightly, angling his body to subtly block the line of sight between Y/N and the group of executives her father was entertaining. It was a small, deliberate movement. An anchor dropping.
"Take five minutes," Oscar said softly, not looking at her so as not to draw attention. "Go out to the terrace. It's empty. Breathe for a second."
Y/N met his gaze briefly. His dark eyes were steady, observant. He always saw the cracks before anyone else did, noticing the exact moment she reached her limit. "Thank you," she breathed.
Slipping out the heavy glass doors onto the dimly lit terrace was like breaking the surface of the water after holding her breath for too long. The cool night air of the circuit washed over her, and Y/N let her eyes close, leaning her weight against the railing. For exactly two minutes, it was quiet.
Then, the heavy door clicked open.
"You're hiding."
Y/N’s eyes snapped open. Max Verstappen stood in the doorway, his team cap pulled low, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked entirely out of place on the VIP terrace, carrying a raw intensity that demanded space. He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping out into the cool air and letting the glass door swing shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the party completely.
"I'm not hiding," Y/N lied smoothly, straightening up out of habit. "I'm getting fresh air."
Max scoffed, a blunt, dismissive sound. He walked over, invading her personal space just enough to make the air between them feel electrified. "You're hiding, Y/N. Your dad is looking for you in there to parade you in front of the new tech sponsors."
Her stomach dropped. The mask she had just managed to peel off slammed back into place. "I should go back inside, then."
She moved to step past him, but Max caught her wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but it was solid. Grounding. He looked down at her, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding, stripping away the polished heiress persona in a second. Max knew pressure. He knew what it felt like to have a parent’s heavy expectations dictating every move, turning a passion into a prison.
"You don't have to go back in right now," Max said, his voice dropping low, losing the abrasive edge it usually held for the press.
"Max, I can't just disappear."
"Yes, you can." He let go of her wrist, instead stepping into her line of sight to the door, effectively shielding her from anyone who might look out. "I've got the key to my driver's room. The couch is terrible, but it's soundproof. No cameras. No sponsors. Just ten minutes of absolute silence. You look like you're going to pass out if you smile one more time."
Y/N looked between Max’s fierce, protective stance and the glass door leading back to the flashing lights and suffocating expectations. She thought of Oscar, standing guard near the bar, giving her the quiet excuse to leave, and Max, standing in front of her, offering a literal escape route.
"Ten minutes," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking slightly under the weight of her own exhaustion.
Max’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. "Ten minutes," he agreed, gesturing toward the back stairwell. "Come on."
The descent from the Paddock Club to the ground floor was a blur of concrete stairs and service hallways. Max moved with practiced efficiency, taking the routes designed for drivers trying to dodge the media pen. He stayed half a step ahead of Y/N, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the lingering crew members until they reached the Red Bull motorhome.
When Max finally pushed open the door to his driver’s room and locked it behind them, the absolute silence of the space hit Y/N like a physical weight.
There was no clinking of crystal glasses, no camera shutters, no forced laughter. Just the low, steady hum of the air conditioning. Y/N exhaled a breath it felt like she had been holding since Thursday’s press conferences. She kicked off her heels without asking, her bare feet sinking into the utilitarian carpet as she collapsed onto the small, stiff sofa.
Max watched her from the center of the room. He didn't offer platitudes or ask if she was okay, because they both knew the answer. Instead, he reached into his duffel bag, pulled out a thick, oversized team hoodie, and tossed it to her.
"Put that on," Max ordered gruffly. "You're shivering."
"It's just the adrenaline leaving my system," Y/N murmured, though she gratefully pulled the heavy fabric over her head. The contrast of the dark blue cotton over her custom designer silk dress was ridiculous, but it smelled like motor oil, clean laundry, and him. It felt like armor.
Max grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and handed it to her before leaning against the edge of his massage table, crossing his arms. His blue eyes traced the exhaustion mapping her features.
"He’s suffocating you, Y/N." The bluntness was classic Max. No sugarcoating, no PR-approved phrasing.
Y/N stared at the water bottle in her hands. "It's the board, Max. Not just my father. If I don't play the game, they'll restructure the company and push me out entirely. I was born to do this."
"You weren't born to be a prop," Max shot back, his jaw tightening. "I know what it looks like when someone is pushing you until you break. If you let them, they will take everything until there is nothing of you left."
Before Y/N could process the raw, heavy truth in his voice, a sharp knock rapped against the door.
Max’s head snapped toward the sound, his posture instantly rigid. "I told my trainer I wasn't to be bothered," he muttered, stalking toward the door. He yanked it open just a fraction, ready to snap at whoever was on the other side.
Instead of a Red Bull staff member, Oscar Piastri stood in the hallway, looking entirely unfazed by Max’s lethal glare.
Oscar had his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans. "Didn't think you'd be giving paddock tours on a Friday night, mate," he said, his voice mild and unbothered.
Max narrowed his eyes, instinctively shifting his weight to block Oscar’s view into the room. "What do you want, Piastri?"
"To return this." Oscar held up a small, glittering designer clutch. "She left it on the terrace. Figured you wouldn't want her mother’s PR assistant finding it and tracking her down."
Max hesitated, and in that brief second, Oscar effortlessly pushed the door open a few inches wider, his dark eyes instantly finding Y/N huddled on the couch in the oversized Red Bull hoodie. A flicker of something territorial flashed across Oscar's usually placid expression, but it was gone before it could fully register, replaced by quiet relief.
"How did you know we were here?" Max demanded, his voice low and defensive.
"I saw you both take the service stairs," Oscar replied calmly, finally looking back at Max. "And it's a good thing I did. Her dad cornered me by the bar three minutes later asking if I'd seen her."
Y/N’s head shot up, a spike of panic piercing through the calm she had just found. "What did you say?"
Oscar stepped fully into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind him until it clicked in the lock. He walked over, setting the clutch on the small table next to her.
"I told him you looked incredibly pale, complained of dizzy spells, and that I practically forced you to go to the FIA medical center for hydration," Oscar said smoothly. He looked down at her, his expression softening entirely. "It’s a nightmare to get clearance to go in there if you aren't team personnel. Your dad isn't going to try."
Max let out a short, incredulous breath, staring at the McLaren driver. "The medical center? That buys her maybe thirty minutes before they start making calls."
Oscar turned to face Max, the height difference negligible, the contrast in their energy stark. Max was all fire and defensive tension; Oscar was ice-cold strategy.
"Exactly," Oscar said, his tone perfectly even. "So she gets thirty minutes of peace, Max. Not ten."
The tension in the small room thickened, heavy and electric. Max and Oscar stared at each other, a silent, assessing standoff between two apex predators who suddenly realized they were guarding the same territory. Neither stepped back. Neither looked away.
Y/N pulled her knees to her chest under the oversized hoodie, watching the two drivers. For the first time all weekend, she didn't feel like a pawn on a chessboard. She felt safe.
The silence in the room stretched until it was wire-taut. Max’s jaw worked, his eyes locked on Oscar with the kind of predatory focus he usually reserved for turn one on a Sunday. Oscar merely held the gaze, his posture relaxed, though the slight tilt of his chin betrayed a stubbornness that matched Max’s own.
"You can stop sizing each other up," Y/N murmured from the couch, her voice muffled slightly by the collar of Max’s hoodie. "I don't have the energy to break up a fight."
The tension snapped. Max broke eye contact first, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath as he resumed pacing the narrow strip of floor between the massage table and the wall. Oscar let out a quiet exhale, his shoulders dropping as he moved to sit on the edge of the small coffee table, placing him just inches from Y/N's knees.
"Not fighting," Oscar said softly, his eyes scanning her face. "Just figuring out logistics. You have about twenty-two minutes left before the medical center excuse expires and your mother’s assistant starts tracking your phone."
Max stopped pacing. "Turn it off."
"Max, I can't just—"
"Turn it off, Y/N," Max repeated, stepping closer. The raw command in his voice wasn't aimed at her in anger, but in fierce, unyielding protection. "If they can't reach you, they can't control you. Just for tonight."
Y/N hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for her phone resting inside the glittering clutch. The screen was already lit up with half a dozen missed calls. Before she could overthink the consequences, Oscar’s hand covered hers. His skin was warm, his grip steadying.
"I'll take the battery hit for you," Oscar offered casually. He took the phone from her shaking fingers, held down the power button, and tossed the lifeless device onto the counter. "Oops. Must have died. Tragic."
A short, genuine laugh punched out of Y/N’s chest, the sound surprising all three of them. Max’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction at the sound of it. He stepped into the space beside Oscar, leaning against the edge of the coffee table. The two drivers were suddenly a united front, a barricade of muscle and team kit standing between her and the world outside the door.
"Okay, her phone is dead," Max said, all business now, his strategic mind taking over. "But she can't go back to her family’s hotel. Her dad will be waiting in the lobby with a PR brief for tomorrow."
"I have a room booked under my trainer's name," Oscar said smoothly, not looking up from where his thumb was absently tracing a soothing pattern against Y/N’s ankle, right where the strap of her heels had dug violently into her skin. "Different hotel. Totally off the grid from the title sponsors."
Max narrowed his eyes, processing the offer. He didn't like the idea of Oscar taking her away, but he couldn't deny the logic. Max's own hotel was heavily guarded, but also heavily monitored by media. "How do you get her out of the paddock? If she walks out in that dress, even with my hoodie on, someone will recognize her."
"I can take my rental car around to the service gate behind the Red Bull hospitality," Oscar suggested. "It bypasses the main turnstiles."
"No," Max countered instantly. "The service gate is swarming with Netflix crews right now. You take her through the McLaren garage. It's Friday night, half your mechanics are already at the pub. I'll take my Honda out the front gate and create a bottleneck at the media pen. They’ll all swarm my car looking for a quote about qualifying, and you drive her out the back while they're distracted."
Oscar looked up at Max, a slow, begrudging smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Using yourself as bait, Verstappen? That's terribly noble of you."
"Shut up, Piastri," Max muttered, though there was no real venom in it. He looked down at Y/N, his blue eyes softening as they swept over her exhausted frame. "Does that work for you? You stay at Oscar’s shadow-room tonight. Tomorrow, we figure out the rest."
Y/N looked between them. Max, who was willing to throw himself to the media wolves just to buy her a clear exit. And Oscar, who was currently rubbing the ache out of her feet while quietly organizing a safe haven. The sheer weight of their combined care was terrifying, entirely foreign to a girl who was only ever valued for what she could provide.
"Why are you both doing this?" she whispered, her voice dangerously thick with unshed tears. "If my father finds out either of you helped me disappear, he could threaten your sponsorships. He’s ruthless."
Max reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The touch was impossibly gentle for a man who lived his life at two hundred miles an hour. "Let him try," Max said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I don't care about the sponsors, Y/N."
Oscar’s hand slipped from her ankle, his fingers coming to rest lightly over her knee, anchoring her to the present. "Neither do I," Oscar added, his voice a quiet vow in the sterile room. "We care about you. Now, let's get you out of this cage."
The execution of the plan was ruthlessly efficient, a stark reminder that Y/N was currently in the hands of two men who made split-second, high-stakes decisions for a living.
Max handed her a spare Red Bull cap, pulling the brim down low over her eyes. He lingered for a fraction of a second, his hands resting heavy and warm on her shoulders.
"Keep your head down. Don't look at the cameras if there are any left," Max instructed, his thumb brushing against her collarbone in a fleeting, grounding touch. He looked over her head to Oscar. "Text me when she's behind a locked door."
"Drive safe, mate," Oscar replied smoothly, picking up his car keys. "Try not to run over any journalists."
Max gave a dark, amused scoff before slipping out the door. Two minutes later, Y/N and Oscar followed.
The walk through the back corridors of the paddock was a masterclass in stealth. Oscar moved with a quiet, unhurried confidence, instinctively positioning himself between Y/N and any wandering mechanics. They slipped through the darkened McLaren garage, the sleek, papaya-colored cars sleeping under their covers, entirely devoid of the glamorous chaos they represented in the daylight.
When they reached Oscar’s nondescript rental SUV in the back lot, he opened the passenger door for her, making sure she was completely shielded before shutting it silently.
As Oscar pulled out onto the perimeter road, heading for the service exit, Y/N caught a glimpse of the main gates through the trees. It was a circus of flashing lights and swarming bodies, entirely centered around Max’s Honda. Max had parked at a ridiculous angle, blocking half the exit, and was currently leaning against his hood, casually giving a Netflix crew the most monotonous, drawn-out answers about tire degradation conceivable.
"He really does have a flair for the dramatic," Oscar murmured from the driver's seat, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice.
"He's going to get fined for blocking the exit," Y/N said, a weak smile breaking through her exhaustion.
"Red Bull will pay it. Worth every penny." Oscar merged onto the dark, quiet highway, the chaotic glow of the circuit finally fading in the rearview mirror. "You can put the seat back. We've got a twenty-minute drive."
The silence in the car wasn't heavy like the silence in the VIP suite; it was expansive. Safe. Y/N leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt lulling her into a state of hazy relief. By the time Oscar navigated into the underground parking garage of a modest, off-the-grid hotel, her eyelids were heavy.
Oscar handled the logistics flawlessly. They bypassed the lobby entirely, taking the service elevator straight to the top floor. He unlocked the door to a standard, unassuming suite—no crystal chandeliers, no sprawling terrace, just a quiet room with a large bed, a sofa, and heavy blackout curtains.
"Sanctuary," Oscar announced quietly, tossing the keycard onto the counter. "I'm ordering room service. What do you want?"
"Just tea," Y/N murmured, hovering awkwardly in the center of the room. The adrenaline had completely vanished, leaving behind an ache in her bones that felt impossibly deep. She reached up to pull the heavy hoodie over her head, intending to give it back, but realized underneath she was still trapped in the suffocating, corset-boned silk dress her mother had forced her into.
She reached around to her back, her fingers fumbling blindly with the hidden zipper. It was stuck, the delicate fabric caught in the tiny metal teeth. A frustrated, choked sound escaped her throat, a sudden wave of irrational tears prickling her eyes. It was just a zipper, but it felt like the last chain holding her to the cage.
"Hey. Stop. You're going to tear it, and then your mother will definitely execute us."
Oscar was there instantly. He gently swatted her hands away, stepping in close behind her. Y/N dropped her arms, her head falling forward in defeat.
"It's stuck," she whispered, her voice dangerously fragile. "I can't get it off."
"I've got it. Deep breath," Oscar said softly.
His knuckles brushed lightly against her spine as he worked the fabric free. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness—just the steady, methodical patience of a man who knew how to untangle a mess. With a quiet click, the zipper gave way, sliding smoothly down her back.
The corset loosened, and Y/N finally, truly breathed.
"Thank you," she breathed out, stepping forward and catching the dress before it slipped off her shoulders entirely.
"Bathroom is through there. Take your time. There's one of my clean t-shirts on the counter." Oscar stepped back, giving her space immediately. He picked up Max’s discarded hoodie from the armchair and held it out to her. "Keep this. It's colder in here than it is at the track."
When Y/N emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, the transformation was complete. The heiress was gone. Her face was scrubbed clean of the heavy, flawless makeup, her hair was tied up in a messy knot, and she was drowning in Oscar’s soft grey t-shirt and Max’s oversized blue hoodie.
Oscar was sitting on the floor, leaning against the base of the sofa, a pot of chamomile tea resting on the coffee table beside him. He looked up, his dark eyes tracking over her bare, scrubbed face and the drowning layers of their team gear. The corner of his mouth ticked upward into a soft, private smile.
"Better?" he asked.
Y/N walked over, sinking onto the floor right next to him instead of taking the couch. She pulled her knees to her chest, her shoulder brushing against his. "So much better."
Oscar poured her a cup of tea, sliding it toward her. Just then, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, and the soft smile widened.
"Max?" Y/N guessed, wrapping her hands around the warm mug.
"Yeah. He says the media finally let him leave. He wants to know if you're asleep yet." Oscar picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He looked at her, his expression turning serious, yet incredibly warm. "He also wants to know if he should bring breakfast tomorrow before we figure out how to handle your family."
Y/N stared at the steaming tea. Tomorrow, the war with her family’s PR machine would begin. Tomorrow, the consequences of her disappearance would hit the paddock. But tonight, she was sitting on the floor of a shadow-room, wrapped in the protective layers of two men who were fully prepared to burn that machine to the ground for her.
"Tell him yes," Y/N said softly, leaning her head against Oscar’s shoulder. "Tell him to come over."
Oscar’s arm slipped naturally around her waist, anchoring her against his side as he typed out the reply. "Done."
-
The knock on the door came at 6:15 AM, a sharp, rhythmic rap that dragged Y/N out of a deep, dreamless sleep.
She blinked against the dim light of the hotel room. She was tangled in the sheets of the massive bed, still drowning in Oscar’s t-shirt and Max’s hoodie. The sofa was empty, but a neatly folded blanket sat on one end.
The door clicked open, and Y/N heard the low, gravelly sound of Max’s voice, followed immediately by Oscar’s quiet murmur. She pushed herself up, padding barefoot into the small living area just as Max set a cardboard tray of coffees and a white paper bag on the kitchen counter.
Max was in street clothes—dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt, a Red Bull cap pulled low over his messy hair. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes speaking of a restless night, but the moment he saw her, his entire posture shifted. His shoulders dropped, and his blue eyes swept over her, lingering for a heavy, satisfied second on the sight of her wearing his oversized team hoodie.
"You look better," Max stated. It wasn't a question. He picked up a cup of coffee and walked it over to her, pressing the warm cardboard into her hands. "Oat milk latte. Two sugars. Right?"
Y/N stared at the cup, her heart doing a strange, painful stutter. "How did you know my coffee order?"
"I pay attention," Max said simply, leaning against the back of the sofa. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't have to. The idea of Max Verstappen—ruthless, hyper-focused World Champion—quietly noting down her coffee preferences during crowded hospitality meetings was enough to make her breath catch.
Oscar emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in his McLaren kit for the day, his hair slightly damp. He walked over to the counter, pulled a pastry from the bag, and tossed it onto a napkin before grabbing his own coffee. "Morning. How's the escapee?"
"Caffeinated, now," Y/N said, offering a small, fragile smile. She took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect.
But the domestic peace shattered exactly ten seconds later.
Oscar’s phone, resting face-up on the counter, lit up with a barrage of notifications. The buzzing was violent, relentless. Max’s phone in his pocket started vibrating simultaneously.
Oscar set his coffee down, his brow furrowing as he unlocked his screen. The quiet, relaxed aura around him evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness.
"What is it?" Y/N asked, the coffee suddenly turning to ash in her mouth.
Oscar didn't answer. He just turned the phone around so she could see the screen. It was an alert from a major motorsport publication, but it had nothing to do with racing.
BREAKING: F1 Paddock Royalty to Wed. [Family Company] Heiress Y/N Engaged to Tech Billionaire Richard Vance in Mega-Merger.
Below the headline was a perfectly curated, PR-approved statement from her father, expressing his "overwhelming joy" at the union of their two families. There was a photo of her attached—one taken weeks ago, photoshopped to perfection, standing next to a man who looked at her like she was a shiny new acquisition for his portfolio.
The air in the room vanished.
"No," Y/N choked out, taking a step back. The mug trembled in her hands, coffee sloshing over the brim onto her fingers. "No, we hadn't—I never agreed. I told them no."
Max snatched the phone out of Oscar’s hand, his eyes scanning the article. A muscle feathered in his jaw, tight and dangerous. "He released it to the press to force your hand," Max realized, his voice a low, lethal snarl. "Because you disappeared last night. He's trying to trap you in the spotlight so you have to come back."
"If I deny it publicly, they'll pull my shares. They'll ruin my reputation, leak stories about my mental health, whatever it takes to protect the stock price," Y/N whispered, panic clawing at her throat. She looked between the two drivers, the reality of her gilded cage slamming shut around her. "You have to go."
Max’s head snapped up. "What?"
"You have Free Practice 3 in two hours, and Qualifying after that. If my father finds out I'm with you—if the media links you to this—he will drag your teams into a PR nightmare. He sponsors half the grid!" Y/N was rambling now, moving toward the bedroom to find her discarded clothes. "I have to go back. I have to play the part, or he'll destroy—"
"Stop."
Oscar moved faster than she expected. He caught her by the shoulders, his grip firm and entirely grounding, halting her frantic retreat.
"Breathe, Y/N," Oscar commanded softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers, anchoring her to the floor. "We aren't leaving. And you aren't going back there to smile for cameras next to a man you despise."
"Oscar, you don't understand how ruthless they are—"
"I don't care," Max interrupted, his voice cracking like a whip. He stalked over, invading her space, his chest practically brushing her back as he boxed her in with Oscar. "Let him try to ruin me. I drive cars fast, Y/N. I don't give a shit about corporate politics or your father's money. You are not marrying him."
The sheer ferocity in Max’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn't just protective; he was possessive, a raw, burning fire fighting the ice in her veins.
"We have time," Oscar said calmly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders. "It's Saturday. The paddock is focused on Qualifying. You stay here today. Do not turn your phone on. Do not look at the news."
"And what happens tomorrow?" Y/N asked, a tear finally slipping hot and fast down her cheek. "I can't hide forever."
Max reached out, his rough thumb catching the tear before it could drop. The gentleness of the gesture was entirely at odds with the storm brewing in his eyes.
"Tomorrow, we win," Max said, his gaze flicking briefly to Oscar, a silent, ironclad agreement passing between the two rivals. "We handle the track today. You rest. And tonight, we figure out how to blow up your father’s empire."
The hours stretching between morning and evening were agonizingly slow. Y/N paced the length of the hotel suite, the heavy silence of the room pressing in on her. She had kept the television off for most of the day, terrified of seeing her own face plastered across the news networks alongside a man she loathed.
But when the clock struck three, she couldn't help herself. She found the remote and switched on the feed for Qualifying.
The broadcast immediately cut to the Red Bull garage. And there, standing behind the engineers, looking immaculate and furiously impatient, was her father. The commentators were already buzzing about the "wedding of the decade," casually mentioning that the bride-to-be was entirely absent from the paddock today due to a "minor illness."
Y/N felt physically sick. She watched as Max strapped into his car, his visor snapping down, hiding his eyes.
When the session started, it was brutally clear that Max was driving with a lethal, barely contained rage. He didn't just clip the apexes; he punished them. His RB21 looked like it was glued to the track, defying physics, setting purple sectors that made the commentators gasp.
Oscar, on the other hand, drove with terrifying, surgical precision. Where Max was a sledgehammer, Oscar was a scalpel. He carved through the circuit, unfazed by the traffic, entirely immune to the chaos unfolding in the garages.
They locked out the front row. Max P1. Oscar P2.
When Max climbed out of his car in parc fermé, the trackside reporter immediately shoved a microphone in his face. Y/N held her breath.
"Max, incredible lap! Your title sponsor's CEO is in the garage today celebrating a massive family milestone—any words on the big engagement?"
Max ripped his balaclava off, his chest heaving, his blue eyes instantly locking onto the camera lens. It felt as though he was looking straight through the screen, directly into the hotel room.
"I don't care about PR stunts," Max said, his voice cold and abrasive. "I'm here to race. The people who matter know where I stand." He shoved past the reporter without waiting for a follow-up, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
A few meters away, Oscar was approached with a similar question. He smiled, a tight, polite expression that didn't reach his eyes. "I think the only commitments that matter this weekend are the ones made on the track. Excuse me."
Y/N let out a shaky breath, collapsing back onto the sofa. They were daring her father to retaliate. They were drawing the fire away from her and onto themselves.
It was nearly 8:00 PM when the hotel door finally clicked open.
The heavy, metallic smell of adrenaline, sweat, and champagne immediately filled the small suite. Max and Oscar stepped inside, looking utterly exhausted.
Y/N was waiting for them at the small dining table, an open hotel notepad in front of her. She had spent the last four hours tearing apart her family’s corporate structure in her head. The panic from the morning had burned away, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.
Max dropped his helmet on the floor and crossed the room in three massive strides. He didn't say a word, just pulled her up from the chair and wrapped his arms tightly around her. The embrace was crushing, possessive, and exactly what she needed. Y/N buried her face in his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his race suit.
"We saw him in the paddock," Max rumbled against her hair. "He looked like he wanted to murder someone."
"Let him," Oscar said quietly, walking over. He didn't join the hug, but his hand came up to rest on the back of Y/N’s neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at her hairline. The dual contact—Max’s overwhelming heat and Oscar’s steadying touch—anchored her completely.
Y/N pulled back just enough to look at both of them. "You two are going to get fired. Or fined. Or both. Did you hear your own interviews?"
"I meant every word," Max said stubbornly, his hands dropping to her waist, keeping her close.
"McLaren pays my fines," Oscar added with a dry smirk, his hand sliding from her neck to rest on her shoulder. He looked down at the notepad on the table, his eyes narrowing slightly at the frantic, scribbled diagrams. "What's this?"
Y/N took a deep breath, stepping back to gesture at the paper. "It's my way out. You said we were going to blow up his empire tonight. I figured out how."
Max leaned against the table, crossing his arms, all his attention zeroed in on her. "I'm listening."
"My father controls the board because he holds a 40% majority," Y/N explained, her voice steadying as the plan took shape out loud. "I have 12% in a trust that fully vested on my last birthday. He thinks I’m too afraid of the family name to ever use it against him. But if I vote my shares with the minority stakeholders—who hate this tech merger, by the way—we can block the acquisition. The engagement becomes completely useless to him."
Oscar picked up the notepad, studying her frantic math. "You have the voting power to override the CEO."
"Yes," Y/N said. "But to do it, I have to go public. I can't just quietly break the engagement. I have to humiliate him in front of the exact people he’s trying to impress. I have to call a press conference and detonate the whole thing."
Max stared at her, his blue eyes darkening with a mixture of immense pride and something far more dangerous. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his knuckles. "You’re going to war with them."
"I am," Y/N whispered, leaning into his touch. "But I don't know how to get a microphone tomorrow without his security shutting it down."
Oscar set the notepad down. He looked at Max, the same silent, strategic communication passing between them that had happened the night before in the Red Bull driver's room.
"They won't shut it down if you're holding the microphone in the FIA media pen," Oscar said slowly, a brilliant, ruthless plan forming in his eyes.
"Only drivers and team principals are allowed in the pen," Y/N pointed out.
Max let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached out, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder in a rare display of complete camaraderie. "Not if she walks in on the arm of the race winner. The FIA won't dare drag her out on live television if she's standing between P1 and P2."
Y/N's breath caught. "You want to smuggle me into the post-race press conference?"
"We are going to walk you through the front door," Oscar corrected softly. He stepped closer, closing the small triangle between the three of them. His dark eyes were fierce, stripping away his usual calm facade to reveal the iron beneath. "You wear the team gear. You walk in with us. And you burn his absolute house down."
Sunday morning dawned with the heavy, electric tension that only race day could bring.
The hotel suite was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning. Y/N stood by the window, watching the distant grandstands filling up with a sea of fans. She had swapped the oversized hoodies for something completely different: a sharp, tailored black blazer and matching trousers she had requested Oscar’s trainer smuggle out of her apartment. It was armor. She wasn't going into the paddock as a lost heiress in a silk dress; she was going in as a majority shareholder.
A warm hand settled on the small of her back, the thumb tracing the line of her spine through the blazer.
"Nervous?" Oscar’s voice was a low, soothing hum near her ear. He was wearing the team's jersey and blue jeans.
"Terrified," Y/N admitted, leaning back slightly against his chest. "If I miscalculate this, my father will freeze my assets and have me escorted out by security before I even open my mouth."
"He won't get close enough to try," Max said, walking into the living area. He was tossing an FIA VIP All-Access lanyard between his hands. It wasn't one of her father's heavily branded corporate passes; it was a personal guest pass. Max Verstappen - Guest 1.
Max stepped up to her, slipping the lanyard over her head. He didn't let go of the thick fabric strap right away, using it to pull her just a fraction closer. His blue eyes traced her sharp, commanding outfit, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"You look dangerous," Max murmured approvingly.
"I feel like I'm about to jump out of a plane without a parachute," Y/N breathed, her hands resting lightly on his chest.
Oscar stepped to her other side, his hand sliding down her arm to briefly intertwine his fingers with hers. "You aren't jumping alone. My trainer is going to bring you to the paddock entrance with ten laps to go. You wait in the FIA hospitality suite—it’s neutral ground, your dad's people can't get in there. When the checkered flag drops, we meet you at the entrance to the media pen."
Max leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to her forehead. "We'll see you at the finish line."
Watching the race from the sterile quiet of the FIA hospitality suite was torture.
Y/N stared at the television monitors, her heart hammering against her ribs. The commentators were shouting themselves hoarse. Max and Oscar had pulled away from the rest of the grid by lap twenty, turning the Grand Prix into a two-man war of attrition. They traded fastest laps, their cars dancing on the absolute edge of grip. It was a terrifying, beautiful display of synchronized aggression.
They weren't just driving to win. They were driving to make a statement.
On lap 70, the checkered flag waved. Max crossed the line first, Oscar a mere six-tenths of a second behind him.
Y/N didn't wait to watch the cool-down lap. She stood up, her pulse deafening in her ears, and walked out the door.
The corridor leading to the media pen was chaotic, thick with mechanics, PR reps, and journalists preparing for the top-three interviews. Y/N stayed back in the shadows, pulling the brim of Max's spare Red Bull cap low over her eyes. She watched the monitors as Max and Oscar completed the podium ceremony. They barely sprayed the champagne, their faces set in grim, singular focus before they abandoned the podium entirely.
Five minutes later, the double doors at the end of the hall banged open.
Max and Oscar strode through, still in their sweat-soaked race suits, helmets dangling from their hands. The energy radiating off them was lethal. The crowd of journalists naturally parted, intimidated by the sheer intensity of the 1-2 finishers walking side-by-side.
Max’s eyes scanned the corridor, snapping to Y/N instantly. He didn't smile, but his jaw unclenched. Oscar met her gaze a second later, a subtle nod of his head signaling the start.
Y/N stepped out of the shadows.
The moment she joined them, the air in the corridor seemed to ignite. Murmurs ripped through the crowd. Y/N stepped perfectly into the space between the two drivers. Max immediately placed a heavy, grounding hand on her lower back, while Oscar stepped half a pace ahead, boxing her in from the flashing cameras.
They walked into the media pen as a united, impenetrable front.
The trackside reporter, microphone in hand, gaped at them. "Max, Oscar—congratulations. And... Y/N, we didn't expect to see you here today, especially after yesterday's incredible engagement announcement—"
"Stop," Max ordered, his voice echoing off the temporary walls. The entire pen went dead silent.
Before the reporter could recover, a furious shout broke through the crowd. "Y/N!"
Her father pushed his way to the front of the barricade, his face purple with rage. He was flanked by two massive corporate security guards. "What do you think you are doing? Get over here immediately. This is a PR disaster!"
Y/N froze, the ingrained terror of her father's voice paralyzing her lungs. But Max didn't flinch. He stepped directly in front of her, his broad shoulders completely obscuring her from her father’s line of sight.
"Take another step toward her," Max challenged, his voice dangerously soft, "and we’ll see how fast paddock security tackles a title sponsor."
"She is my daughter and the future wife of—"
"Actually," Y/N said, her voice cutting through the thick tension.
She stepped out from behind Max. Her hands were shaking, but she forced her chin up. Oscar moved subtly to her side, his arm brushing hers, a silent reminder that she was anchored.
Y/N reached out and pulled the live microphone from the stunned reporter’s hand. She looked directly into the primary broadcast camera, broadcasting to millions of viewers worldwide.
"There is no engagement," Y/N stated, her voice ringing out clear and cold. "The announcement yesterday was fabricated by my father and the board of directors to force a corporate merger without my consent."
Her father lunged forward against the barricade. "Cut the feed! Cut the damn feed!" he screamed at the cameramen. Nobody moved.
"Furthermore," Y/N continued, her eyes shifting to meet her father’s furious gaze, "as a vested 12% shareholder of the company, I am officially aligning my voting rights with the minority stakeholders. The merger with Vance Tech is blocked. The acquisition is dead."
The media pen erupted. Dozens of journalists started shouting questions, camera flashes exploding in a blinding strobe effect.
Her father stared at her, utterly ruined, the realization setting in that the daughter he had treated as a prop had just publicly dismantled his life's work in under sixty seconds.
Y/N didn't wait for the questions. She handed the microphone back to the reporter, her hands finally steady. She turned back to Max and Oscar, the crushing weight of twenty-four years of expectations completely gone from her shoulders.
Max’s eyes were practically glowing with pride. He didn't care about the cameras, the journalists, or the screaming CEO behind the barricade. He reached out, grabbing the lapels of her blazer, and pulled her in, kissing her hard and breathless in front of the entire Formula 1 world.
When Max finally pulled back, Oscar was waiting. He smiled—a brilliant, genuine, unfiltered smile—and took her hand, lacing his fingers tightly through hers.
"Ready to go home?" Oscar asked quietly, ignoring the absolute pandemonium erupting around them.
"Yeah," Y/N breathed, squeezing his hand. "Take me home."
-
The air in the glass-walled London boardroom was sterile, cold, and thick with open hostility.
It was month four of the corporate war, and Y/N was exhausted. She sat at the center of the massive mahogany table, a mountain of legal documents in front of her. For the past three hours, her father and his loyalist board members had been systematically trying to dismantle her coalition of minority shareholders through intimidation, legal loopholes, and sheer volume.
"You are acting on emotion, Y/N," her father said, his voice laced with that familiar, patronizing edge designed to make her feel like a child. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. "You are tanking the stock price with this rebellion. The Vance Tech merger is the only logical path forward. If you force this vote today, you will bankrupt the very legacy you claim to be protecting."
A few of the older board members murmured in agreement, their eyes darting nervously between Y/N and the furious CEO.
Y/N kept her face perfectly neutral, but under the table, her hands were trembling. Her father was good at this. He was twisting the narrative, making the minority shareholders doubt their alliance with her. She had the votes on paper, but if he managed to flip just two of them in this room, she would lose everything.
She opened her mouth to counter his financial projections, but before she could speak, the heavy glass doors of the boardroom swung open.
The security guard at the door sputtered, trying to step in the way. "Sirs, you can't go in there, this is a closed—"
"Move," a low, gravelly voice commanded.
The entire room went dead silent as Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri walked in.
They weren't in team gear. Max wore a tailored black button-down, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, looking every inch a man accustomed to commanding a room. Oscar was in a sharp, dark navy suit, devoid of a tie, radiating an icy, untouchable calm.
"What is the meaning of this?" Y/N’s father demanded, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. He pointed a shaking finger at them. "Security! Remove them immediately. This is a private executive board meeting!"
Max didn't even look at her father. He walked straight past the billionaire executives, pulled out the empty leather chair directly to Y/N’s right, and sat down. He slouched back comfortably, crossing his arms over his chest, and finally leveled a dark, predatory glare at the CEO.
"Try it," Max challenged softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room.
The security guard nervously hovered at the door, took one look at Max’s lethal expression, and quietly stepped backward into the hallway, letting the door click shut.
Oscar, meanwhile, walked to Y/N’s left. He didn't sit. He stood just behind her chair, a silent, immovable sentinel. He reached across the table, picked up the crystal pitcher of ice water, and poured a fresh glass, setting it gently near Y/N’s right hand.
"Sorry we're late," Oscar murmured to her, completely ignoring the fifteen stunned executives staring at him. "Traffic on the M4."
Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The trembling in her hands stopped instantly. The crushing, suffocating pressure of the room completely evaporated, absorbed by the two men who thrived under pressure on a global stage.
Her father slammed his hand on the table. "I will not have my boardroom turned into a circus by two racing drivers! Y/N, tell your... distractions to leave, or I will have the police escort them out."
Y/N picked up the glass of water Oscar had poured. She took a slow sip, enjoying the absolute, horrified silence of the room. When she set the glass down, the heiress was gone. The Chairperson had arrived.
"They are my guests," Y/N said, her voice ringing out clear, cold, and dripping with authority. "And as the majority voting bloc of this company, I decide who sits in this room."
She looked around the table, locking eyes with the wavering minority shareholders. With Max sitting beside her like a loaded weapon and Oscar standing behind her like a shield, the power dynamic in the room entirely inverted. Her father suddenly just looked like an angry, desperate old man.
"Let's be clear about the Vance Tech merger," Y/N continued, pulling a sleek black folder from her stack of documents and tossing it to the center of the table. "That merger wasn't designed to save the company; it was designed to liquidate our R&D department to cover my father's personal offshore debts. The proof is on page four."
The boardroom erupted into chaos. Executives lunged for the folder, papers tearing as the minority shareholders finally saw the unredacted financials her team had spent months digging up.
Her father stared at her, the color draining from his face. "You... you stole confidential files."
"I audited my own company," Y/N corrected coldly. She didn't break eye contact with him. "Call the vote."
Ten minutes later, it was over.
The vote was a landslide. The merger was killed, and a secondary motion to remove the CEO for gross financial misconduct was passed with a terrifying swiftness.
As the executives scrambled out of the room to call their lawyers and PR teams, her father stood frozen at the head of the table. He looked from Y/N, to Oscar, and finally to Max. He opened his mouth to speak, to hurl one last threat, but Max simply leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany table.
"I think your meeting is over," Max stated, his tone devoid of any emotion, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying.
Her father swallowed hard, turned on his heel, and walked out.
When the glass doors finally clicked shut behind the last executive, leaving the three of them alone in the massive room, the adrenaline suddenly vanished, leaving Y/N completely hollowed out. She dropped her face into her hands, letting out a long, shaky breath.
"It's done," she whispered into the quiet room. "It's actually done."
Max was out of his chair in a second. He crouched down next to her, gently prying her hands away from her face. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his fierce, blue eyes searching her face to make sure she wasn't breaking.
"You destroyed them," Max said, a fiercely proud smile finally breaking through his serious expression. "You didn't even flinch."
Oscar stepped around the chair, resting a hand softly on top of Y/N’s head, threading his fingers through her hair. "You were terrifying. I think the CFO actually cried."
Y/N let out a wet, exhausted laugh, leaning her head against Max’s shoulder while Oscar’s hand anchored her from above. She looked between the two of them, the men who had flown halfway across Europe on a Tuesday between race weekends just to sit silently in a room so she wouldn't have to face her demons alone.
"Thank you," Y/N breathed, wrapping one hand into the fabric of Max's shirt and reaching up with the other to grip Oscar's wrist. "For showing up."
"Always," Oscar promised quietly.
Max pressed a kiss to her temple, pulling her up from the chair. "Come on, Chairperson. Let's get out of London. I know a place in Monaco that delivers terrible takeout."
-
The fallout from the media pen was apocalyptic, but for the first time in her life, Y/N didn’t care.
Walking out of the paddock that Sunday, flanked by Max and Oscar, felt like walking out of a burning building. They didn’t look back. Her father’s PR machine scrambled to do damage control, the board of directors convened in emergency sessions, and the global media lost their collective minds over the love triangle that had just hijacked the Formula 1 World Championship.
But behind the locked doors of Max’s Monaco apartment, the three of them simply shut off their phones, ordered terrible takeout, and finally breathed.
The corporate war took six brutal months. Y/N leveraged her shares, rallied the minority stakeholders, and ruthlessly ousted her father from the CEO position. She didn't destroy the company; she took it over. She restructured the board, tore up the toxic sponsor mandates, and rebuilt the empire on her own terms. Max and Oscar were her unwavering anchors through every vicious legal battle and grueling boardroom standoff. When she was too exhausted to fight, Max gave her his fire. When she was too overwhelmed to think, Oscar gave her his ice.
They didn't conform to anyone's expectations. They just existed, perfectly balanced, fiercely protective of the sanctuary they had built together.
One Year Later
The roar of the engines vibrating through the grid was deafening, a physical force that rattled the ribcage. The Mediterranean sun beat down on the asphalt, and the paddock was a chaotic sea of VIPs, mechanics, and flashing cameras.
It was the exact same environment that had once been Y/N’s gilded cage. Now, it was just her playground.
Y/N stood at the back of the Red Bull garage, a clipboard tucked under her arm. She wasn't wearing a suffocating designer silk dress or agonizing heels. She wore a sharp, tailored black jumpsuit, comfortable sneakers, and draped casually over her shoulders was a bright papaya McLaren team jacket. Resting against her collarbone, catching the light, was a thick gold chain carrying a small, diamond-encrusted lion pendant—a gift Max had secured around her neck before they left the apartment that morning.
She was the youngest acting Chairperson in her company’s history, the lead sponsor for half the grid, and the most untouchable woman in motorsport.
"You're supposed to be pretending to be impartial, you know."
Y/N looked up from her notes. Oscar was leaning against the engineering bulkhead, his race suit tied around his waist, an easy, fond smirk playing on his lips.
"I am entirely impartial," Y/N replied, stepping forward and adjusting the collar of the McLaren jacket she had stolen from his driver’s room an hour ago.
"Right. That's why you're standing in the Red Bull garage wearing my clothes," Oscar teased quietly. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was as grounding as ever, a quiet harbor in the middle of the grid's madness. "How were the sponsor meetings?"
"Boring. But short," Y/N smiled, leaning into his hand. "Nobody argues with me anymore. It’s wonderfully refreshing."
Before Oscar could reply, a heavy presence stepped up behind Y/N. A familiar, calloused hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against a firm chest clad in dark blue fireproofs.
"She's wearing your jacket because it's cold in the paddock," Max muttered, resting his chin briefly on top of Y/N's head as he glared playfully at the McLaren driver. "But she's standing in my garage because I qualify faster."
Oscar let out a dry, genuine laugh. "Keep telling yourself that, mate. Let's see who's faster into turn one."
Max grinned, a feral, competitive spark lighting up his blue eyes. He turned his attention down to Y/N, his expression instantly softening into something impossibly warm and exclusively hers. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, entirely unbothered by the Netflix cameras lingering twenty feet away. The media had spent months trying to dissect their dynamic, trying to figure out who was the "real" partner, before finally giving up. The truth was too undeniable to twist: they were a unit. A closed circuit.
"Five minutes to track clearance," Max murmured, his thumb stroking her hip. "Will you be on the pit wall?"
"For the first half," Y/N promised, turning her head to press a quick kiss to his jaw. "Then I'm walking over to McLaren for the second half. Try not to run each other off the road while I'm in transit, please."
"No promises," Oscar and Max said in unison.
They shared a look—the same silent, ironclad understanding that had forged their alliance a year ago in a sterile driver’s room. They were rivals on the asphalt, ruthless and unyielding, but the moment they stepped out of the cars, they belonged to the same girl.
Max squeezed her waist one last time before pulling his balaclava over his head and stepping out toward the car. Oscar gave her a soft, lingering smile, his knuckles brushing against her cheek.
"See you at the podium," Oscar promised quietly, turning to head back down the pit lane to his own garage.
Y/N stood alone at the edge of the garage as the cars fired up, the deafening scream of the engines drowning out the paddock chatter. The cameras flashed, capturing her standing exactly where she wanted to be, wearing the colors of the two men she loved, entirely unbothered by the noise.
She looked out at the glittering Monaco harbor, taking a deep, unrestricted breath.
The cage was gone. She held the keys now.
-
The Monaco apartment was usually just a high-end storage unit for their luggage between race weekends. But on a rare, rainy Tuesday in October, it was a sanctuary.
Outside, the Mediterranean was swallowed by a heavy, grey storm, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the sleek, obscenely expensive kitchen was currently the site of a logistical nightmare.
Y/N had made a fatal error: she had suggested they cook dinner instead of ordering in.
"I'm just saying, it’s rice," Max grumbled, leaning heavily over the marble island. He was holding a wooden spoon like it was a steering wheel, staring aggressively into a simmering steel pan. "If I turn the heat up, it cooks faster. That is basic science."
"It's risotto, Max, not a qualifying lap," Oscar corrected smoothly from the other side of the island.
Oscar was wearing a dark grey apron over his t-shirt, completely unbothered by the kitchen chaos. He was currently mincing garlic with terrifying, surgical precision, the knife rocking back and forth in a perfect, rhythmic cadence. "If you turn the heat up, you burn the arborio, ruin the starch release, and we end up eating crunchy garlic paste."
"You have been adding broth for twenty minutes," Max argued, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. He abandoned the stove, walking over to where Y/N was perched on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Max wedged himself directly between her knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin heavily on her chest with a dramatic groan. "He is torturing me on purpose."
Y/N laughed, resting one hand on the back of Max’s neck, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape. With her other hand, she took a sip of her red wine. "Oscar is following the recipe. You are trying to bully the rice into submitting to your will. They require different strategies."
"My strategy is faster," Max muttered into her collarbone, his breath warm against her skin. He didn't move, entirely content to use her as a human shield against culinary responsibility.
Oscar paused his chopping, picking up a small spoonful of the simmering risotto. He walked around the island, bypassing Max entirely, and held the wooden spoon up to Y/N’s lips.
"Taste test," Oscar murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers, completely ignoring the World Champion currently clinging to her waist.
Y/N leaned forward and tasted it. The rich, savory warmth of parmesan and white wine hit her tongue perfectly. She closed her eyes, letting out a soft hum of approval. "That’s actually incredible."
"See?" Oscar said mildly, reaching out with his free hand to wipe a microscopic drop of broth from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "Patience yields results."
Max turned his head just enough to glare at the McLaren driver. "Give me that."
Oscar obliged, holding the spoon out. Max took a reluctant taste, chewing slowly. His eyes narrowed as he realized it was, in fact, perfect.
"Fine," Max conceded begrudgingly. "But I’m taking credit for the stirring. The stirring was crucial."
"You stirred it like you were trying to dig a hole through the bottom of the pan," Oscar pointed out drily, turning back to the stove to turn off the heat. "But sure. Team effort."
The three of them ended up abandoning the formal dining table entirely. Instead, they dragged a mountain of throw pillows and thick blankets onto the rug in the living room, sitting on the floor with their bowls of risotto, the rain hammering against the glass walls of the apartment.
Y/N sat cross-legged, leaning sideways against Oscar’s shoulder. Max was stretched out on his back, his head resting squarely in Y/N’s lap, perfectly content to let her feed him a bite from her bowl every few minutes while he stared up at the ceiling.
"We leave for Austin on Monday," Max noted quietly, the tension of the impending race week creeping slowly into his voice. The final stretch of the season was always brutal.
Y/N trailed her fingers lightly across Max’s forehead, smoothing out the tiny crease forming between his brows. "Monday is a long time from now. Tonight, we just exist here."
Oscar shifted slightly, wrapping his arm around Y/N’s back and pulling her closer to his side, effectively anchoring both her and Max to the present moment. He rested his chin on the top of her head.
"No press, no sponsors, no track limits," Oscar murmured into her hair, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated against her shoulder. "Just us."
Max turned his face slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of Y/N’s wrist where it rested near his jaw. He closed his eyes, leaning fully into the quiet sanctuary they had built.
"Just us," Max echoed softly.
-
The flight from Monaco to Austin was nine hours of pressurized cabin air and shifting time zones. By the time they unlocked the door to their secluded rental property in the Texas hills, the clock read 10:00 PM local time, but their bodies were stubbornly protesting that it was 5:00 AM.
The house was dark, quiet, and smelled faintly of cedar and dry Texas air.
"I am completely dead," Max announced, his voice a gravelly, sand-papered rasp. He didn't even drop his heavy duffel bag; he just unclipped it and let it fall straight onto the hardwood floor of the entryway.
He moved like a zombie toward the sprawling master bedroom, collapsing face-down across the massive king-sized bed without even removing his sneakers.
Oscar, carrying Y/N’s smaller rolling suitcase along with his own, walked into the kitchen with the slow, methodical stride of someone operating on autopilot. He set the luggage down, walked over to the fridge, and opened it. The light illuminated the exhaustion etched deep into the shadows under his eyes.
"The team stocked it," Oscar muttered, his usual sharp cadence slowed down by the jet lag. "There’s milk, eggs, and... three different types of locally brewed IPA that Max will definitely try to drink before FP1."
Y/N walked up behind him, her limbs feeling like lead weights. She didn't say anything, she just leaned her forehead directly against the center of Oscar’s back, letting her arms loop loosely around his waist.
Oscar didn't move. He just let out a long, slow exhale, his hands resting on the edge of the refrigerator door as he leaned back into her weight, anchoring her. "We should sleep," he murmured into the cold air of the fridge.
"Max is already unconscious," Y/N mumbled against the fabric of his shirt. "I think he’s wearing his shoes."
Oscar let out a quiet, breathless chuckle. He turned around within the circle of her arms, closing the fridge door and plunging the kitchen back into the soft, ambient glow of the outdoor landscape lights. He reached down, his hands cupping the back of her thighs, and effortlessly lifted her up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist out of habit, her hands sliding up to grip his shoulders.
Oscar stepped in close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He didn't say anything for a long time, just breathed her in, his hands sliding up her back to hold her tight against him. In the quiet, dark kitchen, away from the paddock turnstiles and the corporate contracts, the silence was expansive.
"Come here," a low, demanding rumble echoed from the bedroom doorway.
They both looked over. Max was leaning against the doorframe, looking utterly disheveled. His hair was standing up in three different directions, his eyes were half-lidded with sleep, and he had managed to kick his shoes off, but he was still wearing his dark jeans and a rumpled t-shirt.
"You're both vibrating," Max muttered, his bluntness amplified by his exhaustion. He walked over, his heavy steps silent on the rug, and wedged himself into the space right next to Oscar, his large hands immediately reaching out to grip Y/N’s hips. "Stop thinking about the data. Stop thinking about the board. Come to bed."
Y/N smiled, reaching out to tangle her fingers in Max’s chaotic hair, smoothing it down. "We're coming, Max."
Ten minutes later, the lights in the Texas villa were completely out.
The bed was a massive, tangled sea of white sheets and heavy blankets. Y/N was stuck directly in the middle. Max had claimed her left side, one of his heavy, calloused legs thrown completely over hers, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist as if making sure she couldn't escape into the night. His breathing was already deep and even, a heavy, rhythmic anchor.
Oscar was on her right, pulled in close enough that his chest was pressed against her shoulder. He wasn't as heavy as Max, but he was immovable. His hand was slid beneath the small of her back, his fingers tracing slow, abstract shapes against her skin through her t-shirt, a quiet, soothing pattern that systematically turned off the remaining static in her brain.
Y/N looked up at the ceiling, listening to the synchronized breathing of the two men holding her captive in the dark.
Tomorrow, the Texas heat would hit. Tomorrow, the Austin circuit would swarm with hundreds of thousands of fans, flashing cameras, and the relentless pressure of the championship fight. Max and Oscar would become rivals again, fighting for inches at two hundred miles an hour.
But tonight, in the quiet dark of the hill country, they were just three people who had successfully stolen their lives back from the world.
Y/N closed her eyes, turning her face into Oscar’s shoulder while Max’s grip tightened imperceptibly around her waist, and finally drifted off to sleep.
Thursday media day at the Circuit of the Americas was always a special kind of chaos.
The Texas sun beat down relentlessly on the asphalt, turning the paddock into a sweltering oven. The air was thick with humidity, the smell of barbecue from the hospitality suites, and the electric buzz of American fans who brought a completely different, wilder energy to the sport.
Y/N navigated the crowded paddock with effortless authority. She was dressed for the brutal heat in a tailored, lightweight cream linen vest and matching trousers, looking every inch the untouchable Chairperson of a global conglomerate. But the sharp corporate edge was softened by the details: she was wearing Max’s favorite pair of dark aviators, and strapped to her wrist was Oscar’s spare Richard Mille watch, the oversized face sliding down her forearm.
She had just wrapped up a highly successful meeting with the circuit promoters and was making her way back toward the center of the paddock when a rogue Drive to Survive camera crew intercepted her path.
"Madame Chairperson!" the producer called out, motioning for the boom mic operator to step in. "A quick question for the fans? The championship fight is coming down to the wire between Red Bull and McLaren. Who exactly are you rooting for this weekend?"
It was a trap of a question, designed to manufacture drama. A year ago, a microphone in her face would have sent her into a spiral of anxiety, terrified of saying the wrong thing and invoking her father's wrath.
Today, Y/N simply stopped, lowered the dark aviators down the bridge of her nose, and offered a cool, entirely unbothered smile.
"I am rooting for an excellent return on investment for my shareholders," Y/N replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "And as my company sponsors both teams, I think I'm guaranteed a win either way. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a strategy briefing to attend."
She slipped her sunglasses back up and stepped around the crew, leaving them scrambling for a follow-up.
A low, familiar chuckle sounded from the shaded awning of the Red Bull hospitality suite to her left.
Max was leaning against the barrier, dressed in his dark blue shorts and a Red Bull polo. He had a white towel draped around his neck against the heat, and he was watching her with that dark, intensely proud expression that always made her pulse skip a beat.
"Very diplomatic, Madame Chairperson
"I try," Y/N smiled, stepping into the shade.
Before she could say another word, Max reached out and unapologetically dropped a massive, woven cowboy hat onto her head. It sank down, completely messing up her carefully styled hair and shielding half her face.
Y/N pushed the brim up, glaring playfully at the World Champion. "Really, Max?"
"It suits you," Max grinned, a feral, boyish spark in his eyes. He stepped into her space, entirely ignoring the cameras clicking a few yards away. He wrapped a heavy hand around the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin just beneath the collar of her linen vest, and leaned in to press a lingering, unapologetic kiss to her mouth.
It was still surreal to the paddock—the ruthlessly private Max Verstappen openly displaying affection in the middle of a race weekend. But he didn't care. He had almost lost her to a corporate cage, and he was never going to pretend she wasn't his again.
"You're going to get sweat on her suit, mate," a calm, dry voice interrupted.
Max pulled back just a fraction, keeping his hand firmly on the back of Y/N’s neck, and looked over her shoulder.
Oscar was strolling up the paddock path, looking entirely unbothered by the Texas heat in his papaya kit. He was holding two iced coffees, the condensation dripping down the plastic cups. He walked directly into the Red Bull awning, entirely ignoring the confused looks of the Red Bull PR team, and handed one of the cups to Y/N.
"Thank you," Y/N breathed, wrapping her hands around the freezing plastic. She took a long sip, the caffeine and ice immediately reviving her.
Oscar reached out and adjusted the ridiculous cowboy hat on her head, tilting it back so he could actually see her eyes. "Good meeting?"
"Excellent," Y/N said, leaning her shoulder casually against his chest. "I terrified three different marketing executives."
"That's my girl," Oscar murmured softly, his dark eyes flashing with quiet pride. He looked at Max, the easy camaraderie settling over them. "You ready for the press conference? They put us in the same group today. They're going to try and make us trash-talk each other."
Max scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his competitive fire instantly flaring to life. "I don't need to trash-talk you, Piastri. I'll just beat you into turn one on Sunday."
"Right. Because that worked out so well for you in Singapore," Oscar fired back smoothly, taking a sip of his iced coffee.
"That was a tire degradation issue!" Max argued immediately, his voice rising in volume.
Y/N stood between them, sipping her iced coffee in the sweltering Texas heat, listening to the two most lethal drivers on the grid bicker about brake bias and apex lines. The cameras outside the awning were desperately trying to capture the "hostility" between the championship rivals, completely missing the fact that under the shade, Oscar’s knee was casually resting against Max’s leg, and Max’s hand was still resting protectively on the back of Y/N’s neck.
They were going to go to war on the asphalt on Sunday. But the moment the checkered flag dropped, they would both come back to the exact same place.
-
Three Years Later
The F1 calendar had grown to a grueling twenty-six races, making the deep winter shutdown the most sacred time of the year.
Outside the glass walls of their secluded Alpine chalet, a heavy snowstorm was burying the mountains in total whiteout conditions. Inside, the fire was roaring, the only sound accompanying the soft crackle of burning cedar and the howling wind.
Y/N was curled up on the massive velvet sofa, swathed in a thick cashmere blanket. She was three years into her tenure as Chairperson, having doubled the company’s valuation and cemented herself as the most terrifyingly effective negotiator in motorsport. But here, miles above sea level with zero cell reception, she was completely at peace.
She turned a page in her book, blindly reaching out with her left hand to grab her mug of hot tea.
Instead of ceramic, her fingers brushed against warm skin.
Y/N looked up. Max was kneeling beside the coffee table, having silently intercepted her tea. He set the mug down, but didn't let go of her hand. His blue eyes were piercing, completely stripped of the competitive fire that usually defined him, leaving behind something impossibly raw and devoted.
A floorboard creaked softly to her right. Y/N turned her head to see Oscar standing just behind the sofa. He walked around to join Max, moving with that quiet, unhurried grace. He knelt on her other side, his knee brushing against Max’s in the tight space. Oscar reached out, his warm hands entirely covering her right hand where it rested on her lap.
The air in the room suddenly shifted. It wasn't heavy or suffocating—it was electric.
"What are you two doing?" Y/N asked softly, her heart giving a sudden, violent kick against her ribs.
Max and Oscar shared a look. It was that same silent, ironclad communication they had used in the Red Bull driver’s room years ago, the exact same wavelength that allowed them to dismantle boardrooms and coordinate on track.
Oscar turned his dark, steady eyes back to her. He reached into the pocket of his dark wool sweater and pulled out a small, midnight-blue velvet box.
"We had a logistical debate," Oscar started, his voice a low, grounding rumble that immediately anchored her racing pulse. A soft, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "Max wanted to do this on the podium at Yas Marina. I told him the FIA would fine us for delaying the broadcast, and that you would probably murder us for doing it on live television."
"It would have made a great photo," Max muttered stubbornly, though his thumb was stroking a soothing, repetitive circle into the back of Y/N’s left hand. He looked up at her, the playful irritation vanishing. "But he was right. You’ve spent your whole life being a spectacle for other people. This isn't for them."
Oscar clicked the velvet box open.
Resting inside the black silk were not one, but two rings, brilliantly designed to interlock. One band was set with a flawless, fiercely brilliant emerald-cut diamond, flanked by sharp, geometric platinum edges—Max. The other was a smooth, elegant band of crushed diamonds set in deep white gold, quietly catching the light from every angle without demanding it—Oscar.
Separated, they were stunning. Snapped together, they formed a perfect, seamless whole.
Y/N let out a shattered breath, her eyes darting between the rings and the two men kneeling in front of her.
"We don't do things the way the rest of the world does," Max said, his voice dropping into that blunt, absolute certainty he only used when he was talking about her. His grip on her hand tightened. "We don't share you. We just belong to you. And I am entirely done pretending there is any universe where I wake up without you."
"We built a sanctuary," Oscar added quietly, lifting her right hand to press a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. He looked at her, his expression radiating that deep, unshakable calm that had saved her life more times than she could count. "We want to make it permanent. The three of us. A closed circuit."
Tears spilled over Y/N’s lashes, hot and fast, completely ruining the quiet composure she had maintained for three years. She didn't have to choose between the fire and the ice. She never had.
"Yes," Y/N choked out, pulling both of them forward by their collars. "God, yes. Give me the rings."
Max let out a ragged breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, leaning up to catch her lips in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted like pure relief. Oscar’s hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her next, slow and deliberate, a quiet vow sealed in the warmth of the firelight.
Two Months Later
The Formula 1 circus had returned, the desert sun beating down on the first official media day of the new season.
The media pen was swarming, microphones shoved aggressively toward team principals and drivers. Y/N stood near the entrance of the FIA hospitality suite, reviewing a sponsorship contract on her tablet. She was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, completely unbothered by the chaos around her.
As she lifted her hand to adjust her sunglasses, the desert sun caught the metal on her left ring finger.
A photographer’s lens flashed. Then another. Within thirty seconds, the murmur rippling through the paddock turned into a deafening roar.
The trackside reporter abandoned his interview with a midfield rookie and practically sprinted toward her. "Madame Chairperson! Y/N! The rings on your finger—are congratulations in order? Can you tell us who proposed?"
Y/N paused. She looked down at the heavy, interlocking diamonds resting perfectly on her finger. She then looked across the paddock.
Standing outside the Red Bull garage, Max was watching her, leaning against the barricade with a ferociously proud smirk on his face. Fifty yards down the pit lane, Oscar was standing outside McLaren, a dark, incredibly smug smile playing on his lips as he held her gaze.
Y/N looked back at the reporter, offering a cool, entirely untouchable smile.
"Yes, congratulations are in order," Y/N said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of her blazer. "And to answer your question: they both did."
She didn't wait for the reporter to pick his jaw up off the floor. She turned on her heel and walked down the pit lane, leaving the entire Formula 1 world to completely lose its mind, while she went to find her fiancés.
summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)
warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)
a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.
The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.
That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.
“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.
“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”
Wife.
The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.
He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”
“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”
He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.
And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.
He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.
“I think I’m going to cry.”
“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”
She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”
They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.
But then-
She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.
“Matt?”
He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”
“I feel... weird.”
He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”
She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”
Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”
She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”
She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.
“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”
“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.
“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”
She staggered.
Her balance tipped.
Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”
She didn’t answer.
Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.
He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”
She looked up at him.
Confused.
Scared.
“M-Matt, I...”
And then her voice just- cut out.
His arms were suddenly empty.
He blinked.
No sound. No step. No breath.
Just... gone.
The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.
“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”
His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-
No. No, that wasn’t right.
He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.
“(Y/n)?”
He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”
No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.
“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”
His foot bumped something.
Her ring.
Her wedding ring.
Lying on the floor.
His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”
He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.
“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”
Still nothing.
Just the flicker of the candles.
Just the soft sound of ash settling.
“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.
“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”
He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.
Foggy.
It rang once. Twice-
Pick up.
The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.
Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.
He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”
Click.
“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”
“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”
“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”
There was a pause.
“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”
Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”
“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”
Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.
“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”
Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”
Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”
“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”
The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.
Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.
The TV flicked on.
"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."
Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.
“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”
The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.
“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.
One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.
The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.
The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.
“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.
Silence.
She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.
“Matt-?”
And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”
She stopped cold.
“Matt-”
He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”
“What…?” she breathed.
“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”
Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”
“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”
She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”
“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”
(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”
“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Matt?”
Nothing.
She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.
“Don’t do this to me again.”
Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”
“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”
“Matt, I don’t- ”
“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”
She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.
“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”
She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”
“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”
“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”
“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”
Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”
“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”
“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.
“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”
He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.
“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”
(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.
“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”
He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.
“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”
“Matt-”
“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”
“Matt-”
“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”
“Matt.”
She said it once.
Quietly.
And then she reached for him.
He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.
To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”
Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.
His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”
Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”
He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”
They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”
It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.
“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.
She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”
He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”
And then he kissed her.
Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.
a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head
A few days later
She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.
She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.
She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”
Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”
She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”
He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”
“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”
He scoffed. “Grizzled?”
“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”
“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”
She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.
“Oh no. I married an older man.”
Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”
She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”
He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”
Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”
Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”
She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.
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