#soft intimacy

[darlingbambii]

husband!Higuruma coming home exhausted and fucking you slow in the bath (18+)

You swear you were just planning to collapse on the sofa when you got home. Maybe order some takeaway and watch some mindless TV show with your legs stretched across your husband's lap.

So, exactly how did you end up straddling Hiromi Higuruma in the bathtub, hot water sloshing over the edge as you sink down onto him?

"That's it, darling. Just like that."

Hiromi's voice is low and rough, strained in a way that makes heat slick down your spine and pool between your thighs. His hand grips your hips beneath the water surface, gently guiding you as you adjust to the stretch of him inside you.

You found him in here five minutes ago, tie discarded somewhere in the bedroom, shirt unbuttoned and abandoned on the bathroom floor. He'd been leaning back in the tub with his eyes closed, the water up to his chest, looking more exhausted than you'd seen him in weeks. The case he's working on is brutal, you know that. Long hours, impossible odds, the kind of work that wore him down.

"Join me?" he'd asked, opening one eye to look at you, and there was something so vulnerable in his expression that you couldn't refuse.

And that's how your own clothes joined him on the floor before you slipped into the bath with him.

Now his hair is wet and pushed back from his face, water droplets clinging to his jaw and the tip of his nose, and he's looking at you like you're the only thing that's keeping him from totally dissociating.

"Imissed you," you murmur, rolling your hips experimentally. The water makes everything feel different than it would be in the bedroom. More languid and slower, every shift and movement creating a ripple against your skin.

"Missed you too." His thumb traces circles on your hip bone, a tender gesture that contrasts with the way he's so deeply buried inside of you. "Missed you so much, I thought about you all day. I kept checking my watch, counting down the hours until I could see you again."

There's something unfairly attractive about him like this. His usually so composed in his suits and professional demeanour, now completely undone. His cheeks are flushed from the heat of the bath, his lips parted as he watches you move above him, and those tired, dark eyes are filled with something that makes your heart flutter.

"You're beautiful," he says, almost reverent, one hand leaving your hip to cup your face. Water drips from his fingers down your cheek. "Do you know that? How beautiful you are?"

You lean into his touch, your own hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. "You might have mentioned it a few times today before work.”

"Not enough, then." He pulls you down into a kiss, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours as you continue to move. When he pulls back, he's smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face. "I should tell you more often."

The water sloshes dangerously as you pick up your pace, and Hiromi makes a low sound of appreciation, his head falling back against the edge of the tub. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you gasp at the sensation.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. "Taking me so perfectly. You feel incredible."

There's something about the praise, the genuine affection in his tone, that makes everything feel more intense. This isn't just sex. It's comfort, connection, coming home to each other after a long day and finding solace in familiar touches.

"Hiromi," you breathe, your rhythm faltering as pleasure builds low in your stomach. "Fuck, I'm-"

"I know." One hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with practised ease. The water makes his touch slippery, maddening, and you rock against his hand desperately. "I've got you. Come for me, darling."

His other hand tangles in your wet hair, pulling you down for another kiss as his hips start to move beneath you, meeting your movements with deep, purposeful thrusts that make the water splash over the side of the tub. But you just can't seem to bring yourself to care about the mess.

"So good to me," he murmurs against your lips. "So perfect. What did I do to deserve you?"

The combination of his fingers, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, and his voice, fuck, that deep, sincere voice telling you how much he wants you, needs you, sends you over the edge. Your orgasm rolls through you in waves that seem to match the water around you, and you bury your face in his neck to muffle your moans.

"Beautiful," Hiromi groans, his rhythm becoming erratic as you clench around him. “You're so beautiful when you come undone for me."

He follows moments later, his grip on you tightening as he buries himself deep, your name falling from his lips like something precious. For a long moment, you stay like that, wrapped around each other in the cooling water, both breathing hard.

When you finally lift your head to look at him, his expression is soft, content in a way you rarely see. He reaches up to brush wet strands of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"For the sex?" you tease, though your voice is breathless.

"For coming home to me." He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "For being here."

You settle against his chest, the water lapping gently around you both. "Always," you murmur. "Though we should probably clean up this mess before it leaks through to our downstairs neighbour."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. "In a minute. Let me hold you first."

And really, how can you argue with that?

[shinro-kun]

zanka & reader making out for the first time? :3c i can just imagine bro being beet red

LMAO ITS SO FUNNY THAT THREE OF YALL REQUESTED THE SAME THING Thank u to ALL THREE OF YOUUUU

Zanka's never been so nervous in his damn life.

Y'know, he's never seen the appeal of fooling around with someone. Sure, he was a teenager, and teenagers did stupid things, but Zanka really did see himself as a cut above the rest. He was refined; everything about him was trained and controlled, so naturally, his discipline was also off the charts.

There was a fair share of people who went at it in alleyways, lip-locking in public spaces, and he didn't really have the urge to do that with you. Not the making out part, no (he knows to himself that he's waited for the experience for so long), the 'doing it in public' thing, just never appealed to him. He's grateful that it never did.

Sure, he saw you as attractive, incredibly beautiful, handsome, and everything in between. But there hasn't been a definitive moment when all he wanted to do with you was… make out.

Embarrassing as it was, he was inexperienced in that field. VERY inexperienced. You two have shared kisses, publicly and secretly, but it never went past a few seconds, let alone minutes. He wasn't sure how to initiate it, anyway.

The longest you and Zanka have kissed was when you didn't see each other for a whole two weeks because of schedule conflicts and different areas. It was a sweet and sensual kiss. Right after you ran into his arms that day, his lips pressed against yours almost instinctively. Your arms were around his shoulders, returning the gesture just as desperately. But after that, he just spun you around in his arms and started receiving the kisses you were placing on his face.

Now, he sighed as he thought about it, lips twitching upward at the memory of it. You were both in his room, the one in the far corner of the Cleaners' HQ. He liked it here; quiet and private. Plus, your room wasn't far off from his.

After a week-long mission with you, barely any breaks or time to yourselves, Team Akuta definitely deserves the day off tomorrow. Even Rudo was dead asleep in the Jeep on Riyo's shoulder. The kid really saw her as a big sister. It was cute to you. But that's the entire reason why both of you were in your boyfriend's room in the first place. To get proper sleep.

Zanka was in his pajamas, if you could call them that. He was so traditional sometimes that it puzzled you. Meanwhile, you were just rocking one of the rare shirts in his closet that was casual, and then cycling shorts.

He could not stop staring at your legs. He'll be real. Sleep was the last thing on his mind.

Zanka watched you as you dried your hair with his towel. You smelled like him, were on his bed, wearing his shirt…

Temptation really WAS a bitch.

"Princess." He hummed, scooting closer before he reached a hand out to cup your cheek. You hummed in return, pausing your attempts to dry your hair. "Yeah?"

"Lemme dry yer hair for ya. Yer always too rough with it," he snorted, pressing a kiss to your cheek before moving to peck the corner of your eye. You could only snicker at the affection, rolling your eyes with faux annoyance before giving up the towel in your hands.

You nodded, knowing he wouldn't stop telling you to let him dry your hair. "Yer stubborn, so I'll let ya do it," you commented, letting Zanka adjust your position on the bed so that you'd be face to face with him instead of beside him.

Now, normally, you'd have your back pressed against his chest right now. But it was Zanka; he always wanted to see if method A worked better than method B, so you didn't question it. You chalked it up to an "Oh, he's trying to see if it's more effective or something," and left it at that.

You didn't know it, but you were severely wrong. All he was thinking about was kissing you.

You were so fucking pretty that it hurts. Zanka wanted to worship you in the way you worshipped him. You praised him and showered him with all the love you could give, and continue to do so as your relationship progresses.

He wanted to do everything with you. Every right, every wrong… anything under the Sphere, really. He loved you so much, and the best part was that you loved him even more. He couldn't help but be devoted—to be the gentleman he already was. That just increased his desire to be closer to you intimately a thousand times over.

"Close your eyes, princess," he smiled, kissing the corner of your lips as he placed the towel over your head and began to wipe. Zanka couldn't think rationally right now. Not when your eyes were either closed or zoned out. Maybe you wanted to sleep. He'll bring up the topic another day—

"Ya wanna say somethin'," you hummed, your eyes finally meeting his own as you called him out. Zanka's expression shifted from calm to surprise. He knew you read him like a goddamn book, but he might as well open his own pages and read himself to you word by word, with how good you were at picking apart his body cues.

And yet, he attempts to deflect.

"Why'd ya say that, mm?" He grinned, feeling his ears heat up just a bit as he put the towel down on his bed. He lowered his head onto your shoulder, causing you to wrap your arms around his neck. Your hands, gentle as ever, caressed the hair on the back of his head. He shuddered just a bit before easing into your touch.

"Zanka." You said.

"Yeah, yeah, princess. Yer heard." He replied, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder. "Don't want my ass stutterin' while I say this. Lemme think for a bit."

You nodded, kissing the top of his head as you pulled him closer.

Can he stop holding back now? Eugh, that sounds so unlike him, even in his own head. In this context, though, he wanted to be closer to you. Three years into your relationship with him, and you haven't so much as made out. Raised good, he guessed. But he wanted to try it now, experiment with you.

"I'mma be honest with ya," he whispered, trailing his lips over your shoulder, then smirking when he felt you shudder. "Continue," you mused, letting him do what he wanted. This was new… Zanka taking the initiative in the field wasn't rare. Taking initiative in dishing out affection, especially like this? It only happened once in a blue moon.

"Been thinkin' about stuff that I don't normally." He huffed, pulling down one of your sleeves so that he had more access to your shoulder. Your cheeks heated up when he kept kissing your skin. Was it because he was tired? Delirious? Defenses down to be strangely confident? You didn't know what it was, but it was strangely hot to you.

"Yer the cause of all of it. Why wouldn't you be?" He chuckled to himself, gently pulling you into his lap, and you followed quickly.

"Zanka…"

Whatever words that were about to leave your lips were suddenly quieted when he kissed your neck. Your breath hitched, body tensing in his hold, but Zanka remained steady. His arms wrapped around your waist, pushing up the fabric on your back to feel your flesh on his fingers. He continued to kiss your neck, mumbling soft praises that made your body shiver at his touch. Eventually, his fingers started tracing out his name on your back as if he was leaving a subtle mark that only you would remember.

Zanka didn't need a public show that you were his.

"Jus' been thinkin'… Nothin' bad, I promise," he reassured you, because of course he would. His lips trailed from your neck to your jaw, gently nipping at the skin cautiously. He was still inexperienced, after all. He was just doing what felt right. "Wanna… wanna get closer to ya, that's all."

When his kisses met your cheek, you couldn't help but giggle. His hands continued to trace his name on your back, admiring how smooth your skin was and treating it like something fragile.

"Closer? How so?"

"Ya know what I mean," he grumbled, pressing his nose against yours as your eyes met again. His breath was unsteady, his fingers moving to grip your waist instead as you decided to play dumb. "Wanna, ya know, do allat stuff ya make me watch." He mumbled sheepishly.

"Unless ya don't want to, of course, ya—" he went off before you cleared your throat to interrupt him. Your arms brought his head closer to yours, lips aligning to his as you let out a little laugh. "Where'd all yer confidence go, mm?" You asked, pressing your lips against his briefly.

"We can make out, baby," you cooed.

"That sounds… unromantic to me." He huffed before he leaned in.

"Oh? Then what do ya wanna call it?" You asked.

"Mnnn, I'll get back to you in two to three business days with that answer." He snorted before the two of you finally kissed for real. Closing your eyes, and Zanka closing his own, you both let out a simultaneous sigh at the love present in the room. The kiss started off gentle, just two lovers moving against each other. But then, you felt Zanka's mouth twitch just a bit. Oh, he really was looking forward to this, huh?

Slowly, you parted your mouth for him, making sure not to overwhelm him with the sensation of your tongue probing at his lower lip to get him to reciprocate. Almost immediately, he did. Gently parting his mouth in return, his arms held you tighter as he finally let his tongue dance with yours.

This was different. This felt different from any of the other kisses you've shared with each other. Zanka's heart was beating out of his chest and he's pretty sure he's not

It was sloppy, messy, and he sure was vocal. With your hands in his hair, gently stroking the strands as you tilted your head to get more leverage, his breath stuttered. A small grunt came from his throat while his competitive side flared just a bit. He couldn't let you do all the work, now could he?

Releasing your lips from his, a string of saliva connecting you two, he panted before he moved again.

"Oh!" You yelped when he shifted your positions quickly. You were now pinned under him, on his bed, as he looked down at you with red cheeks and an expression of desperation and want.

No, fuck that. Desperation and need would explain his emotions better.

"Been thinkin' 'bout this," he panted, moving his hands from your waist and placing one on the back of your head, the other interlacing his fingers with your own, squeezing you to keep himself grounded. "For a fuckin' while now." He breathed out. One of his legs was between your thighs, and you gulped at the view above you. Suddenly feeling nervous, you laughed a bit as you felt your cheeks flush a similar color to his own flush.

"C'mere, princess, lemme worship ya," he whispered, leaning down again. But instead of starting again, he stared at you for a moment, admiring how you looked underneath him. God, you were so beautiful. So ethereal in this light.

"Can I—"

"Stop being a gentleman for once and keep makin' out with me," you interrupted with an impatient sound, pulling him down to smash your lips into a kiss again. He could only chuckle, tilting his head to get a better angle of your mouth and making you moan into the kiss.

You returned the fervor, of course. Your hand cupped the back of his head as well, fingers gripping the strands and making him whimper for the sting and for the pleasure. That sound had your hips jerking up to meet his. God, your boyfriend was so hot and cute.

Zanka tasted the mint on your tongue from his toothpaste. Not only that, he could taste you. Your uniqueness. Your flavor.

He was right where he wanted to be.

Pulling away for hopefully the final time, he breathed in deeply before speaking. "Can we… be closer tonight, princess?" He asked, pulling an expression that had you tongue-tied that you couldn't refuse. You didn't want to refuse! Look at your man! He's all hot and bothered, hips pressed against yours, and lips kiss-swollen but ready to make out again.

You could only grin and chuckle.

"Sure, Zanka, of course we can."

All bets were off after he got your consent.

Zanka made sure you felt every ounce and inch of all the love that he could give. This wasn't "screwing around" to him. This was Zanka showing you that he was yours, every bone and blood cell in his body was yours. He was already yours, of course, but this just solidified it. No, more like, engraved it into both your bodies and souls.

And with the way your body moved in tune with his, he knew you felt the same.

He'll worship you now and forever.

One of these days, he'll slip a ring on your finger, too.

WHEW THIS ONE WAS FUN, YEAH BAHAHAHA i loved writing this one in all honesty, i love intimacy and i love writing the softness that comes in between prolly both a first makeout fic and first time fic between these two mhehahehah third request done ! the fourth one i'll be writing will be the couple starting off as rivals RAHHH thank you so much for reading my fics but unfortunately i'll prolly slow down a lot since school will be starting up again for me sad toodaloo everyone !!

[wohnoorkajharnahaiii]

may you marry someone who kisses you in the middle of laughter because he cannot handle how adorable you look when you’re happy.

[saphicangel]

sunburns and sweethearts

synopsis: farmer!ellie x farmer's daughter!reader where summer heat lingers in sunlit fields and something unspoken keeps pulling them closer until they can't ignore it anymore.

content warnings: slow burn romance, mutual pining, fluff, kissing, farm setting, rural life, a little secrecy and fear of being seen, mild tension.

The late afternoon sun poured itself over the fields like warm honey, thick and golden, sticking to everything it touched. The grass didn’t just glow—it seemed to lean into the light, heavy with heat and quiet. You stood against the wooden fence, the rough grain pressing into your palms, watching Ellie cross the yard with dust curling up behind her boots like restless ghosts.

Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, freckles scattered across her skin like spilled seed, catching every flicker of light. When she saw you, something in her expression shifted— softening, loosening, like a field finally giving up to wind. That crooked smile came easy, familiar as rain after a dry week, and it pulled something warm and helpless in your chest.

“Been lookin’ for you, darlin’,” she called, voice low and carrying like it belonged to the land itself.

You tilted your head, pretending ease. “Yeah? Didn’t realize I was lost.”

Ellie slowed as she reached you, boots scuffing the dirt. She stopped close—close enough that the air between you felt warmer than it should’ve. Her hands slid into her back pockets like she had all the time in the world.

“You are,” she said simply. “Always wanderin’ off with my attention.”

Your throat went a little dry. “I’m not—”

“Mm.” She tilted her head, cutting you off without actually raising her voice. “You are.”

The certainty of it made your words catch before they could form properly.

Ellie leaned a little closer, close enough that the warmth of her bled through the thin space between you.

“You always get quiet when I come over,” she said, softer now, like she was letting you in on something.

Heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it. You dropped your gaze to the dust at her boots, suddenly very interested in the way it shifted when she moved.

“I don’t,” you muttered, though it sounded unconvincing even to you.

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh. She shifted forward until she was standing close enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep meeting her eyes. Her hand rested lightly against the fence beside you, caging you in without pressure.

“You do,”

Her other hand lifted and scratched lightly at the back of her neck—a rare flicker of nerves that made her feel more real. But her eyes never left your face.

“Every time,” she added, voice warm. “You look at me, then you don’t… like you’re worried I’ll notice.”

Your fingers fidgeted against the fence, tracing a groove in the wood.

“And you did,” you murmur quietly.

Ellie’s mouth bent into a smile that felt like shade after standing too long in the sun. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Hard not to.”

You tried to keep your composure, but she lifted her hand and eased the stray strand behind your ear. Her calloused fingers stayed, resting lightly as if she’d forgotten to pull away, heat soaking through your skin. Your breath faltered and didn’t quite find its rhythm again.

Ellie’s eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes, fondness humming in her chest.

“Look at you,” she murmurs “You’re real pretty like this. Sun’s got you glowin’… and I’m supposed to go back to work?”

She tuts, enjoying the splash of pink that’s seemed to have blossomed on your face.

“Makes it real hard to remember I’ve got fences to mend.”

You let out a small breath, your eyes dropping to the space between you. “You don’t seem like you’re tryin’ very hard,” you said, the words meant as a taunt but coming out softer than intended.

“I don’t think you actually want me to.” She leaned in, bracing her arms against the fence around you, leaving room to move if you chose. “Doesn’t seem like you’re in much of a hurry to get away.”

Your gaze drifted to her mouth, then back up again. You stayed where you were, close enough to feel her warmth.

“Never said I was,” you said, voice low, the boldness of it making your pulse jump.

Ellie’s brows lifted slightly, and she let out a quiet breath, the sound warm against the small space between you.

“That so?” she said, voice gentle, “Good to know.”

She didn’t move away. If anything, she settled there, like she’d decided the distance between you was just right. Her gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes, something softer replacing the earlier teasing.

Her thumb brushed your wrist absentmindedly, slow circles like wind over still water. “You know you’re my favorite distraction, right? My sweet girl.”

Your heart gave a hard, uneven beat. “Hm I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

Ellie let out a quiet laugh, soft as dry grass shifting in breeze. “Nope.” Her eyes stayed on you. “Just you, sugar.”

She dipped her head slightly, voice lowering until it felt like it belonged only between you two. “Only you get the good ones.”

You tipped your chin up a little. “Just me?

Ellie’s eyes softened. “’Course,” she murmured. “It’s only ever you.”

You tilted your head slightly, sucking in a breath. “Y’know I was hopin’ you’d come find me.”

For a moment, Ellie looked almost shy, like she hadn’t expected you to meet her halfway. Her gaze dipped, and her thumb slowed against your wrist before she huffed a quiet breath.

“Good thing I did, then,” she murmured, the hint of a smile returning. “Would’ve hated to keep you waitin’.”

Ellie didn’t step back right away. She stayed close, like she was still deciding something, her gaze drifting over your face in quiet consideration.

Then she cleared her throat softly, rubbing the back of her neck—a small crack in her usual certainty.

“C’mon,” she murmured. “Sun’s gettin’ nosy.”

She stepped back just enough to take your hand, guiding you along the fence toward the barn. The sun thinned behind you, the air cooling as you crossed into shade, like slipping out of sight.

Inside, the barn held a hush the yard didn’t.

Ellie glanced toward the open doors, where the late sun stretched across the yard, bright enough to reach the house beyond. When she looked back at you, her expression relaxed.

“Better,” she murmured, though she didn’t move closer yet.

You could hear the faint creak of the windmill outside, the distant clatter of something shifting in the yard — reminders that the world hadn’t disappeared, only thinned. Your father could step out at any moment. Someone could walk past the barn. The thought made your pulse jump, but you didn’t step away.

Ellie’s hand hovered near your waist before settling there lightly, like she was giving you time to change your mind. Her thumb brushed once, tentative.

“Was gettin’ risky out there,” she murmured. “Didn’t trust myself much longer.”

You watched her for a second, aware of how careful she’d gotten, how she wasn’t pulling you in—just waiting.

Your fingers curled softly into the front of her shirt. “You always this cautious?” you tease, voice low.

Ellie huffed a faint breath, almost a laugh. “Only when I think it matters.”

The barn air felt cooler, dust drifting lazily through narrow strips of light. You could smell hay, warm wood, summer clinging to everything. Outside, a breeze shifted the tall grass, the sound barely carrying in.

You leaned forward a fraction, close enough that your foreheads nearly brushed.

“We shouldn’t stay long,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.

Ellie’s eyes flicked to yours, searching, giving you room to pull back.

You didn’t.

Her voice dropped. “Tell me to stop.”

You shook your head, small and certain.

That was all she needed.

Ellie leaned in slowly, like she was easing into warm water, her hand steady at your waist.

You met her halfway before you could overthink it.

The kiss was soft—brief, sun-warm and careful—her lips gentler than you’d expected, like she was still holding back even as she closed the distance. It lingered just long enough to blur the space between breath and certainty.

When she pulled back, it wasn’t all at once. Just enough to see you again. Her forehead hovered close for a second longer, like she wasn’t quite ready to give up the closeness.

Ellie let out a slow breath through her nose, like she was allowing the moment to settle into her properly. She tilted her head forward, resting it lightly against yours.

Her eyes slipped shut briefly, just for a second—like she was letting herself stay there without the world pressing in on them.

You could feel her stillness more than anything else—her hand at your waist steady but ungrasping, like it had settled into something it didn’t need to chase.

It felt like standing in the soft stretch of late summer air, where everything is warm and unhurried and nothing asks to be anywhere else.

You didn’t move away either.

a/n: not proofread guys pls don’t attack me I’m tired😴 but i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so enjoy:)

Comment if you wanna be added to my taglist!!

[blondechariot]

Hey hope you’re well love🤍

Could you write about p1h waking up from a spicy dream and waking up their gf cause they are so needy, it’s so fun when they are down bad, thank you if you do this!

pairing: P1Harmony x reader

warnings: some tension, all consensual of course, boys being needy for their girl, spicy dreams, intimate themes

disclaimer: not my pic!

Keeho

You woke to the faint rustle of sheets and a warmth that seemed to move closer, inch by inch. Keeho had been lying still just moments before, but now he shifted, the mattress dipping slightly as he scooted nearer. You felt his breath before you heard him—soft, measured, like he was trying not to disturb you yet couldn’t help himself.

He stayed there for a while, his forehead hovering near your shoulder, listening to the slow rhythm of your breathing. It was the kind of silence that buzzed—charged, expectant. Then, with a small sigh, he tucked himself closer until his chest pressed against your back and his pelvis was rubbing against your ass, his arm sliding around your waist in a half-embrace that felt both shy and urgent.

You heard the whisper before you fully registered it.

“Guess who I just dreamed of,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

He pressed a trail of gentle kisses against your neck, each one featherlight, testing. His hands first stroked your arms, then slid down to your hips and gently slipped under your or his T-shirt where his rough fingertips touched your soft skin. The warmth of his breath sent tiny sparks down your spine. Still, you stayed perfectly still, pretending to sleep—half annoyed, half curious. He must have sensed that, because he smiled against your skin.

“You’re not sleeping”

Your sigh betrayed you. “Keeho,” you mumbled, voice rough from sleep. “What is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he hummed quietly, the sound vibrating against your shoulder. Then, with a mischievous burst of energy, he moved, gently turning you onto your back and settling between your legs. His grin, wide and bright even in the dim light, made it impossible to stay mad.

“I told you,” he said, eyes glinting. "I had this really intense dream...about you."

You blinked up at him, still trying to remember how to be awake. “Fascinating,” you muttered dryly. “Now can I go back to sleep, or are you planning to narrate the whole thing?”

Keeho laughed quietly, the sound deep and unguarded. His hands played with the hem of your shirt, and you couldn't stop the goosebumps spreading across your body.

“You don't understand what this dream did to me,” he said simply, his tone somewhere between heat and awe.

You could feel his heartbeat, quick and insistent, like he was still tangled in whatever dream had stolen him away. Your legs unconsciously closed around him, allowing you to pull him closer. His index finger gently stroked your cheek, down to your jaw, and then slid along your plump lower lip.

“I can't stop thinking about it...the way you looked at me...and touched me,” he added, softer this time, like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

Your irritation wavered, replaced by something darker—intrigued, a little desperate. You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t from annoyance. “You’re a pain in the ass,” you whispered, though your hand had already found its way to his hair.

He chuckled, closing his eyes for a moment as if soaking in your touch. Then he tilted his head and kissed you—slowly, deeply, nothing rushed. Just enough to make you forget the hour, the dark, the dream.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was a whisper again, softer than the moonlight slipping through the curtains.

“I don't think I can fall asleep now,” he confessed, smiling like a secret had just been shared.

You stared at him for a long second before laughing quietly, defeated.

“Well who would have thought,” you said but your hands glided down his back, feeling the warmth of his skin as you slipped under his T-shirt, your nails gently scratching his muscles. His body reacted instantly, seeming to tremble with desire, as it always did when you touched him.

“Maybe,” he murmured, curling beside you again, “I can show you what you did—so you know what I mean."

And just like that, the night stretched a little longer—half dream, half reality, all Keeho.

Theo

Theo woke slowly, as if his mind had drifted too far into something intense to leave it behind. His heartbeat was steady but warm, still echoing with pieces of a dream that had felt too vivid to fade. When his eyes fluttered open, the first thing he saw was you—sleeping soundly, facing him, framed by the soft silver of the moonlight slipping through the curtains.

Your hair fell over your face, a few strands resting across your cheek. You were wearing a tank top that had shrunk from all the washing and was slightly squashing your breasts. He couldn't stop his gaze from falling on your cleavage; the sight brought back painful memories of his dream.

He had dreamed of you—something simple but overwhelming, a dream full of touches, kisses, and hot breaths against each other. And now, seeing you there, so close he could count every flutter of your lashes, he felt that familiar ache in his chest: the mix of desire and adoration that always came with loving you.

Without meaning to think twice, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to yours. It was a quiet touch, a secret only the two of you would ever know. But the kiss stirred you awake. Your eyes blinked open, confused and drowsy, your lips parting slightly as you tried to understand what just happened.

“Theo?” you murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

He smiled—slow, tender, almost shy. His thumb traced along your cheek as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Nothing’,” he whispered.

There was a pause—one of those moments where silence seemed alive, like the world was holding its breath. Then, with that same quiet boldness that had led him to you in the first place, Theo leaned in again and kissed you.

This time, it wasn’t soft.

His tongue slid between your lips, touched yours, and gently bumped against it as his lips melted with yours as if he wanted to drain the sleep out of you.

You responded instinctively, your hand finding his shoulder, grounding him. When the kiss broke, both of you lingered close, your foreheads resting together as his hands glided along the curves of your body before stopping at your hip and slipping beneath the fabric of your sleep shorts. His grip was possessive, yet every touch radiated the same love as his kisses.

“What has gotten into you?”

Theo’s eyes softened, the faintest glimmer of mischief hiding in them. A small, knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

“Let's just say I had a good dream,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “And I wanted to share it with you.”

You stared at him for a heartbeat before laughing quietly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, but there was no annoyance in your tone—just warmth, affection, and a hint of surrender.

Theo grinned before leaning down to brush your neck with his lips, his hands slowly pushing down your sleepshorts, making a gasp escape your lips while you leaned into his touch.

“If I could dream like that every night,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin., “I’d never want to wake up.”

You couldn't help but grin as he lifted his head again; his eyes were so dark they almost looked black. You brushed a strand of hair from his face, and your gaze fell upon his plumpy, juicy lips. "Tell me about your dream." You whispered, your gaze intensifying as well.

A low growl escaped him as he took off the rest of your shorts and threw them on the floor. He then wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you towards him, so that you were lying on top of him with your legs on either side of his hips. You could already feel him beneath you--hard, warm, and unmistakably ready for you.

“It started just like this” he murmured while rubbing your thighs and bucking his hips. “Want me to show you the rest?”

And though the night stretched on, neither of you cared much for sleep anymore.

Jiung

Jiung woke with his heart still racing, the remnants of a dream clinging to him like warmth that refused to fade. For a moment, he just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, replaying it all in his head. You had been there, so real it almost hurt. Your voice, your smile, the way you had looked at him and touched him like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

He turned his head slowly and found you asleep beside him.

You were facing away, curled comfortably, breathing slow and even. There was something so peaceful about you like this that it made his chest ache. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand rested near your face. He considered waking you, the urge sitting heavy in his chest, but the sight of you so calm stopped him.

“I can’t,” he thought quietly.

Instead, he moved closer, carefully, as if afraid even the mattress shifting might pull you from sleep. He slipped one arm around you, drawing you back against him. His hand rested on your arm, warm and steady, and after a moment, his thumb began to move in slow, gentle circles, massaging absent-mindedly.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, barely there. Another followed, just as light. Each touch was quiet, unspoken, like he was afraid of asking for too much.

But the dream crept back in, vivid and insistent. The way you had looked at him in it. The closeness, the tension. The feeling that had wrapped around him and refused to let go. His hand moved more deliberately now, sliding along your arm before resting on your hip with a little more pressure, grounding himself in what was real.

You stirred.

Jiung froze instantly, his breath catching. He felt you shift beneath his arm, felt the change in your breathing before you spoke.

“Jiung?” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “What’s going on?”

He pulled back slightly, guilt flashing across his face even though you couldn’t see it yet. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice low and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You turned slowly to face him, eyes blinking open as you tried to focus in the dim light. Concern replaced sleepiness almost immediately. “Did something happen?” you asked. “You look…tensed.”

He shook his head right away, lifting a hand to brush his thumb gently along your cheek, as if to reassure you. “No. Nothing’s wrong,” he said softly. “Don't worry.”

You searched his face, still not fully convinced. “Then why are you awake?”

Jiung hesitated. His gaze dropped for a second, then returned to you, darker now, more heated. “I had a dream,” he admitted. “About you.”

That seemed to ease something in you. You relaxed slightly, your expression gentler. “A bad dream?”

He smiled faintly and shook his head again. “No. A really good one.” He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Too good to be honest. It felt so real that when I woke up…and I looked at you...it was quite hard for me to keep my hands to myself.”

You reached for his hand without thinking, lacing your fingers together. “So you decided to wake me up huh?”

“I tried not to,” he said, squeezing your hand gently but his mouth hovered above your neck. "But when I touched you, I couldn't hold back."

You smiled soflty, stroking his arm, your nails carefully scratching his skin. He took in a sharp breath and you arched your back a little pressing yourself tighter against him.

"Then why stop now?" You asked roughly, nudging his nose with yours. He bit his lower lip for a second, his grip around you tightening and making his knuckles turn white. He groaned before pressing his lips against yours in a hungry and desperate kiss.

You sighed, eyes closing again as you wrapped your arms around him while rubbing your fronst against his, the night wrapping around you both like a curtain that couldn't be closed.

Intak

Intak woke suddenly, breath catching as he blinked into the darkness. The dream lingered like a song stuck in his head, loud and impossible to ignore. He lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow his heartbeat. It hadn’t been a bad dream. If anything, it was the opposite — too good, too real, the kind that left him restless instead of calm.

He turned his head and looked at you.

You were asleep beside him, turned slightly toward the window, the moonlight outlining your silhouette. You were wearing a tight tank top and one of his boxers, it complimented your curves and made Intaks skin crawl in the best way. He watched you for a moment longer than he meant to, his mind replaying flashes of the dream, warmth blooming in his pants.

He thought about waking you.

The idea tempted him, sitting right there on the edge of his thoughts, but he hesitated. You looked too comfortable, too deeply asleep. He didn’t want to be the reason you lost that peace. With a quiet sigh, he decided he’d just get up for a second, maybe get some fresh air and let the feeling pass.

Carefully, he shifted, lifting the blanket and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

That was when it happened.

His elbow clipped his water bottle on the nightstand. It tipped, wobbled, then fell with a dull clatter onto the floor.

“Fuck—” he whispered too late.

You stirred immediately, blinking awake as you pushed yourself up slightly. “Intak?” you asked, confusion thick in your voice. “What are you doing?”

He froze for half a second before breaking into a sheepish laugh. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

You glanced at the fallen bottle, then back at him, still trying to piece things together. “Why were you even getting up?”

He picked the bottle up and set it back where it belonged before sliding back into bed beside you. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Guess I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought.”

You yawned softly, but you didn’t turn away. Instead, you shifted closer, your shoulder brushing his. “Are you okay? Are you not feeling well?”

He shook his head, then paused. A grin tugged at his lips, slower and more knowing this time. “I had this dream,” he said. “About you.”

That caught your attention. You looked up at him, eyes more awake now. “Oh really?”

“Really,” he replied, his voice warm. He reached out and gently pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, hiking your leg over his hip so your core was pressed against the front of his pants. He looked between you two, his breath stopping for a second. "This dream did things to me, to my body."

You settled into him easily, your hands grabbed the front of his shirt, feeling his lean muscles tense under your innocent touch. "Did it make you vandalize our bedroom?"

He laughed quietly. “I was nervous, having you next to me...looking like that.” He stopped himself, his fingertips brushing the hem of your top and slowly creeping beneath it. You pulled lightly at his shirt, a motion that sent shivers down his spine.

You nudged him lightly, your leg around his hip pulled him tigher against you "Like what?”

He grinned, his hand pulling up your top while his fingers danced around your soft and warm skin. You could feel his fingertips linger on the swell of your breasts but not touching, like your body was something fragile he didn't want to break.

"You know what I mean." He huffed against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours and his other hand roughly grabbed your thigh. You gasped when you felt the front of his pants rub against your core.

He watched your face grimace in pleasure, eyes shut, brows furrowed and your mouth open. He growled, like actually growled before crashing his lips onto yours, flipping you both so you were under him and he could propperly grind against you.

And this time, he didn’t get up for a long time.

Soul

Soul woke like he had been pushed gently out of another world. His heart felt too full for his chest, warmth spreading through him as fragments of the dream clung stubbornly to his thoughts. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then slowly turned his head.

You were beside him, curled slightly inward, fast asleep.

The sight of you made something in him ache in the best way. He smiled without meaning to, eyes soft, utterly gone. The dream replayed again, sharper now that he was awake, and the feeling followed it. He couldn’t keep it in. He leaned closer and brushed his fingers lightly against your waist.

“Psst,” he whispered. “Y/n wake up.”

You groaned quietly and shifted, eyes cracking open just enough to glare at him. “Shota,” you muttered. “What is wrong with you?”

“I had a dream about you,” he said immediately, like he’d been waiting to say it. His voice was gentle but excited.

You blinked once, then nodded slowly. “Okay,” you murmured. “Good for you. Go back to sleep.”

You turned your face away again, clearly done with the conversation.

Soul sighed, dramatic but quiet, flopping back onto his pillow. “I don’t think I can,” he said to the ceiling. “I might never sleep again.”

“Wow, could you be more dramatic?” you mumbled, already half gone.

He chuckled under his breath and turned to look at you again. Moonlight caught the edge of your face, your lashes resting against your cheeks. He bit his lip, trying to keep the smile off his face and failing.

“I’m serious,” he said softly. “It was…a really intense dream.”

You didn’t respond. Your breathing evened out, deliberately slow. Soul tilted his head, suspicious, but he kept going anyway, voice dropping into something quieter, more serious.

“We were in this Restaurant, yknow with those amazing Bao Buns,” he murmured. “But you kept looking at me in this...cocky way and you were squeezing my thigh underneath the table.” He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly into the blanket. “I started touching you, you were wearing this gorgeous peach dress...the one with the bow on the waist."

He shifted closer without touching you, careful, reverent. “It was crazy and so real...it was like I was touching you forreal, feeling how wet you are for me a-and your legs were pressed together...and you were getting even more tighter."

You stayed still, eyes closed, heart suddenly beating much faster than before and you started pressing your thighs together, just like in his dream.

“God y/n and the way you were looking at me,” he continued, a little breathless now. “With your beautiful eyes and I told you to stay quiet but you were whimpering my name” He exhaled slowly. “I thought I would cum in public ya know...just from touching you and looking at you."

A soft sigh escaped you. Soul smiled to himself, still watching you, still talking. “I know you’re asleep,” he added quietly, “but I need to tell you."

That was when you turned suddenly, eyes open, movement sharp and unexpected. Before he could react, you leaned in and kissed him, all impulse and pent-up arousement. It caught him completely off guard.

For a split second, he froze.

Then he laughed softly against you, surprised and delighted, his hand coming up to steady you. When you pulled back, just barely, he looked at you with wide, shining eyes.

“So,” he murmured, voice warm and amused, “Got your attention now?”

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him back against you, tongue pushing between his lips and thighs opening for him to get between them — and Soul thought, not for the first time, that he might really never sleep again.

Jongseob

Jongseob woke with his heart still racing, the last fragments of his dream clinging stubbornly to his thoughts. For a moment, he stayed completely still, staring at the ceiling, trying to steady his breathing. Then he turned his head.

You were asleep beside him.

You were wearing one of his old T-shirts, the fabric loose on you, sleeves falling just past your shoulders. His chest tightened instantly. It was the same shirt you had worn in his dream. The same careless way it was hunched around your waist while you were on top of him, hands everywhere on your body.

He swallowed and forced himself to stay calm.

It’s fine, he told himself. It’s just a dream.

Carefully, he reached for the blanket, planning to pull it higher over you so you wouldn’t get cold. But just as his fingers brushed the fabric, you shifted in your sleep. Your movement was small, unintentional — but your ass brushed against his groin.

Jongseob froze.

Every muscle locked as a sharp breath caught in his throat. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath before he could stop himself.

Your eyes fluttered open immediately. “Hm?” you murmured, voice sleepy and confused. “What?”

He cursed himself silently as you turned toward him, blinking in the low light. You noticed right away that he was awake too. “Are you okay?” you asked, concern creeping into your tone.

He let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? No,” he said honestly.

That made you sit up a little. “What? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head quickly, the tension easing just enough for him to smile. “I'm kidding, I'm fine,” he assured you. “Just…not when you’re lying next to me like this.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “What does that mean?”

Jongseob hesitated, then sighed, giving up. “I dreamt about you,” he admitted while fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “And you were wearing the exact same shirt."

“That?” you asked, glancing down at yourself.

“Oh yes,” he said, biting his lip. “The exact same one...with nothing underneath” He laughed again, this time a little more helpless. “My brain’s not helping me right now.”

Your expression shifted from concern to amusement almost instantly. A slow smile spread across your face. “Huh,” you teased, “well I'm not wearing anything under it right now as well."

He groaned softly, covering his face for a second. “Please, I didn't need to know that."

You scooted closer on purpose, clearly aware of what you were doing now. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling his fast heartbeat and the way his chest rose and fell. “What happened in the dream?” you asked lightly.

He peeked at you from behind his hand, eyes dark but playful. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” you said, grin widening.

He lowered his hand and leaned in slightly, voice quieter now. “You were on top of me,” he said. “My hands on your waist and...fuck-you felt so good. You were riding me and your hands were on my chest."

You laughed softly, your hand caressed his chest and you raised your eyebrows "Like that?"

“Yeah." He rasped, his voice low and rough. Your hand travelled lower, over his abdomen until it rested on the hem of his boxers. He watched you with hooded eyes, breath getting sharp.

You leaned in before he could say anything else, pressing a kiss to him that was deep and filthy. It stole the rest of his words completely. He responded without hesitation, pulling you close- almost desperate while groaning into your mouth.

Your hands crept into his boxers, already feeling the whole effect his dream had on him.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. “You’re cruel,” he sighed.

You smiled. “Am I?”

He laughed quietly. “Depends." He murmured, resting his hand on your lower back. "Are you keep going?"

And the dream didn’t seem so far away anymore.

[kuroken-divorce-arc]

Kita Shinsuke — Where We Linger

(timeskip era, slow burn escalation, domestic yearning, married strangers to lovers energy)

│ one last step before the fall

Previous Part: Already Yours ; Series Start: The Arrangement

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

the radio has been on long enough that neither of you remembers turning it there, some upbeat old song filling the kitchen with a bright, steady rhythm that carries easily over the sound of chopping and the low hiss of something simmering on the stove. evening light slants through the window above the sink, warm and honeyed, catching on the edges of glass jars and the steel of the knife in kita’s hand. the air smells like garlic and soy and the faint sweetness of whatever sauce you’d insisted on trying tonight, and the whole space feels lived-in in a way it hadn’t a few weeks ago.

you move through it without hesitation now.

the fridge opens with a soft suctioned pull, cool air spilling out as you lean in and scan the shelves before grabbing the bell pepper you need. the music swells into the chorus just as you nudge the door closed with your hip, and without really thinking about it, you pivot on your heel in a small, easy spin, the vegetable balanced loosely in your hand. it’s barely dancing—just a flicker of movement, a playful turn in rhythm with the song—but it feels good in your chest, loose and light.

the steady rhythm of chopping behind you stops.

kita doesn’t mean for it to.

one second the knife is moving in clean, measured strokes against the cutting board, and the next it’s hovering midair, his attention caught somewhere between the arc of your movement and the way the fading sunlight catches in your hair. he tells himself he’ll look away in a moment. he doesn’t.

there’s something almost disarming about how comfortable you are here now. the first few days in this kitchen, you had hovered, careful not to disrupt his routine, careful not to touch anything without asking. now you cross the space like it belongs to you, humming softly under your breath, spinning in the middle of the room because a song happens to catch you just right. you don’t look like a guest. you don’t look temporary.

you look like you’ve always been here.

a quiet sound escapes him before he can stop it, something halfway between a breath and a laugh.

you glance over your shoulder at that, catching him mid-pause. he’s still holding the knife, vegetables half-chopped beneath it, but he isn’t looking at them. he’s looking at you, and the look on his face makes you falter for half a beat. it isn’t teasing, isn’t even amused in the way you’d expect from the small chuckle you heard. it’s softer than that. fuller.

“what?” you ask, stepping closer and holding out the bell pepper toward him. “why’d you stop?”

he blinks once, like he’s coming back from somewhere, and sets the knife down carefully before taking the vegetable from your hand. his fingers brush yours in the exchange, warm from the stove heat and steady as ever, but there’s a faint tension there that wasn’t a second ago.

“you were distracting,” he says, voice level.

you raise an eyebrow. “by grabbing a vegetable?”

“by spinning in my kitchen,” he corrects.

you huff out a quiet laugh at that. “your kitchen?”

he meets your eyes fully then, something deliberate settling into his expression. “ours,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

it shouldn’t hit the way it does. it’s just a word. a correction. but there’s no teasing in it, no hesitation. he says it like it’s already true, like it’s been true for a while. you feel the warmth of it low in your chest before you can stop yourself, and for a second you don’t trust your voice enough to respond.

kita picks the knife back up, resuming his steady rhythm against the board, but his focus isn’t entirely on the vegetables anymore. it’s on the way you don’t argue with him. the way you don’t joke it off or correct him back. you just nod faintly and move around him to the stove, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his.

he’s aware of it immediately. the proximity. the ease.

it still surprises him how naturally you’ve folded into his routines, how seamlessly the two of you occupy the same space now. cooking together had once felt like a careful choreography, a series of polite adjustments and half-steps to avoid bumping into each other. now it’s instinctive. he knows when you’ll reach for the soy sauce before you do. you know to slide the cutting board a few inches to give him room without him asking. there’s no discussion. it just happens.

and every time it does, something in him tightens.

he hadn’t expected it to feel this effortless. hadn’t expected the quiet moments—music on low, your voice drifting over the clatter of dishes, the way you move through his home like you trust it—to undo him more thoroughly than any grand declaration could.

he keeps his expression composed, as always. keeps his posture steady, knife moving in even strokes. but inside, the realization sits heavy and undeniable.

he is gone for you.

not in a fleeting way. not in a way that can be brushed off as convenience or proximity or circumstance.

gone.

you hum softly along with the radio as you stir the pan, glancing over once more just to make sure he’s still watching what he’s cutting. he catches you looking this time, and something small and knowing passes between you. you don’t comment on it. neither does he.

the music continues. the light shifts lower. dinner inches closer to being finished.

the steady rhythm of chopping continues for a few more seconds after your spin, the radio still bright and buoyant in the background, the kitchen warm with the smell of garlic and browning meat. you move around him easily, rinsing your hands, reaching for a bowl, settling back into the flow of things. it is only when you glance down again that something clicks into place and your stomach drops.

he is cutting with his injured hand.

it is subtle. his grip is steady, his posture calm, but you know that hand. you remember how it bled between his fingers. you remember the clinic lights and the stitches and the way he tried to downplay it. it has been over a week, yes. the bandage is gone. the skin is closed. but it is not fully healed, and you know that.

how did you forget?

guilt pricks at you immediately. you should have been paying attention. you should not have let him slip back into habit like this.

you step closer without hesitation. “wait,” you say, the word softer than you intend, threaded with concern. “you’re cutting with that hand?”

he does not even pause. “it’s fine.”

it is not fine.

you move fully into his space now, close enough that the warmth from his body brushes against you. “you shouldn’t be,” you insist gently, already reaching toward the knife. “it’s still healing.”

a small smile touches his mouth, almost amused, almost fond. “i’ve got it.”

there is something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. he is not dismissing you. he is enjoying this. enjoying the way you hover. enjoying the way you step in without asking. the quiet back and forth between you lately has felt like this—measured, restrained, a testing of closeness that stops just short of crossing any line.

you are not stopping this time.

“no,” you murmur, and your hand closes around his wrist.

the contact is warm and solid beneath your fingers. his skin is rough from work, familiar already in a way that feels dangerous. you slide your grip from his wrist to his hand, your fingers curling carefully over his own so you can loosen his hold without hurting him. your thumb presses lightly against his palm as you guide the knife free.

he lets you.

he could resist. he is stronger than you. steadier. but he opens his fingers obediently, and the knife comes away into your grasp.

his heart is pounding.

you are so close that he can see the faint crease between your brows as you examine his hand. you are so focused on him that you do not notice how near your bodies have aligned, how your chest nearly brushes his arm, how your breath mingles in the narrow space between you. your fingers are still wrapped around his, still cradling his palm as if you are checking for pain.

“you need to be more careful,” you say softly, not scolding but earnest, your voice edged with affection you do not realize is so obvious. “you don’t have to do everything. i can handle this.”

he does not answer.

he cannot.

he is staring at you.

the late light catches in your lashes when you finally look up, expecting some rebuttal, and instead you find him watching you with an expression so unguarded that it steals the air from your lungs. it is not teasing. not amused. it is something deeper, something steady and reverent and entirely too open.

your brain short-circuits.

oh.

you are still holding his hand.

you are very close.

close enough that you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. close enough that you could lean forward without even stepping. close enough that if he moved—if you moved—

your pulse slams against your ribs. heat floods your face all at once, a dizzying rush that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around his before you realize what you are doing.

you are in kissing distance.

what is happening.

you snatch the knife back like it is the only thing anchoring you to the floor. “i’ll finish,” you say too quickly, stepping away in one smooth motion that feels anything but smooth inside your own skin. “you should— just stir that. please.”

your face is burning. you turn immediately toward the cutting board, hiding behind the task as if the vegetables have suddenly become urgent. you chop faster than necessary, far too aware of the way your hands are trembling just slightly.

behind you, he moves without protest.

he picks up the wooden spoon and begins stirring the meat in the pan with deliberate calm, his posture composed, his breathing steady.

inside, he is wrecked.

his palm still tingles where your fingers had wrapped around it. he can still feel the warmth of your thumb against his skin. he saw the exact moment it hit you—the realization, the flare of heat in your cheeks, the way your eyes widened before you fled. he wants to reach for you again.

instead, he stirs the pan and lets the radio fill the silence, acutely aware of how the air between you has changed. it feels thinner now. tighter. charged.

you do not look at him. he does not look away.

the shift in the air lingers even as you both settle back into the rhythm of cooking, the kind of quiet tension that doesn’t break the moment but hums beneath it, threading through every movement and every glance you very carefully do not make. the radio continues on like nothing has changed, something upbeat and bright filling the space between the soft scrape of your knife against the cutting board and the low simmer of the pan he’s now focused on, but it all feels just slightly off-beat now, like you’ve both stepped into something neither of you is acknowledging out loud.

you keep your attention on the vegetables in front of you, maybe a little too focused, chopping with more precision than necessary just to keep your hands busy, to ground yourself in something that isn’t the lingering warmth of his skin or the way your chest still hasn’t quite settled back into a normal rhythm. you can feel him behind you without looking, aware of the exact space he occupies, aware of the way he’s moving even when you’re not watching, and it makes your thoughts run in a direction you’re trying very hard not to follow.

he notices.

of course he does.

kita is not someone who misses things like this, especially not when it comes to you, and the shift in your energy is subtle but unmistakable. the way you’ve gone just a little quieter, the way your movements have sharpened, the way you’re avoiding looking at him now when only minutes ago you had been stepping into his space without hesitation. it does something to him, something quiet and curious and a little too warm, and before he can stop himself, that small, knowing smile returns.

“i think you like taking care of me,” he says, voice even, almost casual, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of the way you just took his hand from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your knife pauses for half a second before you force it to keep moving. “i do not,” you reply immediately, a little too quick, a little too defensive to be convincing, and you hate that he can probably hear it.

because the truth is—

you do.

you think about it before you can stop yourself, about the way he works from the moment he wakes up, the way he carries everything with that steady, quiet competence that never asks for help, never complains, never slows down unless he absolutely has to. you think about the way he’d still been trying to use that hand earlier like it didn’t matter, like he could just push through it, and something in your chest twists in a way that feels a little too soft, a little too fond.

it feels good to step in.

it feels good to take something off his plate, even if it’s small, even if it’s just chopping vegetables or reminding him to be careful, because he never does that for himself. and the thought of being able to ease even a fraction of that weight sits somewhere warm and steady in you.

which is exactly why you absolutely cannot admit it.

you clear your throat lightly, trying to sound more composed than you feel. “i just don’t want you reopening a wound and making it worse,” you add, like that explains everything, like that is the only reason.

he hums softly, not arguing, but not agreeing either, and you can practically feel his attention on you again, that quiet, observant focus that makes you acutely aware of everything you’re doing.

“right,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn’t believe you for a second.

heat creeps up your neck again. “it’s practical,” you insist, even though he didn’t challenge you.

“mhm.”

you glance over your shoulder at that, narrowing your eyes just slightly, and he’s looking at you with that same calm expression, stirring the pan like he hasn’t just called you out without actually saying anything. there’s a faint curve to his mouth, subtle enough that anyone else might miss it, but you don’t.

“don’t start,” you mutter, turning back to the cutting board.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you didn’t have to.”

that earns you the softest exhale of amusement, and you feel it more than you hear it, the warmth of it settling somewhere low in your chest despite yourself. you try to stay focused, but it’s harder now, the awareness between you stretching thinner, tighter, every small exchange adding another layer to it.

“you hovered over me in the clinic too,” he adds after a moment, tone still light, still easy, but there’s intention there now, a deliberate return to the same thread he started.

you almost miss your next cut. “you were literally bleeding,” you shoot back, though there’s no real bite to it.

“and now i’m not.”

“you still could be if you keep acting like that.”

he lets that sit for a second, stirring slowly, before replying, “you stepped in just as fast today.”

your grip tightens slightly around the knife. “because you weren’t being careful.”

“or,” he says, just a little softer now, “because you wanted to.”

you inhale sharply, the sound quiet but not quiet enough.

there it is again—that feeling, that awareness, that sense that he is looking at you not just to tease, but to see what you’ll do, what you’ll say, how far you’ll let this go before you push back. it’s not overwhelming. it’s not aggressive. it’s controlled, measured, and somehow that makes it worse.

you swallow, trying to regain your footing. “you’re reading into it,” you say, but it comes out less certain than you’d like.

“am i?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

because the worst part is, you don’t think he is.

you focus on the cutting board again, finishing the last of the vegetables with careful precision, but your thoughts are nowhere near it anymore, caught instead on the way he said that, the quiet confidence in it, the way he didn’t push further even though he easily could have.

he doesn’t press you.

he just lets it linger, lets the moment breathe, lets you sit in it without forcing you to respond, and somehow that feels more intimate than if he had kept going.

the last of the vegetables are finished under your knife, and you gather them up with the side of the blade, sliding them neatly onto the cutting board before stepping back into his space again without thinking. he shifts just slightly to give you room at the stove, but not much, and the proximity is immediate, familiar now in a way that still manages to send a quiet spark through your chest. you tip the vegetables into the pan, the sharp hiss of contact rising as they hit the heat, and he adjusts his grip on the spoon to mix them in, steady and controlled, like everything else he does.

you stay there for a second longer than necessary, watching the way he stirs, the way his wrist moves, the way his attention stays on the pan even though you can feel—without looking—that he’s aware of you standing right beside him. it’s that same awareness from earlier, stretched thin between you, quiet but constant.

you step away first, turning toward the sink with the cutting board and knife in hand, rinsing them under warm water as you try to settle yourself back into something normal. the cool rhythm of it helps, the simple motion of washing, of focusing on something small and manageable, but it doesn’t take long before that feeling creeps back in again.

he’s looking at you.

you don’t need to turn around to know it.

you can feel it in the space between your shoulders, in the way the air seems to shift just slightly when his attention settles. it’s not heavy. it’s not uncomfortable. it’s just… there. constant. deliberate.

you glance over your shoulder, catching him exactly as expected, his gaze already on you.

and something in you decides you are not going to be the only one flustered in this kitchen.

you turn a little more fully, drying your hands slowly as you tilt your head just slightly. “you stare a lot,” you say, aiming for light, teasing, something that will throw him off balance the way he’s been doing to you all evening.

he doesn’t even blink.

“yeah,” he says simply.

you pause. that is not the response you were expecting.

you narrow your eyes slightly, trying again, pushing just a little further. “like… a lot,” you add, letting a hint of a smile tug at your mouth, expecting him to deflect, to brush it off, to pretend he hadn’t been.

he doesn’t.

“i know.”

you stare at him.

he meets your gaze without hesitation, calm and steady, like this conversation is the most normal thing in the world. there is no embarrassment, no attempt to hide it, no teasing dodge to soften it.

you feel your composure start to slip.

“and?” you press, because now you have to, because you committed to this and you are not backing out. his expression softens just slightly, something warmer settling in his eyes as he looks at you.

“you’re beautiful,” he says, as if it’s obvious. as if it’s fact. “i like watching you.”

your brain goes completely blank. there is no clever response waiting. no teasing comeback. no recovery.

just heat.

a full-body, immediate flush that rushes up your neck and across your face so fast it makes you dizzy. you turn back to the sink too quickly, gripping the edge of it for half a second like you need something solid to hold onto while your thoughts scatter in every direction.

what the fuck.

you had been trying to tease him. this is not how that was supposed to go. behind you, he just goes back to stirring the pan like he didn’t just say something that short-circuited your entire nervous system.

you swallow, forcing your voice to work again. “you can’t just say things like that,” you mutter, scrubbing the cutting board a little harder than necessary.

“why not?”

“because—” you stop, because you don’t actually have a good answer for that, because the real answer is just that it makes you feel like this, like your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. “because it’s… a lot.”

he hums quietly, like he’s considering that. “it’s true.”

you make a small, helpless sound under your breath, shaking your head as you rinse the last of the soap away. “you’re impossible.”

“you started it.”

that pulls a reluctant huff of laughter out of you, even as your face is still warm. “i regret everything.”

“i don’t.”

you risk a glance back at him at that, and he’s already looking at you again, that same steady, unbothered focus that somehow feels even more dangerous now that you know he’s not going to look away just because you call him out on it.

you turn back to the sink before you can spiral any further.

the rest of the cooking finishes in that same rhythm, light conversation slipping easily between you despite the undercurrent that hasn’t gone anywhere. he sets the table while you plate the food, moving around each other without needing to speak, and by the time everything is ready, it almost feels normal again.

almost.

you carry the dishes over to the table, setting them down carefully before reaching for your usual seat across from him—and pausing.

your plate is not in its usual spot across from his. it’s beside his.

you blink once, then glance over at him.

he’s already pulling out his chair like nothing is different, like this is how it’s always been, but there’s the faintest hint of something in the set of his shoulders, something just slightly too deliberate.

you set the dish down slowly, turning toward him with a small, knowing smile. “wow,” you say, light but pointed. “can’t get enough of me, huh?”

his ears go red almost immediately.

it’s subtle, but you see it, and it’s enough to send a quiet spark of satisfaction through you. he doesn’t look away, doesn’t deny it, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression now that wasn’t there before, something a little more caught off guard.

“it’s easier,” he says, clearing his throat lightly as he gestures to the seat beside him. “to talk.”

“mhm,” you hum, entirely unconvinced as you take the chair anyway, settling beside him instead of across.

the space between you disappears the second you sit down. it’s different like this. closer.

your elbows brush when you reach for your chopsticks. your knees press lightly together under the table without either of you moving away. the warmth of him is constant at your side, not just something you pass through in the kitchen but something that stays.

you try to focus on your food. you really do.

but every small point of contact feels amplified, every accidental brush lingering just a second too long before either of you adjusts, and your heart has not settled at all.

neither has his.

he eats with the same steady composure as always, posture straight, movements controlled, but he is acutely aware of every inch of you beside him, of the way your leg rests against his without pulling back, of the way your shoulder shifts just slightly closer when you reach across the table.

neither of you comments on it. neither of you moves away.

and dinner passes like that, quiet conversation and shared space and something unspoken threading through it all, something neither of you is quite ready to name, but both of you feel all the same.

the kitchen has long since settled back into quiet, the last of the dishes dried and put away, the lingering warmth of dinner fading into something softer, more relaxed. the radio has been turned off, leaving the house filled instead with the low hum of evening and the distant sounds of the countryside outside. you grab two drinks from the fridge, the cool air brushing your skin as you close it with your hip, and head toward the living room where the faint glow of the tv is already lighting the space.

he’s sitting on the couch.

not off to one side like he used to.

right in the middle.

you slow just slightly as you take it in, something warm and pleased settling in your chest at the sight. it’s subtle, something anyone else might miss, but you don’t. you remember how careful the distance between you used to be, how deliberate it felt, like you were both measuring out space and trying not to cross into it too quickly. now he sits there like it’s natural to expect you beside him.

like he wants you there.

you press your lips together to hide the small smile that threatens to form, then continue forward like nothing has changed, stepping into the room and holding out one of the drinks to him. “here,” you say lightly.

he looks up at you, attention shifting immediately, and takes it with a quiet, “thanks,” his fingers brushing yours for a brief second before he pulls back. you don’t move away. instead, you make your decision.

you sit down directly next to him.

not with a careful inch of space between you, not with that old hesitation, but close—your side pressed lightly into his, your shoulder brushing his arm as you settle in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he turns to you immediately.

you can feel it before you even look, the shift in his posture, the way his attention sharpens in an instant. and before you can second-guess yourself, before you can overthink it, you push just a little further.

you swing your leg over his.

it’s casual in the way you do it, like you’re just getting comfortable, like this is normal, like you haven’t just closed every inch of distance between you in one smooth motion. you adjust slightly, shifting your weight so your legs rest across his, your foot settling against the couch on the other side of him as you make yourself at home.

you can feel his entire body go still for a split second.

his eyes widen just slightly, just enough that you catch it, and the faintest flush rises to the tips of his ears. his grip on his drink tightens almost imperceptibly before he relaxes again, but you can feel it, the way his heart has kicked into a faster rhythm beneath all that composure.

your own is not much better.

you feel bold. reckless, almost. but you don’t move.

you lean back into the couch, settling more comfortably against him, and reach for the remote to turn on your show like this isn’t the most deliberate thing you’ve done all night. a quiet chuckle escapes him, low and warm.

“you’re being forward,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach flip, something amused but edged with something else you don’t quite name.

you glance at him, feigning innocence. “am i?” you reply lightly. “i’m just indulging you.”

his brows lift just slightly. “indulging me.”

“yeah,” you say, shifting just a little closer for emphasis, like you haven’t already made your point. “you wanted me to sit next to you, didn’t you?”

there’s the faintest pause. then that small, familiar grin.

he doesn’t deny it.

instead, he settles back into the couch, more relaxed now, like he’s accepted the shift as easily as you forced it. his free hand moves without hesitation, coming to rest lightly on your leg where it’s draped across him.

your breath catches.

his touch is warm. steady.

deliberate.

his thumb begins to move in slow, absent circles against your skin, the motion unhurried, almost thoughtful, like he’s testing the space just as much as you are.

you nearly choke on your drink.

it happens fast enough that you don’t even have time to stop it, a sharp cough catching in your throat as you turn your head away, trying to recover before you embarrass yourself completely.

he’s already looking at you.

there’s a grin on his face now, wider than before, something almost unfairly pleased about the way you reacted.

“you okay?” he asks, entirely too calm for someone who just did that on purpose.

you cough once more, waving a hand like you can brush it off. “yeah,” you manage, voice just a little thinner than you’d like. “all good.”

you are not good.

your skin feels too warm where his hand rests, your thoughts tripping over themselves as you try to focus on literally anything else, the tv, the show, the sound of your own breathing—anything but the slow, steady movement of his thumb against your leg.

he doesn’t move his hand.

doesn’t pull away.

and you don’t stop him.

you sit there like that, pressed into his side, your leg draped across his, both of you pretending to watch the show while something unspoken settles heavier between you, stretching tight and warm and impossible to ignore.

and neither of you does anything to break it.

the house has quieted by the time you both retreat to the bedroom for the night, the soft hum of the night settling in around the walls like a blanket, distant and calm. the energy from earlier hasn’t gone anywhere, though. it lingers, stretched thin and buzzing faintly under your skin, carried with you from the couch to the hallway to here. the room feels warmer than usual, or maybe that’s just you, still too aware of everything—of him, of yourself, of the way the air seems to hold onto every small movement a little longer than it should.

he’s already in bed by the time you finish in the bathroom, propped slightly against the headboard before eventually settling down onto his back, one arm tucked beneath his head. his gaze follows you the moment you step back into the room, sharp and steady in that way you’ve come to recognize, not intrusive, not heavy, but present in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. you feel it immediately, even as you move around like normal, setting things down, unclasping your jewelry, slipping pieces off one by one and placing them carefully where they belong.

you talk as you do it, words spilling easily now, picking back up on the show you’d been watching earlier, your voice animated as you go over the twist that had you nearly yelling at the screen. you pace a little as you speak, half distracted, half still caught up in it, replaying the moment out loud while he listens without interrupting, his attention never leaving you even if he doesn’t comment much. it’s not that he doesn’t care—if anything, it’s the opposite. he watches you like every small detail matters, like the way your hands move when you’re talking or the way your expression shifts with each part of the story is worth memorizing.

he hadn’t cared about that show before.

he does now. because you do.

you finally climb into bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight as you settle in, turning onto your side without thinking. he shifts with you, mirroring the movement until you’re both facing each other, close enough that the space between you feels more like a suggestion than an actual distance. it’s quiet now, the earlier teasing softened into something slower, something steadier, and the conversation drifts into something lighter, easier. your voice lowers without you meaning to, the cadence softer, more intimate, like the world has narrowed down to just this small space between you.

your hearts are both still racing.

you can feel it in the way your chest rises, in the way your breath catches just slightly when he shifts closer, in the way your gaze keeps drifting back to his eyes even when you try to look anywhere else. there’s no urgency in it, no pressure, just a quiet, steady awareness that hums between you, dense and warm and impossible to ignore.

he shifts again, just slightly, and a loose strand of hair falls across his forehead, brushing into his eyes.

you don’t think. you just move. your hand lifts, slow and careful, and you reach toward him, fingers brushing lightly against his temple as you tuck the strand back into place. the touch is gentle, deliberate, your fingertips barely grazing his skin as you smooth it away, and the moment stretches the second you make contact.

he goes still.

not stiff, not pulling back, just… still, like he’s letting it happen, like he’s choosing to stay right where he is instead of leaning away from you.

your hand lingers.

you hadn’t meant it to, but it does, resting lightly against the side of his face, your palm just barely cupping his cheek. there’s a hesitance in it now, a quiet offering, like you’re giving him the space to move if he wants to, to pull away if this is too much.

he doesn’t.

his eyes don’t leave yours, something deep and steady settling into them as he exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh as he leans just slightly into your touch. it’s small, the movement barely there, but it’s enough. enough to send something sharp and warm through your chest, enough to make your breath catch in your throat as your fingers press just a fraction more firmly against his skin.

from his side, everything narrows down to that point of contact.

your hand against his face. your eyes on his. the quiet of the room pressing in around you while something in his chest settles into a certainty he’s been circling for days now without naming.

he loves you.

the thought lands clean. steady. not sudden, not overwhelming, just… right. like something that has been there for a while finally taking shape in words.

his hand lifts, slow and careful, and wraps gently around yours where it rests against his cheek. he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t break the moment, just shifts your hand slightly so he can bring it closer, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles before he presses a soft, deliberate kiss against them.

it’s not hurried. not tentative. just certain.

he keeps your hand in his after, fingers threading with yours, holding on instead of letting go as he settles back into the pillow, still facing you, still close.

“goodnight,” he says quietly.

your voice feels smaller when you answer, softer, like something has shifted in you that you don’t quite have the words for yet. “goodnight.”

you don’t pull your hand away. neither does he.

your fingers stay laced together between you as the room falls quiet again, the tension from earlier no longer sharp but still there, transformed into something warmer, something deeper, something that sits heavy and steady in your chest as you close your eyes.

and somewhere in that quiet, with his hand still holding yours and his warmth still close enough to feel, the realization settles in just as clearly as his had.

oh.

oh, fuck.

you love him.

you don’t say it.

you don’t have to.

you just hold on, and let the feeling stay.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

so upfront with y'all im still going to be on hiatus, i just wanted to post the next chapter of the kita series because im almost done with it and i don't want to leave the series unfinished. im working on the last part and that'll probably be the last thing i post for awhile.

[afterdarkbydel]

✦ PULSE POINT ✦

PULSE POINT • 12 • NOT DONE YET

Summary: What could have ended doesn’t. Instead, the day stretches—easy, deliberate, and chosen. Outside the structure that once defined them, they begin to learn what this could be when neither of them steps back.

Warnings / Content Notes:

workplace power dynamic (attending / resident)

slow-burn romantic relationship

emotional vulnerability

consensual physical intimacy (kissing)

references to injury/disability (non-graphic)

shifting personal/professional boundaries

mild language

Previous Chapter(s): | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt.4 | Chpt. 5 | Chpt. 6 | Chpt. 7 | Chpt. 8 | Chpt. 9 | Chpt. 10 | Chpt. 11 |

Recommended Listening:

Reader's Song: Wilder Mind – Mumford & Sons

Jack's Song: Northern Attitude – Noah Kahan

Bonus Track: Holocene- Bon Iver

Chapter 12: Not Done Yet

He opens the passenger door. But you don’t move to get in. The parking lot is quiet around you. Wind is moving softly through the trees. The distant creak of branches. A car door is closing somewhere farther down the lot. And the charged silence standing between you. You lean one shoulder against the frame of the open door, still catching your breath from more than the hike. He stands close. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, the decision would be made for you.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” you say.

His brow lifts slightly. “About what?”

“The overlook.”

 A faint pause.

“I stand by my decision.”

You laugh under your breath. “Of course you do.” 

A small shift touches his mouth. Not quite a smile. Worse. Because now you know what he looks like when he’s pleased with himself. You step closer.

“You planned this whole day just to impress me.”

“No,” he says calmly. Then, after a beat, “I planned it because I wanted to spend time with you.”

The honesty steals every clever response you had. You search his face. No performance. No teasing now. Just truth. So you do the only thing that makes sense.

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. The sound he makes is low and brief, surprised only for a second before one hand slides to your waist and the other braces on the car above your shoulder. He kisses you back immediately. Deeper than before. Warmer. The kind of kiss that feels like it belongs to a day already in progress, not a moment stolen from it.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. His thumb presses once into your side.

When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you. “That seemed decisive.”

You smile, breathless. “You bring it out in me.”

Something flashes in his expression. Heat. Approval. Maybe both. 

Then he straightens slightly, opens the passenger door wider, and gestures inside.

“Lunch.”

You laugh and slide into the seat. “Yes, doctor.”

“I’m off duty.”

“Tragic.” You reply. He closes the door on the sound of your laughter.

The drive is easier now. No first-date nerves. No wondering. Just the low hum of the road, sunlight moving across the dashboard, and the occasional glance that says more than conversation needs to. He takes you to a small lakeside café with a wide wooden patio and mismatched planters full of late-season flowers. The air smells like grilled bread and coffee.

You choose a table near the railing. From here, the lake throws light back in silver flashes.

He waits until you sit before taking the chair across from you. Of course he does.

You study the menu for a moment. Then lower it. “What were you like before all this?”

His eyes lift to yours. “All this?”

“The hospital. The military. The version of you that schedules dates with military precision.”

A pause. Then the corner of his mouth shifts.

“Less interesting.”

“I doubt that.”

He looks out toward the lake. For a second, you think he might deflect. 

Instead,  “I was louder.” 

That surprises you enough to show. “Louder?”

“I laughed more. Talked more. Had significantly worse judgment.”

You grin. “I’d pay money to meet that version of you.”

“He was overrated.” He smiles back. 

“I don’t believe that either.”

The server arrives and saves him from having to answer. You order a sandwich and fries to share. He quickly orders for himself, then waits until the server leaves before speaking again. “What about you?”

You blink. “What about me?”

“What were you like before medicine became your whole schedule?”

The question lands more gently than expected. You look down at your hands, then back up.

“Messier.”

His expression doesn’t change. But his attention sharpens. “How?”

You lean back in your chair. “I cared about everyone all the time. Too much. I tried to fix things that weren’t mine to fix.” A breeze moves across the patio. The lake shifts in the sunlight.

“And now?” he asks.

“Now I’m better at boundaries.”

His gaze flicks briefly to your mouth. “Debatable.”

You laugh so suddenly you nearly choke on air. “That was rude.”

“It was accurate.” The food arrives.

You eat, talk, steal fries from the center basket like you’ve done this for years instead of hours. Conversation moves easily. Music. Terrible patients. Childhood stories. Places you’ve never been. Places he wants to take you. That last one catches your attention. 

You set down your drink. “Places you want to take me?”

His expression remains maddeningly neutral. “I didn’t say that.”

“You did.” 

“I implied future options.”

You shake your head. “You are a deeply irritating man.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You smile despite yourself.

Under the table, his foot brushes your ankle. Then stays. You glance up. Something warm and deeply satisfied moves through his expression. Not smug. Worse. Certain. The lake glitters beyond him. The afternoon stretches ahead, warm and open. And for the first time, being with him doesn’t feel like something impossible. It feels like something that could become part of your real life.

Lunch should feel like an ending. Instead, neither of you reaches for the check. The plates are nearly empty. The ice melted in your glass. The lake beyond the railing has shifted into afternoon shimmer, brighter now beneath the higher sun. But the space between you still feels occupied. Alive. You trace one fingertip through the condensation on your glass.

“So,” you say lightly, “is this where you send me home and call it restraint?”

His gaze lifts from his coffee. A faint pause. Then the corner of his mouth shifts. “That depends.”

You tilt your head. “On what?”

“How persuasive you intend to be.”

Heat flickers through you. You smile slowly. “Careful. That sounded like encouragement.”

“It was an assessment.”

You laugh softly. The server appears with the check. Jack reaches for it first. You reach for it at the same time. His hand lands over yours before either of you can stop it. Warm. Steady. Every nerve in your body seems to notice immediately.

“I can pay for my own lunch,” you say, quieter now.

“I know.” He doesn’t move his hand.

That somehow matters more than the words. You tilt your head.

“Are you ever going to let me pay for a meal?”

“No.” The answer comes without hesitation.

You laugh softly. “That’s very rigid of you.”

“It’s consistent.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll find a way to wear you down.”

For the first time in several seconds, something openly amused moves through his expression.

“Maybe, you’re already very good at it.”

 Heat blooms instantly through your chest. You stare at him. “That was dangerous.”

“I’m learning.” A flicker touches the corner of his mouth. Then he lifts his hand, takes the check, and slides a card into the folder with calm finality. You should protest more. You don’t. By the time you stand, the air has changed again. Softer. Fuller. The kind of shift that happens when time has been spent well. 

He walks beside you back through the café, hand settling lightly at the small of your back to guide you past a crowded table. The touch is practical. The heat it causes is not. Outside, the breeze off the lake is cooler now. You stop near the railing while he waits for the receipt. Boats move slowly across the water. Someone laughs farther down the boardwalk. The ordinary world continues around you. It feels strange that no one else knows yours has tilted. He rejoins you a moment later.

“Ready?” he asks.

You should say yes. Instead, “Do you want to be done already?”

The question slips out softer than intended. His expression changes. Subtle. But real.

“No.”

Your pulse skips.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “I’m trying to be reasonable.”

“That sounds serious.” You murmur.

“It is.”

You study him. The breeze lifts loose strands near your braid. He reaches out and smooths one back behind your ear before dropping his hand. The tenderness of it nearly undoes you.

“You don’t have to be reasonable all the time,” you say quietly.

His eyes hold yours. “With you, that’s becoming difficult.”

Heat blooms low and steady. You glance toward the parking lot. “So what happens now?”

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“How much more time you’ll give me today.”

The words land somewhere deep. No arrogance. No assumption. Just a man asking plainly for more of something he already values.

You step closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “How much are you asking for?”

A beat. “All of it.”

Your breath catches. He must see it happen, because something warmer moves through his expression.

Then he adds, quieter, “Or whatever you’re willing to spare.”

You smile slowly. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m adapting.”

You laugh and shake your head. Then, because it feels impossible not to, you reach for the front of his shirt and tug him closer. His hand finds your waist instantly. The kiss is slower than the ones before. No urgency. No breaking point. Just depth. The kind of kiss that says the day has already become something neither of you wants to end. When you pull back, your foreheads brush.

“So,” you murmur, still close enough to feel his breath, “what are you going to do with all that time?”

His thumb moves once against your side. “I thought I’d start with a drive.”

You laugh softly. “Very ambitious.”

“We have time.” He steps back only enough to take your hand. “Come on.” And when he leads you toward the parking lot, it doesn’t feel like being swept up. It feels like being chosen again.

He doesn’t turn toward the city. You notice immediately. The road out of the café curves left toward town. He takes the right. Tree-lined county highway stretching ahead in long ribbons of late afternoon light. 

You glance at him. “This isn’t the way back to the city.” 

“I know.” The answer is calm. Expected. Like he already assumed you’d notice and chose not to explain too soon.

You settle back into the seat, smiling to yourself. “Kidnapping feels bold for a second date.”

“It’s not kidnapping.”

You turn toward him. “No?”

“No.” His hands stay steady on the wheel. “You got in willingly.”

You laugh softly. “That is manipulative logic.”

“It’s accurate logic.”

The road opens beside a field gone golden yellow with autumn grass. Windows cracked just enough to let cool air move through the car. Music low. Something acoustic and warm in the background. You look out at the landscape sliding by. The farther you go, the quieter everything inside you becomes. He drives like he does everything else. Smoothly. Deliberately. No wasted motion. No need to prove anything. After a few miles, he turns onto a narrower road that winds through dense trees before opening onto a bluff overlooking the lake. He parks near an old wooden fence, weathered silver with age. Beyond it, water stretches wide and bright beneath the lowering sun. The surface catches light in long, shattered lines. It’s beautiful. Still. Private. You step out of the car slowly. The wind is cooler here. Cleaner. He comes around to stand beside you, not touching, just close enough that awareness sparks anyway.

“You come here too?” you ask.

“Sometimes.” The understatement of it makes you glance at him.

He’s looking out at the water. Not guarded exactly. But quieter than before. You move to the fence and rest your arms along the top rail. He joins you a moment later. For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence feels chosen.

Then, “After rehab, I used to drive out here.”

His voice is even. You turn your head slightly, but don’t interrupt. “It was easier than being home.”

The words land softly. No drama. No request for sympathy. Just truth.

“I didn’t know what to do with stillness back then,” he continues. “Or pain. Or time.” The wind moves across the lake below.

 You keep your voice gentle. “So you came here.”

“Yes.” He glances down once, then back to the horizon. “I liked places that asked nothing of me.”

Something in your chest tightens. Because you hear what lives underneath that sentence. How exhausted he must have been. How alone.

You shift closer until your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away.

“You don’t seem like someone who asks nothing of himself.”

A faint breath of amusement leaves him. “That was part of the problem.”

You smile sadly. The water glitters below. A gull cuts across the sky. He rests his forearms on the fence beside yours.

“For a long time,” he says, quieter now, “my life got very small.”

You wait.

“Work. Recovery. Routine. Repeat.” His jaw shifts once. The old tell. But he keeps going.

“It was manageable that way.”

You look at him fully now. “And now?”

His eyes meet yours. Now the answer matters.

“Now it isn’t enough.” The words move through you like warmth.

You don’t speak right away. You’re not sure you could. Because you know what he means. Or who. He watches your face carefully. As if giving you time to step back if you need to.

You don’t. Instead, you let some truth of your own rise.

“I understand making life small,” you say quietly.

His attention sharpens. You look back out at the water. “It feels safer when everything has edges. Roles. Responsibilities. Things you can control.” The admission costs more than you expected. You feel it in your throat. “I’ve spent a lot of time being what other people needed.”

A pause. “Sometimes I’m not sure who I am when no one needs anything.”

 The words hang there, more vulnerable than you intended. His hand finds yours on the fence. Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just certain.

 His fingers thread through yours slowly. “You don’t have to be useful to be wanted by me.”

The words move through you like something unfastening. You turn to him. He’s already looking at you. No pity. No fixing. Just presence. Your throat tightens unexpectedly. For a moment, you can’t think of anything clever enough to hide behind. So you don’t try.

You step closer and rest your forehead lightly against his shoulder. His free hand comes to your back without hesitation. Steady. Warm. And somehow that gentleness says even more. The sun lowers another inch. Gold deepening toward amber. You stay there for a moment longer than either of you needs. Neither of you seems interested in moving. Then, eventually, you lift your head. He looks down at you. Quietly. Like he’s seeing something important. You don’t give yourself time to overthink it. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss shaped more by gratitude than hunger. He answers immediately, one hand still warm at your back, the other lifting to your jaw. When he pulls away, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours.

Then he walks you back to the car, hand at your lower back over uneven ground, fingers lingering one second longer at the door.

The drive home is quieter. Not empty. Full. The kind of quiet that only exists after something true has been said. By the time he pulls up outside your building, dusk has settled blue across the street. Neither of you moves right away. You turn toward him. Today sits between you like something alive. You could thank him. You could say goodnight. You could wait for him to lead again.

Instead you ask, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

His eyes lift to yours instantly. Something like surprise flickers there. Then warmth.

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.

You smile. “Good.” You unbuckle and turn toward him fully. “You picked today,” you say. “Tomorrow is mine.” 

His brow lifts slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” You lean closer, close enough to feel the pause in his breathing.

“I’m going to show you my favorite places.”

For the first time all day, he looks caught off guard. Not unsettled. Pleased.

Then you add, “And I’m picking you up.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle to anyone else. Obvious to you. 

His jaw shifts. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

You smile sweetly. “It’s absolutely necessary.”

“I can drive,” He says, trying to close this matter simply with his tone.

“I’m aware.” Your smile broadens.

He studies you like you’ve become unexpectedly complicated.

“You hate this,” you say, delighted.

“I dislike inefficiency.”

“That is not what this is.” You defend lightly. 

“No?” He asks, quirking a brow.

“No.” You lean back against the seat, entirely too pleased with yourself. “It’s the principle of it.”

He exhales through his nose. A sound dangerously close to a laugh. “You don’t even like driving.”

 You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

“You’ve made three separate comments about preferring to be a passenger.” Traitorous memory.

You narrow your eyes. “Fine. I am, historically, a passenger princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Historically.”

“But that is irrelevant,” you continue. “Because tomorrow, I’m picking you up.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Measuring. Losing. Then, “This feels unnecessary.”

“It’s happening.” You say with finality.

A beat.

He sighs with theatrical resignation. “Fine.”

Victory blooms through you. You grin. “That sounded begrudging.”

“It was.”

You lean in and kiss him before he can reclaim any dignity. Slow. Warm. Satisfied. When you pull back, his hand catches lightly at your wrist, keeping you there one second longer.

“What time?” he asks, voice lower now.

You smile. “I’ll let you know.”

“That seems intentionally vague.”

“It’s a surprise.” You grin.  

He studies you for a beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Dangerous.”

You open the door and step out into the cool evening. At the entrance, you turn back once.

He’s still watching you. Of course he is. You lift a hand.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight.”

You head inside, your pulse unsteady, and tomorrow already taking shape.

@nosebeers, @777bambi777, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @21nainai, @tubby23

[aventurineswife]

can you do maybe aventurine, lighter from zzz and ratio with a reader that has hyperthyroidism and has generally poor health? like reader can usually manage by themselves (like heartbeat, blood pressure or maybe even eye problems), but one day it gets complicated as it develops into a thyroid storm (this basically leads to organ failure or cardiac arrest) and they get hospitalized like immediately. the character basically receives news of this through some other connection because reader is far too anxious to tell them and they go for a small hospital visit.

“Don’t Let This Be Our Last Goodbye”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Lighter x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Illness (Hyperthyroidism), Medical Emergency (Thyroid Storm), Hospital Visit, Emotional Vulnerability, Established Relationship, Soft Intimacy, Angst, Protective Partner, Comfort After Illness, Subtle Romantic Undertones, Found Family (Lighter's part), Rational vs Emotional Conflict (Ratio's part).

Warnings: Depiction of a medical emergency (thyroid storm), Symptoms including rapid heartbeat, Fever, Confusion, Fainting, Hospitalization; anxiety and emotional panic, Mentions of organ failure and cardiac distress; mild medical descriptions (IVs, monitors, etc), References to past trauma, Survivor’s guilt, Death (non-graphic), Emotional intensity, Characters confronting fear of loss.

The message came through a coded channel. A polite, impersonal update. Clinical. Sterile.

You’d collapsed. Thyroid storm. ICU admission. Time-sensitive complications.

You hadn’t told him.

Which, he supposed, was only natural. You always played things close to your chest—guarded, stubborn, and independent to a fault. Just his type. Just his curse.

By the time Aventurine arrived at the hospital, his trademark grin was noticeably absent, replaced by a sharp set to his jaw and eyes that flickered between worry and anger. Not at you—never at you.

At himself. At fate. At the idea of loss.

“Room 416,” the receptionist said. “Visitor limit—”

He didn't wait. He slipped past with a crisp wave of his credentials and an almost bored tone, the same voice he’d use to bluff a billion-credit deal. But this wasn't a game. Not this time.

You were unconscious. Machines buzzed and clicked. The beeping of the cardiac monitor was too fast, too erratic.

He sat down, wordless. Slipped off his gloves.

His left hand clenched unconsciously behind his back.

A tell. A crack. The gamble was too steep this time.

“You didn’t tell me,” he whispered after a long silence, brushing a stray hair from your sweat-dampened forehead. “Were you scared I’d run? Or… were you scared I’d stay?”

He sighed and leaned in, pressing his lips gently to your temple.

“You really think I’d fold that easily, sweetheart? No. You don’t get to leave the table yet.”

His voice was still honeyed, still sly. But it shook.

“I didn’t bluff my way to the top of the IPC just to lose you to a damn heartbeat.”

He stayed until morning, adjusting your blankets every hour and muttering odds about your recovery like he could outwit biology itself.

He never left the room. Not once.

And when you finally stirred, groggy and weak, your eyes flicked open just enough to see his silhouette by your side.

“You really shouldn’t gamble like this,” he murmured with a tired smile.

“But... lucky for you, I never lose where it counts.”

Lighter was in the middle of a rooftop spar when Piper found him.

“Hey, Champ.” Her voice was too tight. “It’s [Name]. They’re in the hospital. Thyroid storm. It’s… bad.”

He froze mid-motion. The wind caught his scarf. His hands—calloused, battle-worn—suddenly felt useless.

The next thing he knew, he was running.

The hospital lights were too bright. The antiseptic smell reminded him of field clinics and dead friends.

His fingers twitched as he paced outside your room, heart racing like he was about to step into an arena—but this wasn’t a fight he could punch his way through.

He didn’t go in at first. He couldn’t. Not with the machines breathing for you. Not with the sterile whispers and your skin so pale it scared him more than any battlefield ever had.

When he finally stepped in, it was quiet. Only the sound of monitors and his own trembling breath.

“You idiot,” he muttered, pulling a chair close. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

His sunglasses remained on, but his voice cracked.

“You should’ve told me. I could’ve—hell, I don’t know—done something. Got Caesar to check your meds, or had Lucy make you tea every damn day. Or just—been there.”

He held your hand—carefully, reverently, like it might shatter. His own was scraped and scarred, still stained from earlier fights. But he wasn’t the one who looked broken right now.

“You promised me a rematch,” he said softly. “You can’t tap out yet.”

The next morning, when your eyes fluttered open, you caught the sight of his head resting beside your arm on the mattress.

Your lips moved, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t leave.”

He smiled—just a little. “Told you. The Champion might perish... but he doesn’t lose.”

Ratio was delivering a lecture at a symposium when the message came.

He read it once. Then again.

The calculations in his mind ceased. Numbers scattered. Equilibrium shattered.

Thyroid storm. Hospitalization. Unstable vitals.

His next words to the stunned auditorium were uncharacteristically brief. “I apologize. There is someone more important than this talk.”

He arrived at the hospital faster than anyone could’ve predicted, his presence slicing through the air like a razor. Staff tried to stop him. No one succeeded.

The door to your room opened with a soft hiss. He stepped inside, slow and deliberate.

You looked fragile in the bed, all wires and weakness. His first thought—illogical and emotional—was how could someone so bright look so dimmed?

He approached, not with panic, but with terrifying clarity.

“Your basal metabolic rate was destabilized. Tachycardia. Agitation. Systemic collapse.” His voice was clinical—then broke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sat beside you, his alabaster mask discarded.

“I monitor a thousand variables a day. I solve equations that baffle star-systems. But I missed this. I missed you.”

His fingers brushed yours, barely touching. “You feared becoming a burden. You are not. Do you understand?”

He leaned in, forehead resting gently against your arm.

“I would rather wrestle with the laws of entropy than live in a universe where you are absent.”

When your hand twitched in response—subtle, weak—his breath caught.

“I will not let this equation end in loss,” he whispered. “You are not a theorem to be solved. You are the constant that gives my work meaning.”

He stayed, reading every chart, recalibrating your vitals with surgical precision. But when you woke, it wasn’t the data you saw.

It was his eyes. Focused only on you.

And for once, Ratio had no facts.

Only feelings.