athena

23. she/her suffering from satosugu brain rot

[n9mgi]

street thing kim namjoon x reader

producer! namjoon x fem non-celeb! fem reader

summary: on the side of a sunburnt los angeles road, you with a broken down car meet a man you can't stop thinking about. he's older, composed, impossibly charming, and far too experienced to be looking at you the way he does. you're used to immature love that never knew how to hold you properly. but with him, everything is different.

themes: age gap (reader is 24, namjoon is 33), los angeles in the 2000s, smut, fluff, famous producer x non!celebrity reader, reader doesn't know who he is, confident joon yum, mainly readers pov w/ brief joon's pov, he's whipped, brief texting, tension, established relationship, strangers to lovers, teasing, they go on dates, joon is a gentleman, relationship building, joon is so dom and a lil possessive, nicknames, porn with lots of plot, eventual love confession

warnings: sexual themes, explicit & descriptive smut MINORS DNI 18+ (hard dom! joon, slight age kink & size kink, slightly semi-public sex(?? in his studio :3), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, missionary, cowgirl, edging/teasing, fingering, oral f, slight choking if u squint, creampie)

word count: 18k.. whoops

inspired by arirang joon because he's just too fine

♬ ₊˚. street thing - aaliyah

read part 2 here ✧ domestic au, boyfriend namjoon.

it was a late, blazing july afternoon with the kind of california heat that sticks to everything.

your beater car had just given up on you in the worst possible place it could—pulled over on the stretch of a busy road with no shade, just heat shimmering off the black asphalt and distant palm trees that don't feel helpful at all.

you already tried the obvious things. ignition, gas, trying it all again like it might change something.

it never did.

you leaned back against the passenger door of your car letting out a frustrated breath, hair sticking to your neck as you watched cars pass by with the soft sound of your hazards blinking in the background.

of course it's today. of course it's here.

that was when you suddenly heard the low hum of an engine slow down beside you. a sleek, black bmw—expensive, but not loud about it. it pulled in front of your car, and for a second you think the car is just stopping briefly.

that was before the driver door opened.

he steps out like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

tall—noticeably so, he moves towards you easily, like he’s used to taking up space without ever forcing it.

sunglasses sit low on his nose, shielding his eyes, but not enough to hide the way his attention lands exactly on you. his shirt is simple—lightweight, slightly open at the collar, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. nothing flashy.

but it fits him too well. everything about him does.

dark jeans, clean shoes, watch on his wrist that you can't recognize but can tell is expensive. you notice all of him in the mere seconds he takes to walk over to you, the feeling hitting you all at once.

dear god, he was fine. the kind that made you straighten up a little bit without realizing; running a quick hand through your hair and fixing your jewelry.

he walks toward the front of your car, unhurried, one hand sliding briefly into his pocket before resting against the hood of your car.

up close, it’s worse.

sharper features than you expected. clean, but not overly polished. there’s something slightly worn in about him—like experience and maturity that sits on him well.

“everything alright?” he asks, voice is low and steady.

you blink for a second longer than necessary before responding. why does he look like that... helping me with my car?

"uh-" you stammer before clearing your throat. "it's- it's dead."

"yeah..." he says, eyes examining your car closer. "i can see that."

you nod and suddenly there's a pause, small but noticeable.

he comes around the side of your car, closing the distance between you to look inside of the window. you fumble while taking a few steps back as he looks at your dashboard then back at you, suddenly flustered by his presence.

"you got jumper cables?" he asks.

you simply shook your head.

"didn't think so," he says simply.

he walks back to his car, and you stand there feeling so helpless in the hot sun as he turns his car around to face yours in a swift manner, opening the door casually before coming around to his trunk like he's done this plenty of times.

when he comes back with the cables, he quickly slides his sunglasses in a way you almost miss a glimpse of his whole face.

you assumed it was because of the sun. but little did you know, it wasn't.

because before he walked back to his car, he had looked at you a little too closely. it wasn't some polite, quick glance. it was one that lasted a second too long.

he noticed everything about you.

the way your top fits—not overly revealing, but just enough to catch his attention without trying. the fabric light, slightly clinging from the heat. your skirt—shorter than it probably needed to be, riding just a little higher from the way you shifted against your car door.

his gaze dropped, brief, controlled—then came back up. your legs, your hands, the thin bracelet at your wrist. rings that don’t match perfectly but somehow work. jewelry that feels personal to you.

he takes note of that. of course he does.

then, your face. slightly flush from the heat, skin warm toned and sun-kissed. there's something effortless about you, like you spent more time living in the sun than hiding from it.

your expression—somewhere between annoyed and trying not to be. and your eyes, focused on him, but not softened. not entirely impressed by him, but more appreciative.

and when he closed his trunk, he forgets to look away. so he pulls his sunglasses back over, quick and casual. like it's nothing.

and not because of the sunlight, but because he was looking at you a little too openly. and he knew it.

he arrives at your car and connects everything smoothly, no hesitation and big hands steady. it was unfairly attractive.

“so,” he says, glancing up while he works, “you live out here or just enjoying the scenic breakdown experience?”

a smile pulls at your mouth despite yourself. “neither. i was just trying to get home.”

“mm.” he clicks something into place. “dangerous thing to try in LA.”

that gets a small laugh out of you, softer now and less defensive.

when the car finally sputters back to life, you visibly relax. he steps back, wiping his hands lightly. “there you go."

you should've just said thank you and left. but something in you doesn't act immediately. because now that the problem was gone, the silence between you two felt different now.

“so how do i… repay you?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious.

he tilts his head slightly. "you don’t.” a beat passes. "just don't break down in the worst place possible next time."

you rolled your eyes a little, a smirk tugging at your lips. "no promises."

that earns a small smile from him. he steps back toward his car, then pauses like he’s deciding something.

“i’m—” he starts, then stops himself, like he’s choosing not to introduce himself the usual way. "i’ll see you around.”

"yeah... thank you."

and you watch him get back into his car, driving away and getting lost in the sea of los angeles traffic as you realized two things;

you didn't get his name, and you would likely never see him again.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

one week later

he's just getting off the phone when it happens.

“yeah, send it over tonight,” he says, already half-distracted. “i"ll listen then.”

a pause. “mm. yeah. i got it.” he ends the call before the other person finishes their last sentence.

he slips his phone into his pocket, stepping onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun hitting just right—warm, a little blinding, the kind of los angeles light that makes everything look softer than it is.

but he's not really paying attention at first.

he's thinking about work. about a track that still isn’t sitting right. about whether he even wants to go to the next session he has lined up.

and then—he sees you.

just down the block, wired headphones plugged into your ears as you walk towards a small coffee shop.

it takes him half a second too long for him to register it. he slows before stopping in his place on the scorching sidewalk just to be sure.

same walk. same unintentional confidence—like you're not trying to be noticed, which somehow makes you stand out more. your outfit catches his attention again without effort. something light, slightly different from the first time he saw you, but still you.

skirt again—of course. not the same one, but same idea.

he notices that. he notices everything.

you push the door open to the shop before disappearing inside. and for a second—he considers just letting you go, letting the roadside interaction stay that way, a one time street kind of thing that didn't need to turn into anything else.

he exhaled quietly before shaking his head, "yeah, no." he changed his direction subtly like he was always going that way.

by the time he reaches the door, he's already composed again. no rush or urgency in him, just the same steady stride he always carried around.

inside the cafe, it’s quieter than the street. low music, soft conversations, and the smell of coffee swirled in the air.

he scans the space once and it doesn't take long for him to find you, standing near the counter, slightly turned away, looking up at the menu like you're stuck deciding between the same two things.

he watches you for a second. not long, but enough. and suddenly, there's that feeling again rising up in his chest.

he steps into line behind you—close enough to matter, not close enough to be obvious. he lets the moment build naturally. of course he does. he lets you stay unaware just a second longer.

then, as you shift your weight and turn slightly back—he steps forward at the exact right time. light contact, your shoulder to his chest. just enough to capture your attention.

"oh, sorry—" you say automatically before looking up. it took a moment for you to process that the same, gorgeous man who jumped your car last week was the one currently blocking your vision.

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s just as surprised. “well,” he says, calm, almost amused, “this is becoming a pattern.”

you blinked. "you... helped me with my car."

"i did," he agrees. "and now apparently i'm following you around LA."

you narrow your eyes slightly. "are you?"

he puts a hand over his chest, mock offended but calm. “i prefer ‘running into you repeatedly by tragic coincidence.’”

that earns a laugh from you, the first real one between you. the barista calls you next in line, and he trails behind you like you're a couple ordering together. his presence alone makes your heart thump against your chest.

the barista takes your order and before you can even unzip your purse to pay, you already see a large hand coming from behind you, inserting a card in the machine.

the barista hands the man behind you the receipt and you turn around abruptly, tilting your head up to fully face him as you both drift away from the register. "i can pay for myself," you said.

"i know," he says simply.

"i was supposed to pay," you corrected as you picked up your freshly made coffee order.

"why?" he asked genuinely, tilting his head to match the angle of yours. it sent a light pink blush up your cheeks.

you look at him like the answer is obvious. "because you jumped my car."

his eyebrows pulled together. "that was like five minutes of my time." you all but blinked, suddenly at a loss of words under the intense gaze of this mysterious, confident man.

he begins to walk towards a table and you follow him, still protesting under your breath. "that doesn't mean you get to—"

“get to what?” he glances back at you, sunglasses now off, and it’s worse without them in a way—more direct, more readable. more of his perfectly chiseled face exposed to you. “buy you coffee?”

you open your mouth, then close it. because the way he said it made it sound ridiculous to argue.

you both end up choosing a table by the window. endless blue, moving slowly under the late afternoon sun. a few people pass by on bikes, others walking along the sidewalk with iced coffees in hand, like time moves differently here.

not sat too close to him, not too far—just enough space that it could still be casual if either of you decided to pretend it was.

“so, what do you do?” you ask finally, wrapping your hands around the cup.

he leans back slightly in his chair. “music.”

“that’s vague.”

“it's intentional.”

you give him a look. “oh, so you’re mysterious.”

“i’m tired,” he corrects lightly, a smirk of amusement tugging at his lips. “there’s a difference.”

that makes you smile. “what, like a band?” you press.

“no,” he says. “behind the scenes.”

“oh.” you tilt your head. “like a manager?”

he pauses for a moment. "something like that."

it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. you nod like you accept that answer, but the curiosity doesn't go away.

“and you?” he asks.

you almost laugh. “i don’t do music.”

“didn’t say you did.”

“i mean…” you gesture vaguely. “nothing like that. i work. i live on the edge of LA where nothing interesting happens.”

his gaze holds on you a second longer than necessary. "that’s not true,” he says.

you frown slightly. “you don’t even know me.”

“i know you broke down on the side of a road in peak heat and didn’t immediately panic,” he says. “that tells me something.”

"like what?" "that you're stubborn," he replies calmly.

you lean forward a little, eyes analyzing his expression. "that's not a compliment."

“it can be,” he says. “depends who it’s about.”

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you and him slip into easy conversation—half started stories, simple questions, the kind of conversation that doesn't feel like you're trying too hard.

you're mid-sentence, explaining something about where you live—how everything feels slower out there—when he interrupts you, but gently. “how old are you?”

you pause, caught off guard. “that’s random.”

“it’s relevant,” he says, like that should be obvious.

“to what?”

he lifts his cup slightly, studying you over the rim for a second before answering. “to how seriously i should be taking you.”

your eyebrows lift immediately. “excuse me?”

there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “i’m kidding,” he says, calm, unbothered. “mostly.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile. “twenty four.”

he nods once, like he expected that. “yeah,” he murmurs.

“yeah what?” you press.

“nothing,” he says, setting his cup down. “it makes sense.”

“that’s so annoying,” you say. “you don’t get to say that and not explain.”

“i just did.”

“no, you didn’t.”

he leans back slightly, relaxed, completely comfortable letting you be a little frustrated. “you carry yourself younger at times,” he says. “but not in a bad way.”

you narrow your eyes. “that still feels like an insult.”

“it’s not,” he says, softer now. “it’s honest.”

you look at him for a second longer than you mean to. “okay,” you say quietly. “then how old are you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching you like he’s deciding how much to give. “what do you think?” he asks.

you study him now, more deliberately. he doesn’t look older, not really. no obvious lines, no tiredness. and of course, he looks put together in a way most guys your age aren’t.

“twenty-seven,” you say finally. “maybe twenty-eight.”

he lets out a soft laugh—low, almost under his breath.

you frown immediately. “what?”

“nothing,” he says, shaking his head slightly with amusement.

“no, what?”

“you’re off,” he says.

“by how much?”

he pauses, then shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “enough.”

“that’s not an answer,” you says leaning forward closer now.

“it is,” he replies calmly. “just not one you like.”

you stare at him, half-annoyed, half-curious. “you’re not going to tell me?”

“not yet.”

your eyes narrow. “why?”

he meets your gaze fully this time. “because i want to see if it changes anything for you.”

you lean back slightly, thrown off in a way you don't show completely. “why would it?” you ask.

he shrugs after a small pause. he glances down at your cup. “you drink your coffee too slow, by the way.”

your mouth falls open a little as the moment quickly softens again. “oh my god.”

“just saying.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re still here,” he points out lightly.

the conversation drifts again after that, easier now. you talk more without meaning to—little things, fragments of your life. he listens in a way that feels attentive, but not invasive. like he’s not collecting information, just understanding your pace.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you both drift toward the door without really deciding to. the conversation doesn’t end—it just slows, like both of you are aware it has to, eventually.

outside, the afternoon has softened. the heat isn’t as sharp anymore, but it’s still there, hanging in the air between you.

you shift your weight slightly, glancing down the street, then back at him. “this was…” you start, then stop, like you don't want to overdefine it. he watches you, gazed fixed on you patiently.

“unexpected,” you continue on.

he nods once. “yeah.”

“i still owe you,” you say.

he glances down at you. “you don’t.”

“i do.”

“you don’t,” he repeats, softer but final. but after a small beat, “if it makes you feel better, you can get the next one.”

you narrows your eyes. “there’s going to be a next one?”

he paused again, but only for a fraction of a second too long before he shrugged slightly like it was nothing. "if you break down again, i might start thinking it's planned."

you rolled your eyes, but a smile pulled helplessly at your lips. as you stepped out into the light of the sun, you realized two things at once. this man still hadn't told you who he is or his name, and that you somehow already agreed to see him again.

"let me see your phone," he said lowly, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes once again. it wasn't really a question.

and so you reached into your pocket, pulling out your phone, and without asking—he takes your hand gently, turning your palm slightly towards his. the faintest brush of his fingers sent an unexpected warmth up your arm in a way you couldn't ignore.

he picked up your phone that now seemed so small in his hands, typing something quickly before handing your phone back. you looked down at your screen, squinty slightly from the sun.

his name. a number.

joon 213-555-0010

when you look back up at him, he's already watching you—unreadable in a way that sent a pink flush throughout your cheeks.

"joon," you said, like you needed to say his name out loud. like you knew it was just a nickname.

he simply nodded, something small like a smile tugging at his lips from the sound of you hearing his name. "yeah."

he paused, low eyes peering above his sunglasses as he looked at you closely. "you gonna tell me yours?" he asked lowly, the baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.

so you told him, and he repeated it a few times under his breath like he had to let it sink on his tongue. "y/n," he said finally, voice quieter than usual. "pretty name for a pretty girl."

your eyes couldn't help but widely slightly at his bold words, the pink on your face turning into a deep red.

a small pause filled the air before you swallowed, trying your best to lock in your confidence in front of this man. "you didn't ask for my number," you said.

"i know."

"that's a little backwards."

"not really."

you titled your head. "why?"

he took a step back, giving you just a little more space. "because now it's your choice."

you study him for a second, like you're trying to figure out if this is some kind of game. some kind of reality tv show where they prank you with some hot mysterious man. but it didn't feel like one.

"and if i don't text you?" you ask.

a small pause before he shrugged easily. "then i'll assume you didn't want to." but his tone didn't have any pressure or persuasion in it.

"confident," you mutter.

"selective," he corrected.

you almost rolled your eyes—but you don't quite let it happen. he glances past you for a second, like he's remembering that he actually has somewhere to be. then, they quickly averted back to you.

"if you do," he continues, quieter now. "don't over think it."

you let a small laugh. "too late."

that earns a small smile from him, dimples tugging at his cheeks in a way you noticed immediately. "i figured."

another pause before he steps back swiftly, like he's deciding that he couldn't stay any longer than necessary—even if he wanted to. "i'll see you around," he says, for the second time.

before you can respond, he's already turning and stepping away, suddenly gone in the same effortless and casual way he arrived.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

that night, you tell yourself you're not going to think about him.

and you failed immediately.

you failed when you went to dinner with your friends, when you did chores around your house; in the shower and when you laid in your own bed that night—the bed that was supposed to make your thoughts go away. it was the small things at first.

the way he didn’t rush anything. the way he answered questions without really answering them. the way he looked at you like he already understood something you hadn’t said out loud yet.

and as the night continued on, the bigger things settled in your brain, making heat shamefully pool between your legs.

he didn't ask for your number. he didn't try to lock you in. instead, he just left his number with you.

who is he?

your phone sat next to you with the screen dark and off, but it felt louder than anything else in the room. you fell into a cycle of picking it up and putting it back down.

finally, you picked it up again, finding his contact. you flipped it shut, sucking in a sharp breath at the thought of messaging him. you found your thumbs typing, deleting, then typing something again.

you exhale softly, leaning back against your pillow trying your hardest not to overthink it, his voice replaying in the back of your head.

he wasn't some typical guy—you could tell in the way he carried himself. he walked casually, but with assurance. he dressed with stride, but still managed to blend in. he talked with confidence, and every line was coated with experience.

so now, it wasn't just about texting him. it's about what it would mean if you did. because somehow, after one roadside encounter and a cup of coffee—you already wanted more than you should have.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

namjoon's drive back was quiet. not because he wanted it to be—but because nothing else fit how he felt at the moment.

not even any of his music.

he had driven these streets thousands of times. the same turns, the same streets, the same palm trees. usually his mind is somewhere else entirely—work, mixes, deadlines, people who expect things from him.

but not tonight. because tonight, it kept circling back to you.

it all kept replaying in his head—the way you looked at him like you were trying to figure him out. he noticed the way you didn't try too hard. you didn't perform like everyone else in LA.

you didn't know what he is, who he is, or what kind of world he's involved in.

that was the part that was stuck in namjoon's head so deeply. because most people that meet him are already adjusted to him—already well aware, careful with their words and their tones, their intentions.

but you certainly weren't.

because you argued with him. you rolled your eyes and called him annoying. and you meant all of it.

a faint smile pulled at his mouth as he came to a stop at a red light. "twenty-seven," he muttered to himself, shaking his head and laughing slightly.

but still, you didn't hesitate.

he pulls into his place, kills the engine, but doesn’t get out right away. he glances at his phone, sitting in the center console of his car, dark and quiet.

but he doesn't reach for it. because namjoon was a patient man—he always had been. in work, in life, in everything that mattered.

once he gets inside his spacious, sleek home, he dropped his keys on the counter, running a hand through his hair, exhaling.

namjoon had been with plenty of women before. older, younger—in his world and outside of it. he always knows how it goes. he knows how to keep it light and uncomplicated.

but this didn't feel like that. because it felt like something that could get complicated. but instead of pushing it away like he normally would, he leaned into it. just a little.

an hour passes. then two.

namjoon tells himself he's not checking his phone. but it turns out to be a lie, because throughout night—he checks it without picking it up. glancing every time he walks past, like it might light up if he looks long enough. but it doesn't.

he tells himself to relax, that you have a life or that you might not be interested at all. but still—he wonders what you're up to. if you're thinking about him the way he's thinking about you. if you're overanalyzing that moment outside of the coffee shop.

suddenly, his phone buzzed. he doesn't look right away. he just looked at it before reading the unsaved number, no name attached. he picks it up and opens it almost immediately.

unknown: do you always leave girls with this much pressure or am i just special?

he lets out a quiet breath—half a laugh of amusement, half something else. there you finally were, exactly the way he had anticipated. he begins to type before he stops and quickly deletes it.

he leans back against the counter, thinking—not about what to say, but about how much he should give. because namjoon didn't want to rush this. he didn't want to come on too strong.

but he couldn't pretend that he was unaffected either, because he most certainly couldn't even if he wanted to. not with you.

he types again, this time sending it.

him: i was starting to think you wouldn't.

he watches the screen for a second longer than necessary, saving your contact before setting his phone down. it wasn't far, but it was just enough. because now, you know that he was waiting too.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you exhale softy, rolling onto your back with a smile that couldn't help but tug at your lips.

you: oh so you were waiting

a pause settled on the screen before the typing bubble popped up again.

joon: i was curious

you: that sounds like a more mysterious way of saying waiting

joon: you can call it whatever makes you feel better

and now, you definitely smiled at that. because he was already doing that thing again—side stepping without hesitation.

you: you're too difficult to read

joon: you're trying too hard then

you: i think you're just confusing

joon: only for you sweetheart

you actually laugh out loud at that, shaking your head and ignoring the way the nickname made pink tint your cheeks.

you: wow so is this how you talk to every girl you buy coffee for?

his reply comes faster this time.

joon: i don't buy anyone coffee

you: good answer

joon: an honest one what are you doing right now?

you glanced around your room like he could somehow see.

you: nothing important

joon: doesn’t sound convincing

you: i could say the same about you

joon: i’m working

you: doing your very mysterious job?

joon: still stuck on that?

you: a little

joon: you'll figure it out eventually

you bit your lip slightly, thinking of an answer.

you: you're very sure i'm going to stick around long enough to figure it out

joon: aren't you?

your heart does that annoying little jump again, and you don't answer right away. and he doesn't send anything else. instead, he waits. three minutes later;

you: maybe

joon: that's a start

another painfully long beat passes before your cellphone vibrates again.

joon: you busy tomorrow night?

you stare at the message, blinking twice to make sure you read it right. but somehow, half of you wasn't surprised. you were practically waiting in a way you couldn't admit. but the other half was incredibly in shock.

you started to type.. deleted it.. then typed again.

you: depends what are you planning?

joon: something better than coffee

you smiled immediately, even though you tried not to.

you: that's a little confident

joon: doesn't seem like you hate it

you: i don't

joon: good

a pause settled on the screen again.

joon: 8?

you exhaled slowly, the reality creeping in as you stared at the screen. you were really going to go on a date with this man. the same, confident and attractive man that had jumped your car and saved your day. the same man who's age and job you couldn't quite detect.

you: okay

joon: i'll pick you up don't overthink it

you rolled your eyes, smiling.

you: too late

joon: i know

and just like that, with one text conversation, it definitely was more than just a street thing.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you almost regret saying yes the moment you hear a car pull up outside, engine rumbling lowly outside your apartment window.

not because you didn't want to go, of course. but because now, it's real.

you check yourself in the mirror one last time, smoothing the bumps in your hair and coating your lips with gloss one last time. simple, but intentional. something that said you tried... but didn't try too hard.

your phone buzzed.

joon: i'm outside

when you step out, you see the car first. the same sleek and clean car that had pulled over in front of you on that busy highway engulfed in heat.

then him.

leaning slightly agains the driver's side door, towering over the car with his sleeves pushed up, looking like he's only been there for a minute—but completely settled anyway. he wore a costly-looking dress shirt, glimmering chain around his neck and a sparkling watch wrapped around his built arm. you swallowed hard.

his eyes flick up from the ground immediately when he notices you. and for a second, he just looks at you. completely, unashamedly taking you in with his eyes slowly.

"yeah..." he says lowly, dragging his lips ever so quickly along his lips as you approached him, heels clicking beneath you. "you're going to be a problem tonight."

you couldn't ignore the heat that sent down your spine, but you simply peered up at him, batting your eyelashes innocently. "aren't i always?"

"i haven't seen you always," he replied.

you rolled your eyes, but a small smile pulled at your lips anyway. then, he stepped back, opening the door for you. you don't the miss the way he does it without hesitation. and when you sit inside, you don't miss the way his gaze burns into you before closing your door.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the drive was easy, music low in the background, city lights coming to life as the sun started to dip below the horizon.

namjoon doesn't fill every silence—and somehow it makes it easier for you to talk.

"so where are you taking me?" you ask eventually.

"you'll see," he says casually, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested between you.

"that's not helpful."

"it's not supposed to be."

you shook your head, smiling out the window. he pulls up to a restaurant that sits right by everything—the beach, the water, and the city. it was definitely upscale, but nothing intimidating.

inside, the lighting is warm yet dim, swift music playing and low conversations humming.

you were seated quickly. no waiting or confusion. you didn't quite realize the line of people who were standing for a table, and how you and him were able to breeze right past it.

when you arrive to your seat, it's right in front of the window, city lights and palm trees stretching on the glass in front of you. he pulls your seat out for you, helping you take off your coat and placing it along your chair.

after you place your orders, the conversation flows faster this time. less guarded, and more natural.

"so," he says, leaning back in his chair slightly. "what do you actually do?"

you sigh softly, like you already know the answer isn't impressive, even compared to his incredibly vague one. "i’m a waitress," you say. "nothing exciting."

he watches you for a second. "you keep saying that."

"because it's true."

"or because you think it's supposed to be."

that made you pause. "it's not exactly... impressive," you admitted.

he shrugs lightly. "most things that are don't matter."

you let out a small breath, like you didn’t expect that answer. “you always talk like that?” you ask.

“like what?”

“like you know something i don’t.”

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. “sometimes i do.”

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you and namjoon are laughing a few minutes later—about something small and stupid—and it feels easy. too easy.

the song currently playing comes to an end and the music shifts. a different song comes on—smooth, familiar, something that's even playing everywhere recently.

you perked up immediately. "oh my god, i love this song."

he stills ever so slightly. it's quick and barely noticeable, but there's a flicker of something across his face. he glances down at the table, then back up at you. "yeah?" he asks, casual.

"yeah," you nod, smiling. "it's so good."

he hums in response, leaning back in his seat like it's just background noise. "not bad."

you narrow your eyes slightly. "not bad?" he shrugs. "it's alright."

you laugh. "you're impossible."

and he doesn't argue. but there's a faint smirk but he doesn't fully hide this time.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the dinner stretches longer than you expected. because neither of you seem to be in a rush to end it.

by the time the check comes, you reach for it instinctively. because at the cafe, he said he would let you get it this time.

but he's faster. of course he is.

"you don't have to—" you start.

"i know."

"that's not fair," you protest.

"it doesn't have to be," he said.

you sigh, but you're already smiling again.

as he hands the card over, the server pauses. "sorry," the server says, almost hesitant. "are you... are you—namjoon—"

namjoon already knows what's coming. he exhales softly, not annoyed at all, just used to it. "yeah," he says with a polite smile. you blinked.

"sorry- i thought so. i didn't want to assume."

he gives a small, reassuring nod.

"do you think i could-" the server gestures awkwardly. "just like, a quick autograph? my brother and i are huge fans."

you completely froze.

fan?

huge?

he doesn't make it a big deal. "yeah, no problem," he says, like it was normal. like this happens all the time. because it does.

he signs something quickly, hands it back with a polite smile.

"thank you—i appreciate it. you two have a great night," the server said before walking off.

silence settled between you for the brief a second. you were completely staring at him now, trying to control your facial expressions as you processed what just happened.

"you didn't tell me that happens to you," you said.

"i didn't think it mattered," he replied casually.

"well," you said slowly. "what exactly do you do?"

there it was. the question he definitely couldn't avoid this time. he leans back slightly, studying your expression. it was curious, but not intimidated or totally impressed. just curious.

"i told you," he said. "music."

you shook your head. "no, you said behind the scenes."

he huffed a small breath, close to a laugh before he paused. "i produce," he said finally. it was simple and direct—no bragging or boasting.

you blink again. "like... that song?"

a beat passes for a small moment before he nods once. "yeah."

and now, the air between you shifted. because now you knew; he wasn't just some guy who stopped to help you on the side of the road.

and somehow, it almost made things worse. because now, you had to figure out why he's here... with you.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the air outside feels cooler than before. or maybe it’s just because of the way everything shifted inside.

namjoon pushes the door open for you, stepping slightly to the side to let you walk out first—but as you pass, his hand settles lightly at the small of your back.

guiding. not grabbing or lingering too long. just there, resting on your back. it's subtle, but you can feel the intention seeping through you, especially in the way it instantly sends a shiver up your back.

your steps slow for half a second—not enough for him to comment on, but enough for you to notice yourself.

but he notices too.

you both walk a few steps in the parking lot in silence. it wasn't awkward, it was just both of you recollecting the entire night—including who he really was.

“so,” you say finally, glancing over at him, tone light like nothing’s changed, “you’re kind of a big deal, namjoon.”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “no.”

“that guy literally asked you for an autograph.”

“that happens sometimes.”

you narrow your eyes. “that’s not normal.”

“it is for me,” he says simply. it wasn't cocky or defensive, just the honest truth. it should've been intimidating. but you didn't let it land that way.

you shrugged slightly. "okay. but that still doesn't mean i'm impressed."

there's a pause before he looks at you—really looks this time. and something shifts in his eyes, subtle but sharper. more interested and intrigued by the young woman standing before him.

"good," he said lowly.

you blinked. "good?"

“i’d be a little concerned if you were.”

your lips press together slightly, trying not to smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’ve been told.”

you both reach his car, but neither of you move to get in right away. he leans back against it slightly, arms relaxed and eyes fixed on you.

you cross your arms again. not closed off, just grounding yourself under his gaze. "so you just... make songs people know?"

"sometimes," he said with a shrug.

"ugh, that's such a non-answer."

his lips fought a smile at your remark. "it's an accurate one."

you shook your head, a small laugh escaping you. "you're so annoying."

"but you keep talking to me," he points out.

you finally glance up at him fully, and for a second, the eye contact lingers for a moment too long. it causes you to look away first, pink tinting your cheeks.

and namjoon notices everything.

the way you're holding eye contact a little less now. the way you're slightly more aware of yourself. the way you're trying not to let it change anything. but it doesn’t turn him off—it only pulls him in more.

“you got quiet,” he says.

“i didn’t.”

“you did.”

you look away for a second, then back at him. “i’m just thinking.”

“about?”

you hesitate. “nothing,” you say.

he tilts his head slightly, unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. instead, he steps a little closer. not enough to crowd you, but enough to spark the energy in the space between you even more.

“you’re doing that thing,” he comments quietly, eyes trailing up and down your figure.

your brows knit. “what thing?”

“trying to act like nothing changed.”

your stomach flips—annoyingly and immediate. “because nothing did,” you said.

a pause fills the air. he studies your face, like he’s deciding whether to call it out further. “alright,” he says finally.

you exhale softly. “you’re not going to say anything else?”

“i don’t need to.”

“that’s so—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head.

he watches you, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth now. “say it,” he murmurs.

you look at him, trying not to react to the way his voice dropped slightly. “it’s just… a lot,” you admit.

your answer was too honest for your liking, yet he didn't laugh or dismiss it. "yeah," he said quietly. "it can be."

a beat passed. "but i'm still the same guy you had coffee with," he said softly. and those words land, harder than anything else he's said.

you study him for a second, searching for something—ego, arrogance, anything that would make this easier to categorize.

but you don’t find it. instead, you're only able to find that same calm, steady version of him. the one who stopped his car for you. the one who let you decide whether to text him. the one who didn’t even bother to impress you.

“…okay,” you say finally. and you mean it.

there was a small shift in the air between you, the tension softening— but not totally disappearing.

“so,” he says, pushing off the car slightly, “you still letting me drive you home?”

you raise an eyebrow. “do i have a choice?”

“you always have a choice,” he said. a beat passes. "but i’d prefer if you said yes," he confessed playfully.

you huffs out a quiet laugh. “you’re very subtle.”

“i try.”

and for the second time that night, namjoon opens the passenger door for you. and this time, when you got in, it felt different; reality swirling around you and settling into your head.

the drive back was quieter than the one there. it wasn't awkward or empty—just filled with unspoken words and incredibly thick tension.

his gaze was fixed on the road, but you couldn't ignore the way you caught him glancing over at you multiple times in the corner of your eye. the music is low, humming softly through the speakers before another song comes on.

you glance over at the console, then over at him. "did you make this one too?" you ask, half teasing.

he doesn't look at you right away, a smirk pulling at his lips, leaving a sharp shadow along his jaw. "maybe."

you roll your eyes, fully smiling now. "you're never going to give me a straight answer, are you?"

"not all at once, pretty girl."

there it is again. not just the nickname that sent heat through your spine and in between your legs—but that confident, indirect promise of you sticking around long enough to unlock every thing about him.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you're looking out the window, surrounded by the kind of silence that makes everything feel more noticeable. but you're not really seeing or looking at anything, because you're too aware.

too aware of namjoon. the way he drives—one veiny hand on the wheel, relaxed but precise. the way the scent of his expensive cologne and shampoo made your knees weaken. the way he continues to glance over every now and then, quick, like he’s checking something without making it obvious.

you shift slightly in your seat every time he does.

suddenly, his hand moves from the wheel for just a second—resting briefly against the center console as he adjusts his grip. but through that movement, his large fingers brush lightly against your thigh.

he dragged them ever so softly on your thigh for what felt like forever—but only lasted two seconds—before moving his hand back to the center console. his fingers were barely there, not lingering or deliberate enough to call out. but it wasn't exactly accidental enough to ignore either.

your breath catches for just a second, but he doesn't react or apologize. he doesn't even look at you, and somehow that makes it worse.

you swallow hard, turning your head slightly towards the window again. but now you're even more hyper-aware of the space between you. your heart was doing something very annoying again, and you knew it.

he knew it.

he slows the car as you reach your place, parking smoothly before killing the engine. and just like that, everything went still.

neither of you moved right away. you looked down at your hands, then back up like you were about to say something. but you didn't.

he simply watches you for a second, less teasing in his eyes and more focus. he took in every inch of you, sitting so still and pretty in his car. looking at him like he was still the same guy who jumped your car, not like he was a guy who made every hit song. "you got quiet again," he says softly.

you let out a small breath. "you keep saying that."

"because you keep doing it."

you glance at him. this time, you don't look away immediately. "i'm just thinking."

"dangerous," he murmurs, pulling a small smile from you.

you reach for the door handle. "thanks for dinner," you say, like you're trying to keep it normal.

"yeah," he replies with a soft smile.

you open the door, stepping out thinking that the night is wrapped up. that he'll pull away and let you go. but then, you hear his door open too.

he rounds the front of the car, meeting you halfway up the short path to your door. he took his time not rushing—because he never did.

when you stop in front of your door, you turn to face him. and suddenly, it's close. closer than it's been all night. there wasn't a table, a center console, or any distractions now. just him, towering over you and filling your entire vision with nothing but him. his musky cologne quickly filled your nostrils, throwing your mind off balance.

"you don't have to walk me up," you say quietly, close to a whisper.

"i know," he says. but he doesn't step back.

a long pause fills the air, stretching long enough for the tension to feel intentional. his gaze drops briefly, to your lips—then back up to your eyes.

your breath catches again, softer now. but you were too close for namjoon to not notice it. "are you always this—" you start, then stop.

"this what?" he asks lowly, clenching his jaw ever so slightly at the mere sight of you fumbling with your words in front of him.

you shake your head slightly. "i don't even know."

a faint smile pulls at his mouth. "good." he took another step closer, not enough to trap you, but enough for the warmth of his body to wrap around you.

then, his hand lifts, hesitating for half a second before gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. he does it carefully, like he was giving you all the time in the world to pull away. but you didn't.

"you're overthinking again," he murmurs, low eyes scanning every inch of your face.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "you keep saying that like it helps."

"it does," he suggests casually.

"how?"

he leans in barely. he doesn't completely close the distance between you, but it was enough to send a bolt of warmth down your body. "because you're still here."

you tilt your head up just a little, before he leans in just a sliver more. and for a second, the moment is right there, sitting heavy in the little distance there was between you.

and then, he stops. just barely, coming to a small still when you could practically feel his breath on you. just enough that it didn't happen.

your eyes flicker across his face, confused, a little breathless. he watches your reaction carefully, low eyes trained onto your every movement.

and suddenly, there's that faint smirk again—but it's softer; barely there and more restrained than usual in a way you almost didn't catch.

"goodnight, doll," he said lowly. "sleep well."

like nothing had almost just happened.

he steps back, ripping the thick air that had just sat between you like a third person. breaking it and leaving you there standing with it.

“you’re—” you start, but you don't even know what to call him.

he tilts his head slightly, licking his lips and averting his gaze down you one last time. “what?”

you exhale half-laugh and half-frustration. “annoying.”

he smiles, dimples pulling at his cheeks. “i know," he says, before turning around and walking back to his car.

from the doorstep, you watch him get in, turn on the engine, and leave. leaving you there with more thoughts than your racing heart could keep up with and a miserable dampness in your panties.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

namjoon's place is quiet again. too quiet.

he tosses his keys down, walks a few steps in, then stops—like his body forgot what he was about to do.

because his mind was entirely somewhere else.

it was still at your door. still immersed into that moment.

he leans back against his kitchen counter, exhaling. he's replaying everything now, like dinner—the way you didn't switch up when you found out what he did. you weren't suddenly impressed or started asking the wrong questions.

you stayed the same. maybe you were a little quieter, a tad bit more aware. but you didn't completely fold.

that absolutely sat under namjoon's skin now. he was completely enamored by you, and didn't want to pull a girl like you into his chaotic world. didn't want you to adjust to him because of who he was, like most people did.

but you didn't. you just took it in, and kept going. you stayed exactly the same—you still called him annoying and told him he wasn't impressive.

he looks at his phone sitting a few feet away. he already gave you control once. he let you decide whether or not to text him, to decide if it was going to go anywhere or not.

but he wasn't going to do that tonight.

him: you always look at people like that or was that just for me?

he sets the phone down, but not far. because you've consumed every inch of his mind again without even trying to. he thinks about the your eyes dropped to his lips, the way you didn't pull away.

his jaw tightened slightly. he knew he was in trouble.

his phone lit up again.

her: like what?

he lets out a quiet breath, a smile pulling at his lips. the way you played it off, like you always did, made him only want more. made him think that maybe he should've kissed you right then and there—should've forgot about being a man and taking his time with you and—

he slowly took in a deep breath through his nose, dragging a hand across his face.

him: like you were about to do something you'd regret

her: don't know if i'd call it regret

namjoon liked that a little too much, licking his lips and leaning back. because now, he knows you felt it too.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a few days and several text conversations later, namjoon sends you a text on a night he knows you're not working. no question or explanation, just;

joon: be ready at 7

when he picks you up, the air already shifts when you walk outside. it was in the way he looked at you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn't hiding it at all anymore. he takes his time, eyes trailing from your shoes, to the way your skirt falls, the jewelry at your wrist, to your face.

"you always dress like this, doll?" he asks lowly, stepping closer to you.

you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way the name made your brain feel like mush. "like what?"

"like you knew exactly what you were doing when you picked that."

your lips pressed together slightly, trying not to smile. "maybe i did."

a faint smirk pulled at his lips. "yeah," he agreed. "i think you did."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the driver is longer, along the coast again. his tinted windows are cracked, music low with the sky fading into the darkest blue that only happens by the water.

you and namjoon talk, but it's far from that careful, first date way. the conversation flowed between you easily. you interrupted each other, went off on tangents. doubled back to things you both said earlier. like you both have done this together longer than you actually had.

when you arrive, the place is even more secluded than last time. a quiet overlook with soft lights and the ocean extending endlessly in front of you. the sound of waves clashed below in a way that was steady and grounding.

it felt private, like the rest of the world didn't exist here.

you and namjoon sit closer this time without question. dinner stretches and the conversation flows. you don't even discuss all the big things, but it's the way you talk about the small ones that makes it feel different.

you tell him about what hobbies you have, about your job—how it's routine, how people underestimate it, and how sometimes you feel stuck. and he doesn't brush it off or give you empty encouragement like most people did.

"you're not stuck," he corrected you firmly.

you scoff every is slightly. "that's easy for you to say."

"it's not about me," he replies softly. "you just need to find what you want."

you pout slightly in a way that makes his heart falter. "and you have?"

he pauses for half a second. "yeah." that same confidence remained in his tone, and for a second it felt like he might have been talking about something else.

at some point, his hand settles at the back of your chair. but this time, it stays. it wasn't touching you directly, but it was close enough to make you aware of it. aware of him.

you shift slightly and his slender fingers brush at your shoulders. they rest there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back. his warmth and his actions sent an unbearable heat between your legs.

after dinner, you both step away from the table, walking along the edge of the overlook. the night air is cooler now, ocean breeze slipping through you. you and him walk a little closer than before, shoulders lightly brushing with every few steps.

you wrapped your arms around you slightly, and his jacket is already around your shoulders before you can say anything.

you glance back at him, stopping in your steps to look at him properly. "you know... you're very sure of yourself."

"that bothers you?"

"no," you admit honestly. "it's just—different."

he pauses for a small moment. "from what you're used to?" he asks.

you nod slightly. he studies you for a second. "you're trying to figure out how old i am again."

your eyes widen slightly. "i'm not—"

"you are."

you exhale. "okay, maybe a little."

he lets your confession sit in the air before he nods slightly toward a couple walking past you two—a generation older than you, quieter, and settled. "you think i'm closer to them, or closer to you?" he asks.

you look back at the couple, then back at him. you really look at him, thinking about the way he carries himself. the way he speaks. the way he doesn't rush anything.

your expression shifts. "...okay," you say slowly. "how old are you?"

he pauses for longer than just a few seconds. "thirty-three," he answers finally.

you can't help but blink. once. twice. "...really?"

"yeah."

you study him again, like the answer didn't quite align with what you were seeing. "you don't look thirty-three."

"i know," he answered casually.

"that's kind of unfair," you said playfully.

he smiled softly. "i've heard that."

a quiet beat passes as namjoon watches you carefully, curiously watching your expression.

you shrug slightly. "okay."

he tilts his head. "that's all?"

"what?" you ask. "were you expecting something else?"

"most people... adjust," he stated.

you look at him deeply, peering up at him through your eyelashes. "well i'm not most people."

he steps closer, lightly closing the space between you. his scent filled your head once again, making your breath catch.

"yeah," he said lowly. "i noticed."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

later, when you leave the restaurant together, you don't rush out. you never do.

namjoon walks slightly behind you first as you both headed towards the entrance, one hand finding its way onto the small of your back. it became natural now, something you didn't react to—externally, at least.

his hand was there, guiding you carefully down the steps.

two hostesses near the front glance up. then they glance at namjoon. then to you, then back at him.

a quick look exchanged between them followed by a few whispers and positive smiles. he catches it immediately. of course he does.

namjoon doesn’t look directly at them—he doesn’t acknowledge it—but there’s the faintest change in his expression. then his hand presses just slightly firmer at your back.

a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. not to show off. just to keep you close—and slightly focus the attention on you.

you don't notice the whispers, but you do notice the presence of his hand grow warmer. "what?" you ask, glancing back at him.

"nothing," he says easily.

the lights from the restaurant glowed behind you, the cool night air and a soft breeze coming off the water hitting you all at once.

there's a small set of marble steps leading down towards the parking area. you start down them without thinking—mind entirely captured by namjoon—and suddenly your heel catches slightly.

it's quick—barely a stumble, but it's enough to throw you off balance slightly. his large hands instantly find their way to your waist firmly, tightening his grip and steadying you before you could even process anything.

"careful, baby," he murmurs, low and close. the name slipping out like it had always belonged there.

you freeze for half a second, breath catching slightly before you steady yourself, hand instinctively brushing against his arm.

"I'm fine," you say, a little too quickly, beginning to continue a careful ascend down the steps and ignoring the heat on your cheeks.

namjoon however, doesn't move his hands right away. they linger on your waist a second longer than necessary, making sure you're fully balanced. "i know," he says calmly.

you look up at him, trying to play it off. "you don't have to—"

"i know," he cuts in softly.

and when you reach the bottom of the steps, his hand doesn't leave your back. it stays there, steady, guiding you towards his car like you're already part of his space.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the drive back is quiet, the low vibration of the music and the city lights and palm trees flickering past practically lulling you to sleep.

and namjoon's presence, of course.

his large hand rested on the wheel, the other on the center console. close enough. by the minute, you swear it continues to get closer.

"tell me about him," namjoon says suddenly, the deep baritone of his voice making your thighs press together slightly.

you frown slightly from confusion. "about who?"

"your ex."

it catches you off guard. "...why?"

he shrugs lightly, sharp eyes still on the road. "i'm curious."

you hesitate before sighing. "he was..." you trailed off, trying to find the right word. "lazy."

half a second passed. "immature," you added. "didn't really pay attention to me unless it was convenient."

and as you talk, namjoon's jaw tightens slightly. it's subtle and controlled in a way you don't notice, but it's there.

"he just-" you shook your head slightly, looking out the window. "i don't know. it felt like I was always asking for the bare minimum."

for a long second, silence fills the car. namjoon's fingers tap once against the console. then, they shift. his hand moves unhurriedly, eventually finding its way to rest against your thigh, making a sharp bolt of warmth shoot down your body.

"yeah," he says finally, voice low and rough. "that sounds about right."

you glance at him. "what does that mean?"

he paused for a second. "guys your age," he continues, calm but edged with something sharper now. "they don't know what to do with a woman like you."

your stomach flips in a way that is impossible to ignore. "and you do?" you ask teasingly, trying to keep your tone steady.

his thumb shifts slightly against your thigh slightly. butterflies erupted in your stomach and your thighs shifted in a way you couldn't help, trying to disregard the heat between your legs.

"i wouldn't ignore you," he says simply.

the air in car seems to shift as you swallow hard, glancing out the window before looking back at him. "you barely know me."

"i know enough," he answers.

your breath catches slightly. namjoon's hand stays sat on your thigh steadily, like he knows exactly what it's doing to you.

"and i definitely wouldn't have you asking for anything," he adds. his words land deeper than they should, etching themselves into the back of your mind without asking.

you let out a quiet, almost nervous laugh. "you're very confident."

"i'm honest," he says. he pauses for a moment. then, his voice drops just a little—"big difference."

you look at him again, thoroughly scanning his face this time. "you always talk like that?" you ask.

"only when i mean it."

another silence settles between you, this time sitting thick; heavy with everything both of you haven't said. his hand finally shifts, but not away from you. it only slides higher along your thigh before settling again.

"relax, doll," he murmurs softly, voice low and deep.

you exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. "you're doing that on purpose."

"doing what?"

you shake your head slightly. "you know exactly what."

a faint smirk pulls at his lips. "yeah," he answers. "i do."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

suddenly, the rest of the drive feels too short.

namjoon pulls to your curb, parking swiftly with one hand before cutting the engine. silence fills the space, neither of you reaching for the door immediately.

you look down at your hands, then back up, like you're about to say something—but the words don't come as easily now. because everything, from the restaurant, the drive is still sitting in between you. his hand, his voice. doll.

"you got quiet again," he says softly.

you let out a small breath. "you make it hard not to."

he stills ever so slightly, like your words had pulled something out of him. "do i?" he asks.

you look at him, holding his intense gaze this time. "yeah."

he pauses for longer than normal, eventually moving his hand before his mouth. he starts slow—not to your thigh this time—but higher. his fingers lift, brushing lightly along your jaw. just the tips, tracing the line like he needed to memorize it.

your breath catches immediately, peering up at him through your eyelashes as you seemingly couldn't look away from his face. he tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction closely.

"you always look like this when you're thinking?" he murmurs.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "like what?"

his thumb lingers beneath just beneath your chin for just a second. then it shifts slightly, guiding your face just enough so that you're looking directly at him and nothing else.

"like you're trying to figure out if this is a good idea," he says.

your heart practically stumbles. because he absolutely was right. "and?" you ask quietly.

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. but this one was softer, like it was more certainty than teasing. "i think you already decided," he murmurs. his gaze drops briefly, down to your lips, then back up again. this time, he doesn't even try to hide it.

"you're dangerous, you know that?" you say, barely above a whisper.

he leans in slightly, his scent taking over your lungs. "yeah?"

your breath is uneven now. "yeah."

his gaze drifts again, over your face, slower this time. fully taking you in. "you still thinking about the age thing?" he asks.

"no," you respond, holding the burning eye contact.

he studies you for half a second, like he's deciding if you're telling the truth. then, he exhales quietly, almost amusedly. "yeah," he says. "didn't think you would."

his hand lifts from your chin before resting lightly at your waist, thumb pressing just slightly before easing.

"probably better for you," he adds, voicer lower now, teasing but grounded in something real and deep, "if you didn't get used to someone like me."

your stomach flips instantly. "who says i'm getting used to you?" you shoot back, trying to play it off.

a smile tugs at his lips. "doll," he murmurs, softer and closer, the warmth of his breath hitting your neck. "you're already here."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a few days later, namjoon sends you an address located in the corner of a private street in LA telling you to meet him there. telling you that he wanted to show you something.

a building tucked slightly off the main road, close enough to the water that the air already feels different when you step out of the car.

you hesitate for a half a second before going in. not nervous, but just a little too aware of what you were walking into. with a few instructed taps on the door buzzer, you were let in.

inside, the hallway light is dim, soft lights lining the walls that were decorated with award cases, album posters, and framed vinyls. the floors were sleek and bass echoed through the walls.

you followed the sound the sound down the hallway, until you find a studio door that's slightly open. the gold plate on it reading, "kim namjoon" then below it, "head executive producer."

you exhale softly, heart slightly stopping at that and swallowing a little too hard before you push it gently, and that's when you see him.

sitting at the main console, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting near the soundboard. one hand adjusting a dial, the other resting against his chin like he's listening too closely.

he was so immersed that he hadn't noticed you yet.

the room was lowly lit—colored LEDS instead of overhead lights, the glow from the equipment reflecting softly against his face.

and there's something about him like this—focused, quiet, and completely in his element—that hits differently, making your stomach twist into a knot.

his sleeves are pushed up again, glistening watch catching the light as he moves his hand. a chain rests below his collar, barely visible, but sparkling in the light.

everything about him is so simple, but it fits him all too well. you don't mean to stare, but you definitely do.

and then, like he felt it—namjoon finally glances up. your eyes immediately meet, and you swear you felt a spark flash through your body.

for a split second, he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, gaze taking you in deliberately.

then, he licks his lips so lightly you almost don't catch it. "you just going to stand there," he says, voice low and soft. "or are you coming in?"

you blink, snapping out of your trance slightly. "i-i didn't want to interrupt."

"you didn't," he replies easily. but his eyes linger on you for a second longer, almost like he knew you were watching him.

you step inside, softly closing the door behind you. the white lighting from the hallway had disappeared now, fully engulfing you into his world—his studio, his creative space—the place where he made every hit even possible. the big room suddenly felt smaller now, more private.

you look around, taking it all in. the walls are boarded with soundproof panels, and large speakers are placed around the sleek equipment. there's two chairs, a beanbag, and couch with folders of music sheets and lyrics scattered on the floor and on counter tops. "this is... really nice."

"mm," he hums, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs slightly. "it works."

you glance at him. "you say everything like that."

"like what?"

"like it's not a big deal."

a faint smirk. "it's not."

you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. he gestures towards the seat next to him. "come here." it wasn't a question.

you walk over, sitting beside him—closer than expected, immediately greeted by his warmth and the musk of his cologne.

he turns towards the console, grabbing a pair of high-end headphones. "listen to this," he says. he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before carefully placing them over your head.

music plays—smooth and layered. it had no lyrics, but it was already catchy. you hummed in delight. "it's really good," you said softly, gently taking the headphones off.

"i know," he replies casually.

you laugh. "you're insufferable."

he glances at you, a smirk forming. "you're still here though."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

after a few minutes of namjoon showing you some buttons, he glances at you. "you want to try something?" you look at him, a bit hesitant. "like what?"

he shifts slightly, turning your chair just enough so that your angled more towards the board. "come on," he says, nodding towards the controls. "i'll show you."

"...i feel like i'm going to mess something up," you say.

"you won't."

"how do you know?" he leans in slightly, his breath hitting your neck ever so slightly. "because i'm right here."

your stomach flips again. he reaches around you slightly, one hand bracing lightly against the edge of the console near you, the other guiding your hand toward a dial.

“turn this,” he says, voice lower now, near your ear.

you try to focus. you really do. but namjoon is close. too close. his warmth spilling all over you, hitting you in all the places that made your thighs pull closer together.

you turn the dial slowly—and immediately the sound distorts in a ridiculous way. you both pause.

"...was that supposed to happen?" you ask.

he stares at the board for a second before a short laugh escapes him, dimples tugging at his cheeks. "no," he says.

you burst out laughing. "i told you!"

he shakes his head with another laugh, reaching forward to fix it, his arm brushing yours again. "you didn't break it," he says. "relax."

"i definitely did something."

"you did," he replies with a smile. "just not what i said."

you laugh again, softer this time.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you're standing now, not sitting anymore.

because namjoon told you to.

“stand here,” he said, guiding you lightly by the waist until you were in front of the soundboard. no asking, just placing you there. you stiffened under his touch that sent a light shock through you.

"relax, doll," he murmurs behind you. the deep baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.

you exhale slowly, trying to focus on the board in front of you—but it's hard when you can feel him right behind you. he steps in closer, practically pressing you together.

one hand reaches around you, bracing against the console. the other finds yours, fingers sliding over yours, adjusting your grip on one of the controls. "not like that," he says, low. "too quick."

"i'm not doing anything fast," you defend weakly, trying your best to sound steady.

you hear a quiet, almost amused exhale behind you. "yeah?" he murmurs deeply.

his chest brushes lightly against your back as he leans in closer, guiding your hand again—slower this time. "you rush when you're nervous."

"i'm not nervous."

"mm," he hums, unconvinced. his hand tightens slightly over yours, turning the dial with you. the sound shifts, smoother this time. "like that," he says.

but he doesn't move away, not even a little bit. you swallow, your body hyper-aware of every point of contact. his hand over yours, his chest behind you, his voice vibrating your ear. and you definitely tried to ignore something hard resting against your ass.

"you do this with everyone?" you ask.

"no," he answered simply.

at to that, your heart stumbled. his hand left yours, but only came to settle at your waist, firm and steady. in his grip he turned you slightly—not fully, but enough to turn your attention away from the board and onto him. "you're distracted again," he murmured.

you let out a soft breath. "you keep saying that like it's my fault."

a smirk pulls at his lips, one that you can practically hear in his voice. "doll," he says lowly, "you haven't been focused since you walked in."

your stomach flips as you turn your head slightly, giving just enough space to look back at him—but it's a mistake. because he's already looking at you, his face much closer than expected and barely any space left between you now.

"you always get like this?" he asks softly.

"like what?"

his gaze drops slowly, then back up again. "quiet." he pauses. "...when you feel something."

your breath catches. "you act like you know me," you say.

"i do," he replies casually. those words shouldn't hit you as hard as they do, but they do anyway—causing your heart to leap.

he shifts you fully this time, making you fully face him as his large hands still rested at your waist, thumbs pressing in ever so slightly.

"or maybe," he adds, voice quieter now. "you're just not used to someone who pays attention."

your chest rises slowly. "and you do?"

"to you?" he asks quietly, something flickering across his eyes. "of course i do."

a small pause. "i wouldn't ignore you," he mutters in your ear, breath hot down your neck in a way that makes your hairs stand up. his hand tightens slightly against you. "not like they did."

his words land, striking the base of your heart deeply. "and i definitely wouldn't have you guessing where you stand."

your breath is uneven now, but you can't seem to look away. "confident," you murmur.

"experienced," he corrects simply. his voice and his head dips lower just slightly—"difference is...i know how to treat a woman like you properly."

and suddenly the last thread holding you steady is already gone. you exhale softy, almost a laugh, but not quite. "you always talk like this?"

"only when i mean it."

silence fills the space around you, heavy and close. one of his hands lifts from your waist slowly before coming to your jaw and tracing along it deliberately, just like he did before.

his thumb sits at your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. it takes everything in you for your knees to not buckle right then and there, taking in his low, piercing gaze.

"you keep looking at me like that," you whisper.

"like what, hm?" he asks, voice low as he tilts his head lower, leaving little space between your noses. you felt like your whole world was spinning, trying to ground yourself properly without clinging onto him.

"like you're about to do something."

he pauses for a split second, licking his lips while his eyes practically swirled with darkness. then—low and certain—"i am."

and this time, namjoon doesn't stop himself. he leans in, fully closing the last bit of distance between you, crashing his lips onto yours. it's immediate—but not rushed. he kisses you slow, deep, like he's been holding it back for too long and finally had decided he was done.

you respond quickly, completely melting under the contact and moving your lips into his. your breath catches against his, one hand instinctively finding one of his big arms, while the other gripped on his shirt to steady yourself— because it hits you all at once.

the way he pulls you closer against him, one of his hands firmly settled at your waist while the other holds your head possessively, gently tilting your head at an angle that allowed him to kiss you deeper.

you lean into him without thinking—and he feels it, of course. he hooks his fingers around the belt loop of your denim skirt, pulling you even closer. the kiss deepens—but it isn't overwhelming. it's certain, like he wanted to take his time with his lips against yours.

your fingers tightened against him, causing him to exhale quietly against your lips, like he had been waiting for that exact response from you.

when you both pull back, you barely move an inch. foreheads close, breath uneven, and neither of you pulling away. his hands remain at your waist, yours still on him.

and after a second of catching your breath—namjoon leans in again. not because he's testing it anymore, but because he wants it—no, he needs it again. and you seem to meet him there just as fast.

his lips capture yours for the second time that night, practically taking your breath with him. your thighs press together slightly as you kiss him back, your hand sliding higher along his arm, gripping his bicep and pulling him closer without even realizing it.

his grip tightens slightly. "don't start something you can't finish, doll..." he murmurs quietly against your lips, voice rough.

the kiss suddenly shifts, not messy or rushed—but hungry. namjoon's hand slid shamelessly down your waist and onto your ass, sliding up and down its curve like it was already his.

that pulled a gasp out of you, and he saw it as the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. you allow him, opening your mouth more to let him further explore it with his tongue. your lips practically molded together, saliva mixing as he swirled his tongue around yours.

"look at you..." he mutters, barely pulling back, his thumb brushing your jaw again. "so responsive."

your stomach flips more times than you can count. "don't—" you start, breath uneven, but you can't even finish the sentence before you feel dampness between your legs.

"don't what, baby?" he asks lowly, smirking faintly against your lips. "don't notice you?" he kisses you again before you can answer. his hand slides up from your ass, up your waist to your side—slower and more deliberate, before settling it there again, like he's grounding you there with him.

your grip on him tightens, deepening the kiss without intending to. "doll..." he murmurs, quietly now like it's a warning.

but he doesn't stop, and you most certainly don't want him to. all of a sudden namjoon is moving, guiding you back without breaking the kiss, step by step, until the back of your legs hit the couch.

you exhale softly in surprise—before you're sitting and he is too, pulling you with him. now, you find yourself on his lap—straddled on top of him with his hands firmly gripping your thighs and with everything much closer.

your hands find his broad shoulders, this time holding onto him like you desperately need to steady yourself, leaning into him once more. and namjoon notices, like he always does.

a low exhale leaves him, almost like a quiet laugh. "not pulling away anymore, are you, baby?" he murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw slowly while his big palms drag up and down your thighs.

his plush lips trace the line of your jaw, littering soft kisses and your head tilts slightly to give him space without even thinking about it. "good," he praises quietly against your skin, lips trailing their way down your neck.

as he presses soft kisses along your neck, one of his hands presses a little firmer into your thigh, keeping you against him as the other rested gently at your neck—not enough to put pressure—but enough for your mind to go blank and make your thighs noticeably shift.

your breath hitches just above him, and his other hand soothes slowly against your thigh to steady you. "you have no idea..." he murmurs, lightly digging his teeth into your skin, making you shudder. "how hard i was trying to take my time with you."

your fingers tighten against him, struggling to ignore the unbearable ache in your core. "then why aren't you?" you manage softly, voice weaker than usual, knowing you didn't want that.

he paused for a moment, the warmth of his breath tingling down your neck and through your spine. his voice comes lower this time, but steadier. "because you stopped me from wanting to."

he pulls back just enough to look at you again, dark and low eyes trailing every inch of your face. his hand comes up, brushing your hair behind your ear slowly, slower than before.

"you're trouble, princess," he says lowly, another nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. "but i like it."

your breath is still uneven, your heart racing faster than your mind—but you don't look away. "good," you murmur.

namjoon's jaw tightens slightly at that—not in frustration, but in complete restraint. what's left of it, at least.

his hand that rested along your neck slid up, tilting your chin upwards with his thumb once again, making sure that you were really looking at him. "you sure about this, doll?" he asks lowly.

you nod without hesitation. "yes."

a small pause fills the thick, small space between you, but his smoldering gaze doesn't leave yours. his gentle hold on your jaw tightens ever so slightly—not to harm you, but to ground you into the moment. "you understand...i'm not the kind of man you forget after this."

your breath catches, but you don't pull back. "i know," you say softly, holding his gaze.

his hands return to your waist, firmer this time, pulling you just slightly closer to him—close enough that space barely existed anymore. "yeah..." he murmured, his thumb tracing lightly along your skin. "then stay with me."

you nearly shuddered from his words, the warmth of his body on yours surrounding you and making your skin tingle. "i will," you nearly whispered, praying that he couldn't feel the dampness between your legs at the thought of never leaving his side.

"good," he grunted in your ear, hot breath spilling down your neck. he pulled back just slightly before closing the space between you once again, tilting your head with his thumb and pulling your lips in with his unhurriedly.

you immediately softened into him as you moved your lips together, your chest immediately becoming flush against his and practically folding underneath his touch. his hands left your waist, finding their grip lower and onto your ass, holding you steadily against him while his tongue explored you once more.

his lips left yours to litter your neck with kisses—sloppy and open-mouthed this time, sucking harder and marking a trail of red marks down to your collarbone. you whimpered with every suck, thighs noticeably shifting against his legs.

namjoon's slender fingers found their way underneath your top, sliding it up slowly—like he was waiting for you to stop him—but you never did. you only complied, lifting your arms up. and in one swift motion, your top was off, and his lips already found themselves on your cleavage.

"so beautiful, baby," he murmured into your skin, tongue lightly lapping against the mark he had just made on top of your breast.

suddenly you felt his big palms on your waist once again before he manhandled you—lifting you up and lying you gently across the couch before his large figure quickly filled your vision and filling up your entire view.

all you could see in the ambient light of his studio was his broad shoulders, his low, piercing eyes, and glimmering chain now hanging in front of your face before he captured your lips again. you practically moaned into it, fingers gripping tightly into his shirt like you needed more.

"fuck," he murmured against you between kisses, intertwining his long fingers with yours, dragging your palm deliberately up his chest. your hands moved before your mind, tugging him closer by his shirt and immediately fumbling with the buttons.

he smirked, large hands moving to help you take it off. once he tossed it somewhere in the room, your hands danced around his body greedily, trailing over his abs, from his chiseled chest and to his swell back.

"should be taking you to my house like a fuckin' man. should fuck you in my bed slow 'n proper. but i've lost my patience with you, doll," he breathed lowly, licking his lips with hunger.

you could only bring yourself to whimper, as namjoon's big palm creeped around your thigh, trailing every so slowly inwards before stopping. your legs couldn't help but twitch helplessly underneath his touch, causing him to let out an amused breath of air.

"but you don't want that, do you?" he asked lowly in your ear, the desire in his voice making your core ache with unbearable need. his hands trailed closer to your heat, dragging his fingers leisurely against your inner thigh.

you shook your head desperately, but that wasn't enough for him. his fingers hooked around your skirt. "wanna hear you use that pretty mouth of yours, baby."

"i—yes—" you blurted breathlessly, struggling to find the words. "i want it—want you. here, joonie. right now."

his cock strained even harder against his pants. "good girl," he muttered before pulling your skirt down. when it was disregarded, namjoon's hands found your thighs again and you suddenly felt his long fingers trace against slowly against your sopping heat barely shielded by your lacy thong, sending a shiver down your entire body.

"wet for me already and i haven't even started with you," he smirked, finally hooking your panties to the side and letting your soaking core be hit by the cold air. your thighs instinctively went to clamp shut, but he quickly stopped them with his big hands.

"so sensitive, doll," he murmured, placing one big thumb just above your clit while the other fingers outlined your inner thigh. "guys your age don't take their time like this, do they?"

you shook your head immediately, whining out before his fingers glided up slowly against your wetness, his index finger swiping in between your folds. his thumb rubbed your clit in a long circle, pulling out a desperate whine out of your mouth.

finally, he pushed one long finger in between your folds, sliding into your hole that sucked him in, your wetness gushing his fingers. you whined loudly as he dragged it along your walls before plunging back in.

namjoon closed the distance between your faces, capturing your lips in with his and sucking on your bottom lip as he inserted another finger, thrusting into you at a steady pace while his thumb remained on your clit.

when he pulled away, it was only to align his face at your entrance. his hand firmly gripped onto your thighs, holding you in place. his fingers slowed inside of you as his nose came close to your core, the warmth of his breath directly hitting your pussy and making you twitch underneath him.

a small smirk pulled at his lips before he poked his tongue out, licking a light, gentle stripe against your folds. "mm, taste so sweet, baby." you reacted immediately, thighs clenching around his head in a way he enjoyed a bit too much, his free hand wrapping around your leg firmly as he lapped delicately at your entrance.

you moaned his name, legs finally relaxing under his grip as he took his time with soaking your taste on his tongue. namjoon couldn't help but smirk against your folds, his plump lips completely enveloping your pussy into his mouth and sucking your wetness in hungrily.

it wasn't long before you felt his tongue greedily prying through your entrance, crying out in breathless moans. his two fingers stretched open your walls to allow more room for him to explore you with his tongue.

namjoon was absolutely driving you over the edge—his tongue plunged through your tight walls like no other, slender fingers stroking your insides while his thumb massaged your clit vigorously. he ate at you like he had starved for this—your back immediately curving off of the couch as you felt unbearable pressure twine into your stomach.

"that's it, doll," he cooed against your folds, his nose sitting on top of your clit. then, his voice dropped lower—"cum for me."

and so you did—completely letting go as your first orgasm tore through you like lightning. your legs shook around namjoon's head, his free hand rubbing against your thigh gently while his two fingers slowed inside of you. his tongue moved against your folds slowly, taking in every last drop of your release between his lips.

when your body was finally at ease from the state of euphoria he took you to, namjoon trailed kisses from your stomach and up, his hands gently caressing your sides.

"look at you taking me so good," he murmured between kisses, lips on yours now. "think you're ready for my cock, hm, baby?"

you nodded quickly, practically squirming beneath him. "yes joon—need it so bad." your fingers found his belt loop—his large hands finding yours immediately, helping you take off his pants entirely.

it was then when you saw the largest imprint strained tightly against his boxers, making you swallow hard without even realizing. his fingers looped around the hem, taking them off in a swift motion as he stood up.

his cock sprung out in front of you—thick, long, and angry with pre-cum glistening at the end. you sat up straight, jaw slightly slack without even realizing. namjoon's lips fought a smirk as he hovered over you, large shoulders swell and thick member curving up.

his low eyes looked down at you, clouded with darkness. he wrapped his large hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking slightly while taking in the sight of you in front of him.

"fuck," he grunted, "don't got any condoms, baby." "it's okay, joon," you replied softly.

"you sure, doll?" he asked, tracing his fingers lightly against your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him fully.

you nodded. "wanna feel all of you," you said almost shyly.

"have no clue what you're doing to me," he responded lowly, almost to himself. then namjoon leaned down, grabbing your hips and lifting you up swiftly. you yelped in surprise as he sat down, bringing you back on top of his lap. only this time, you were skin to skin, your arousal miserably smearing onto his legs.

but he didn't seem to care. his large hands rubbed softly down your sides as he licked his lips. "you're so small, baby," he muttered in your ear, his thumb pressing into the side of your hip. "might break you."

"that's okay," you whispered, peering up at him with big, needy eyes.

"yeah?" he asked darkly, like your response had just snapped the last bit of restraint left in him. he held onto your hips firmly as he pulled you up, aligning your entrance with his cock. "gonna ruin you then, baby."

your hands gripped onto his broad shoulders immediately to steady yourself, his fat tip pushing through your folds and breaking into your tight entrance. you moaned out in a mix of pleasure and pain, feeling every inch of his width pushing slowly into your walls as you sunk down fully on his lap.

his grasp on you became tighter as he guided you further down, hissing in pleasure as he split you open widely with his cock. your eyes shut tight as your inner thighs kissed his. slowly, the tip of his member found the back of your walls, your head throwing back from the overwhelming stretch.

namjoon held you against him firmly, allow you to fully adjust to his length before he captured your lips into a kiss. "it's okay, doll," he murmured against you. "you're taking me so well."

after a minute of soft, warm coos in your ear—namjoon began to slide you up and down his vast length slowly with his large hands, emitting a loud whine from your lips. soon, he picked his pace, his cock repeatedly kissing the deepest part of your hole. "good baby... that's it," he praised lowly.

your head was filled with nothing but the thought of you, him, and his fat cock curving up inside of you and exploring your walls. he took you to a pure state of euphoria as he thrusted up in you. his hold was firm on you as he bounced you up and down his cock.

your eyes fluttered at your view, melting under his piercing gaze— his jaw tightened in pleasure and concentration, low eyes scanning your fucked-out expression hungrily. you nearly screamed in pleasure.

"such a good girl for me," he grunted in your ear, one large palm trailing up your sides before resting along your neck. his fingers wrapped around it slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to apply pressure that made your mind dizzy and your pussy clench his member tightly.

his other hand came firmer around your waist before suddenly you were moving—your head being guided back down on the couch while your body was being manhandled by namjoon while he kept his cock buried deep inside of you. one hand settled beside your head while the other remained grazing your throat lightly.

once you both fully adjusted to the new position, namjoon continued to thrust in you, roaming your pussy at an entirely new angle. your wetness gushed around his cock sloppily, filling the room with lewd slapping noises. "you fit around me so well, doll," he muttered breathlessly, breath shooting down your spine as he littered messy kisses along your neck.

his hand traveled from your throat down to your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing it softly. you were a moaning mess beneath him as he fucked you relentlessly now, tip slapping messily against the spongiest part of your walls, making your mind go blank.

his palm found its way around your thigh, lifting it above his shoulder. he closed the distance between you two, cock greedily marking a place inside your hole in a way no one had ever done before as his chest pressed against yours.

he rutted his length inside of you, making your eyes roll back and the couch move back and forth with every movement. "gonna fill you up tonight, doll. gonna make you mine," he murmured. "what do you think, baby?"

you could only moan in response, lost in the feeling of his cock buried so deeply inside of you. "nuh uh," namjoon ticked lowly, his thrusts becoming brutal. "wanna hear that pretty voice of yours, baby."

"mmph—yes~ make me yours, joon," you whined breathlessly.

you cried out—heat coiling unbearably in your stomach, pure bliss clouding your mind as namjoon picked up his pace, feeling your walls hugging him in tightly. "yeah... right where you belong baby," he muttered. "taking me so good like this."

your second orgasm of the night hit you even harder this time—ripping through you like a monstrous ocean wave. he fucked you through your high, your legs shaking violently against him; release spilling all over his cock as you moaned out his name breathlessly.

"that's it, baby," he grunted lowly as he made his final, slower thrusts, burying himself inside you as deep as possible before releasing his hot seed into your walls. "come on my dick, pretty girl."

your vision was practically filled with stars as your body became limp under his grasp. he milked his cock deep in your walls before he pulled out with a sharp hiss, laying down beside you—lengthy body half on the couch and half off of it.

you both laid there next to each other breathless, chests moving up and down in sync as you processed what had just happened.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

suddenly, the studio is quiet again.

it wasn't completely silent—just the low hum of equipment filling the room with one of his tracks still looping quietly in the background.

clothes half-on, curled against him on the couch with his large arm around your waist, holding you close against his chest like he had no intention of letting you drift away.

for awhile, neither of you say anything. namjoon's fingers moved slowly against your side, absentmindedly tracing soft patterns into your skin. the movement only grounded you into him more.

then finally, a low exhale left namjoon's lips. "c'mere," he murmurs softly, even though you were already pressed against him. his big hands slid higher along your back, pulling you in even closer anyway until your head was resting properly against his chest.

it only made your cheeks flush a bright red—the moment feeling possessive in a way that was ever so gentle. like he just needed to make sure you were still there. now, you can hear his heartbeat. it thumps steadily now against his large chest.

"you okay?" he asks quietly.

you nod against him. "yeah," you reply softly.

then his lips brush lightly against the top of your head, placing a soft kiss that lingers. "good," he murmurs.

something about the way he said it made warmth spread through your chest again. his hand settles at your waist once more, thumb brushing lightly beneath the fabric of your top. "you still overthinking?" he asks after a minute.

you let out a small laugh against his chest. "maybe a little."

a quiet hum leaves him. "don't."

you tilt your head slightly to look at him. his expression is softer now. his gaze still intense—because he always looks intense when looking at you—but softer. "you regret it?" he asks gently.

you shook your head immediately. "no," you replied, meaning it with everything in your chest.

at your words, something in namjoon's expressions shifts. it wasn't surprise, it was only something deeper. his hand moves to your jaw, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.

"good," he says again, quieter this time. then, like his confidence had just made a return—"would've been a problem if you did."

you laugh softly, cheeks warming again. "you're crazy, joon."

"for you?" he murmurs. "starting to think maybe."

your stomach flips all over again. namjoon studies you for a second, gaze moving slowly across your face like he's memorizing it. like he still can't believe that you're here. with him, and in his arms.

his hand slides along your thigh gently. this time, it isn't teasing. instead, it feels familiar and warm. "come back to my place," he says quietly.

you hesitate for maybe half a second, but only because your heart is racing faster than your mind. his thumb brushes lightly against your leg. "you don't have to leave, doll," he murmurs.

"you sure?" you ask quietly. because in your past, once guys were done, they were done with your presence for the night—or even forever.

"of course," he says. then, a faint smile touches his mouth, voice dropping a little. "i'm not doing being around you."

and it only seemed that you weren't exactly done being around him either.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

two months later, being with namjoon feels easy. and it wasn't because he was simple. it was the exact opposite.

he's still intense, but still composed. he still walks through every room like he owns it without needing attention from anyone in it. but with you? he's soft in all the places it matters.

namjoon becomes part of your life so naturally it almost scares you sometimes.

mornings tangled up in his expensive sheets while sunlight pours through the massive windows of his house that overlooks the city. his large hand resting on your waist while he scrolls through emails lazily with the other. his bright smile on display every time he made you laugh or blush.

in his free time, he'd show up to your work with your favorite dinner meal. sometimes, he'd sit at a table in your section and order food just to be able to talk to you any chance you'd get.

afternoons where he pulls you into his lap while he's working on music. he'd barely let you sit more than a foot away from him before he was already touching you again somehow.

his fingers through your hair, your legs draped over his. his mouth against your temple when he quietly tells someone important over the phone that he'll "call back later."

and of course, he spoils you constantly. it wasn't in a loud way either. it was more like taking care of you and putting a smile on your face had just become his instinct.

he buys you things you casually mention liking once. he leaves designer bags on the bed like it's nothing. he'd get annoyed when you'd check price tags. he would sneakily place things in your basket at sephora as he trailed behind you, filling it up with everything you simply picked up and looked at.

you even tried to avoid going shopping with him sometimes because you never happened to pay for anything again.

"doll," he murmured one night, pulling your back against his chest, wrapping his large arms around you while you stared at a pair of brand new, christian louboutin red bottoms that he bought you. "if you like them, they're yours. stop thinking so hard."

and god, he hated it when you worked too much. he hated it even more when work stressed you out.

"you should call out," he tells you one morning, voice rough from sleep while you're leaving his bed for work.

you laugh softly. "some of us have to work, joonie."

his buff arms loop around your waist, pulling you back into the mattress effortlessly. "i know," he murmurs against your neck, nuzzling his nose into your warmth. "that's the problem."

eventually, namjoon starts saying it more seriously.

"quit," he says.

you look at him like he's insane every time. "be serious, joon."

"i am serious."

his hands slide along your thighs as you stand between his knees while he sits at the edge of the bed, looking up at you with that same, calm certainty he’s always had.

“i’ll give you whatever you need,” he says simply. “why are you stressing yourself out when you don’t have to?”

and the craziest part of it all to you, was that he meant it entirely. it wasn't because he wanted control—it was because taking care of you pulled at his dimples and his heart more than anything else ever had.

somewhere along the way, you became each other's favorite part of life. people notice too and eventually, the internet catches on.

a photo of you two start surfacing of you leaving restaurant in west hollywood, his hand firm at the small of your back. then, photos of him opening the door for you. and photos of him looking at you instead of the camera.

one set of paparazzi pictures blow up incredibly fast—you climbing into his car while he stands beside you in sunglasses and all black. one hand casually resting against the roof above your head, the other firm on your thigh as you settled into the seat.

neither of you comment on it, not publicly at least. but namjoon doesn't hide you either. because if anything—he loved being seen with you.

you noticed it in the small moments. the way his hand settled on your thigh more confidently when people recognized him on a date. the way he pulled you closer when cameras appeared. the way he looks almost amused by attention instead of irritated.

it was like he was always thinking, yeah, she's with me.

namjoon flexed you more than the music plaques on his wall or the collection of sleek cars in his driveway.

because throughout his entire career, no success, no hit record, or no amount of money—had ever made him look at proud as you do sitting beside him.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

4 months later~

the city outside namjoon's windows is glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky, soft music playing quietly somewhere in his giant house.

you're curled against him on the couch in one of his hoodies. legs across his lap while he scrolls lazily through something on his phone with one hand resting absentmindedly along your thighs.

you both had been like this all evening. quiet and comfortable; surrounded by the kind of silence that only exists when two people know everything about each other completely.

honestly, it could scare you a little. because somewhere along these four months, you and namjoon had stopped feeling temporary. it stopped feeling like some kind of whirlwind or fling.

instead, it just started feeling right. it just felt like you and him and nothing else completely belonged.

you looked over at him. observed the sharp line of his jaw that was softened by the warm lighting. the expensive watch sitting around his wrist. the reading glasses he only wore at home that sat low on his nose while he checked emails.

the realization hit you about a month ago so hard and your chest had felt tight ever since. you were completely, undeniably, and utterly in love with him. but now, you couldn't seem to hold it in anymore.

"you're staring again."

your heart jumps slightly. namjoon doesn't even look up from his phone when he says it. you roll your eyes. "you're obsessed with yourself."

a smirk touches his lips. "no," he murmurs calmly, finally looking over at you. "just obsessed with you."

you look away before he can see your flushed face, but of course he already noticed it. because there simply wasn't a thing he didn't notice about you. his phone turned off immediately. "hey," he said gently.

your eyes lift back to his. immediately his expression changes into something softer, but more serious. his hands slide up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you a little closer across the couch until you're practically in his lap. "what's going on in that head, hm?" he asks.

"nothing."

"liar."

the words are gentle, affectionate in a way. you laugh softly, but it comes out nervous. he catches that too. one hand comes up, brushing lightly along your jaw. "talk to me, doll."

you swallow. your voice comes out quietly—"what if... i love you more than you love me?"

the room goes completely still. namjoon stares at you for seconds that stretch far too long, like you had just said something completely. unbelievable.

his brows pulled together. "baby," he says softly, confused, "what?"

your heart pounds instantly at the name. you try to laugh it off, suddenly embarrassed now. "i don't know, i just—"

"no," he cuts in, hands tightening gently at your waist. they weren't harsh, but it was enough to stop you from spiraling away. "no, don't do that."

you looked back at him. and the way he was looking at you now—god. like this mattered. like you mattered.

"you really think you're ahead of me here?" he asks quietly, eyes boring into yours.

your breath catches as namjoon shifts closer, forehead resting lighting against yours. "i've been in love with you for a while now," he admitted softly.

for a second, you felt like you actually stopped breathing. his thumb brushed slowly against your cheek. "you just took longer to realize it."

a shaky laugh leaves you instantly, eyes burning now. namjoon smiles softly at that, an expression you only ever get to see.

"i love you," he says again, quieter this time. but it was certain, as if it were the most obvious thing it the world.

and suddenly every fear you had—about the age gap, about his fame, about his feelings for you—had totally disappeared. because this man—this calm, confident, impossible man—loves you so deeply that he didn't even hesitate to say it.

your eyes fluttered in disbelief, laughing away the butterflies in your stomach. "i love you too."

the smile that breaks across is face is small, but almost disbelieving. but it was unquestionably proud, like he had just won something prized. after that, he kissed you slowly. he enveloped your lips with his tenderly, soaking in all of your warmth beneath him.

"there you are," he murmurs softly. like you were always meant to end up here with him.

and somewhere between the side of the road and his arms, your little street thing had become everything.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a/n : hope u guys loved this as much as i do eee! sorry there was so much relationship building... this is the longest bts fic i've made (on this app at least) omg..but joon is actually so sexy i could die.

read part two here

love u guys sm <3 read more of my joon fics here !!

[onelime]

only talking to sukuna's stomach mouth when he pisses you off

Sukuna’s developed an irritating habit. Whenever he’s fed up with you, or whenever he doesn’t want to entertain one of your questions, he’ll simply stay quiet and gesture towards his stomach. It’s kind of like saying ‘talk to the hand’. But in his case, it’s ‘talk to the stomach mouth’. 

Then his stomach mouth will shoot you this wide, smug grin, like it’s more than happy to converse with you. And you’ll just toss up your hands and groan, annoyed that your husband won’t even bother to speak with you face to face. 

But recently you've taken Sukuna up on his offer, turning the tables to give him the silent treatment while still chatting away with his stomach. Because Sukuna underestimated just how much that mouth of his likes to rile someone up. Even if it’s the rest of his body. 

Now, Sukuna’s lounging on the bed, limbs draped carelessly along the mattress. He’s trying to feign indifference. Trying to pretend he’s unphased by the fact that you haven’t spoken to him in four whole days. 

But you know better. You see the slight clench in his jaw, the scowl that deepens on his face each time he steals a look your way. He watches as you sit by the window, gazing at the scenery outside. 

When the silence stretches on longer than he can bear, Sukuna sets his pride aside to clear his throat and ask, “Are you still doing this?” 

You don’t even spare him a glance, continuing to look out the window. “Middle Mouth,” you say, “will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I have no idea what he’s talking about?”

Sukuna scoffs in disbelief, but that mouth of his flashes its teeth and singsongs, “Sukunaaaa. She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I heard you,” Sukuna huffs, speaking to you instead of his stomach.

He hates this whole situation. Hates that you're not speaking with him. Hates that you’ve given his stomach mouth a nickname. And he hates that the mouth is entertaining it at all. 

 His jaw clenches once more, and he sighs before saying, “You’re ignoring me.” 

He’s not wrong. For almost a week, you’ve been avoiding your husband, refusing to interact or even look at any part of him other than his stomach maw. But despite all of his sulking and sour moods, you act as if nothing is amiss.

“Middle Mouth, will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I am not ignoring him. You and I just had a lovely conversation, didn’t we?”

“Sukunaaaa,” the mouth singsongs again. “She isn’t ignoring you…well, me.” That grin returns, and you can’t help but let out a quiet laugh. Why didn’t you start speaking with your husband’s stomach mouth sooner? He really is entertaining.

“Stop that. Don’t humor her,” Sukuna scolds.

“Middle Mouth, you can converse with me as you please.”

“I intend to,” his maw replies. 

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, but he’s not sure whether to direct his glare at you or his abdomen. “How long do you intend to keep up these antics?”

You brush an imaginary piece of lint from your clothes and say, "Middle Mouth, please inform the rest of Sukuna that I’m still waiting on a proper apology from him." 

“I’m warning you, do not–”

“Sukunaaaa. She is waiting for a proper apology from you.”

Sukuna stares murderously down at his lower half. He’s finally met his match. The only ‘enemy’ that he can’t silence by force. Himself. 

And secretly, you think that he slightly enjoys that you’re speaking with his stomach mouth. It shows him that despite this silent treatment, you still desire some form of communication with him. 

So he’ll put up with the teasing, the inside jokes, and the fact that his wife is being stolen by his own body.

You decide to press your luck a little bit further, and say something you know will send your husband over the edge. “Middle Mouth–”

“Not again,” Sukuna groans, tossing his head back.

“Do you remember what I told you? What we talked about last night?”

“What?!?" Sukuna demands, sitting up abruptly and sending the covers around him flying.

“Oh, I remember,” his maw says, immediately grinning and playing into it. 

“Well, I was thinking about it and–”

“Why are you speaking with my wife at night?”

“Our wife. And what we discuss during late hours does not concern you.” 

“Anyways, as I was telling you, Middle Mouth, before I was rudely interrupted–”

“No. This ends now."

In seconds, Sukuna’s beside you, all 7 feet of him towering over you intimidatingly. He rubs a hand across his jaw, like he has to physically force the words out of his mouth. “I.. apologize for not answering when you asked me which of my cocks I urinate from.”

“…”

“The answer is both of them.”

Immediately, your mood lifts. You turn away from the window, smiling and facing your husband like nothing was ever wrong. “Apology accepted.” And then to his stomach mouth, “We’ll continue our conversation later.” 

a/n: idk why the mouth is referring to him in third person...js to be annoying ig lol

[aquasprings]

➽───── one who yearns is one who earns ─────❥

ft. suguru geto

synopsis ~ months of longing. a week at a beach house. one shared bed, too much tension and too little self control. suguru geto has spent far too long wanting his friend’s roommate. far too long trying not to ruin her. unfortunately for him, when she shows up to spring break looking at him like that, he fails spectacularly.

tags ~ 18+ mdni !!! idiots in fucking love, yearning yearning yearning, geto's a masterclass yearner, lowkey slowburn? friends to lovers-ish, mutual pining, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, oral fixation, piv sex, creampie, marking, size difference, belly bulge, light possessiveness, aftercare, geto's just down bad and i love him and i love this

a/n ~ gosh this was toooo much fun to write. decided to make this one a long(er) oneshot compared to the multi parts i had for choso n gojo, bc it made more sense with the plot i had in mind! hopefully all of u lovelies enjoy ;) and sorry for the wait <3

w/c ~ 17.4 k (youch i got carried away)

access the frat verse here!

your roommate brings it up three days before finals week officially starts, which already tells you the idea is terrible. the two of you are sitting cross-legged on the floor of your apartment living room surrounded by open textbooks, half-folded laundry, and empty instant noodle containers.

she’s supposed to be writing a paper. instead, she’s online shopping for bikinis. “i actually can’t do this anymore,” she announces dramatically, laptop balanced on her thighs. “if i read one more discussion post i’m walking into traffic.”

you hum absentmindedly, highlighting a paragraph without processing any of it.

outside, rain taps against the windows in soft uneven bursts. campus looks gray and muddy and exhausted. even the frat houses have gone quieter this week. everyone’s studying, or pretending to.

your roommate suddenly gasps. “spring break,” she says.

“what about it?”

“we should go to your beach house.”

that gets your attention. you look up slowly from your laptop. “we?”

“yes, we.” she tosses a sock at you. “like. everyone.”

“everyone…us girls? or—”

“no, the frat too,” she says, smiling. “i want choso to be there.”

you roll your eyes, focusing back on your notes. she’s been glued to her boyfriend’s hip ever since they got together. it’s almost sickening, if they weren’t so perfect for each other. you’re rarely in the house alone anymore.

“dunno if that’s a good idea,” you say, because your brain immediately supplies the image of suguru geto.

it’s geto. always geto.

your roommates notices your change in expression instantly. the grin that spreads across her face is immediate and evil. “oh my god.”

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“you thought about him first.”

“i literally didn’t,” you mumble, pushing your glasses up your nose.

“you literally did.”

you throw the sock back at her head and she dodges it, laughing. “you’re soooo weird about him.”

and she’s right. you are weird about him. not in an obvious way, no. whatever thing between you and geto occurs in fragments. in pauses and glances held half a second too long.

eye tag.

that’s what gojo called it once after catching the two of you staring at each other across the frat kitchen while everyone else argued over beer pong rules. “you guys do this every time,” he’d said.

you’d denied it immediately. geto had just looked away.

your roommate clasps her hands together. “please invite them. choso already said yes if you say yes.”

“you asked him before asking me?”

“well, yes.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “the house isn’t huge.”

“it has four bedrooms.”

“one of them barely counts,” you point out.

“we can make it work.”

your parents are never at the beach house this time of year, anyways, and know you’re responsible enough to handle it on your own.

it’s few hours from campus along a quieter part of the shoreline. you haven’t been in almost a year.

the thought of ocean air instead of stale lecture halls makes you exhale slightly.

“aha,” your roommate says, pointing at you. “that was a considering face.”

“it was not.”

“come on. it’ll be fun.”

“it’ll be loud.”

“only a little.”

“imagine bonfires,” your roommate says dreamily.

“imagine property damage.”

“imagine volleyball.”

“imagine bail money.”

you already know you’re going to cave. despite everything the rest has somehow become tangled into your life over the past semester. in the middle of late-night food runs and campus events and parties is geto’s face and how you notice him before he notices you almost every time.

at parties, he’s usually tucked somewhere quieter while everybody else spirals around him in chaos. sitting on kitchen counters, leaning against walls with a drink untouched in his hand. watching. and eventually his eyes find yours, every single time.

the first few times it happened you thought you imagined it. you? nerd you? suguru geto looking at you?

but it kept happening. across crowded rooms and across lecture halls.

“you’re thinking about him again,” your roommate says.

it’s his deep voice and calmness and the way he rolls his sleeves to his elbows when he’s focused. the exhaustion constantly sitting beneath his eyes lately because he’s balancing classes and internship applications and responsibilities and everybody else’s problems too.

“shut up,” you say weakly.

“i’m texting choso. this is happening.”

you sigh, knowing that once your roommate wants something to go her way, it’s happening.

how bad can the trip really go, anyway?

“gojo’s already asking if the beach house has speakers.”

“tell him yes, but the neighbours don’t like noise past 10pm.”

“geto says he can drive.” your roommate looks up at you, chewing her lip, and you’re suddenly very interested in the notes you’ve been trying to read over.

now you’re imagining geto driving, one hand on the wheel, ocean air and his stupid rings glinting under the dashboard lights

you stand abruptly, gathering your notes before your imagination gets worse.

thursday - eight days from departure

geto realizes he’s in trouble on a thursday night while half-drunk freshmen scream-sing nextdoor to music that sounds like somebody attacking a speaker with a hammer. he’s sitting at the frat dining table with an untouched beer beside his laptop, trying to finish an internship application before midnight.

keyword : trying.

because you’re here. you’re not even doing anything particularly distracting either. you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of those oversized university sweaters, glasses sliding slightly down your nose while you argue with choso’s girlfriend over how many bags of chips are too many for one week at the beach house.

you shouldn’t be this difficult to ignore, and yet geto’s cursor has been blinking on the same sentence for six minutes.

gojo and toji yell something at each other from across the room. everyone starts talking over each other, except for choso, who’s curled into his girlfriend’s side, and you.

you stay focused, tapping at your laptop with concentration pulling your brows together slightly. geto watches your mouth move while you talk.

that’s becoming a problem too. noticing little things. the tiny crease between your eyebrows when you’re annoyed. the way you tuck your legs underneath yourself without thinking.

it’s gotten worse recently, or maybe he’s just stopped pretending it hasn’t been happening. for months now, every room he walks in feels altered slightly if you’re there.

he hates how aware he’s become of you. worse, you notice him too.

geto’s not stupid. he sees the way your eyes snag on him before flicking away. the pauses, the tension, that look you get when he stands too close.

it’s there constantly, like static humming between you both.

“geto.” your voice cuts clean through his thoughts.

he looks up immediately. you’re staring at him from across the room now, brows raised slightly. his stomach does something deeply irritating. “yeah?”

“you haven’t answered a single thing we asked.”

gojo grins instantly from the kitchen island.

“he was staring at you.”

geto doesn’t react outwardly. years of dealing with satoru have made his self-control nearly supernatural.

you, unfortunately, do react. irritation flashes visibly across your face before you glare at gojo. “oh my god, shut up.”

“am i wrong?”

“yes,” both you and geto say at the exact same time.

toji starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes. “jesus christ,” he mutters. “you two are painful.”

geto drags a hand down his face slowly. you’re suddenly very interested in your spreadsheet.

cute.

“i made categories,” you explain, stuttering over the last word as you regain composure. “colour coded. it’s a shared excel sheet so you can all access it too.”

geto smiles softly. you’re focused and bossy and pretty. he thinks he should probably stop looking at you like that.

“okay,” you say, tapping the couch. “can everyone e-transfer me their share tonight so i can book groceries in advance?”

gojo raises a hand. “no. actually, toji and i pass.”

you run a hand down your face. “what?”

“we’re the entertainment,” he explains, like it makes total sense.

“eighty dollars, each of you, please,” you say, tilting your head back. “i hate all of you.”

“that’s not true,” gojo says. “You like suguru.”

the room goes quiet instantly. choso coughs into his drink. gojo’s girlfriend physically turns away to hide her smile.

gojo points between the two of you lazily.

“the vibes are crazy.”

“there are no vibes,” you say immediately.

“you look flustered,” toji notes helpfully.

everybody starts talking over each other again while you try defending yourself with rapidly deteriorating success. geto says nothing, because while the others laugh and argue his eyes stay on you.

you can feel it too. he knows you can. that tension pressing tighter every time your gazes meet.

your eyes lift to his and his gaze flicks to your mouth for one brief, horrible second.

you both look away just as fast.

sunday - five days from departure

your bedroom looks like a clothing store exploded. bikinis draped over desk chairs, shorts hanging off your bedframe, three different pairs of sandals abandoned in the middle of the floor. “i hate everything,” you announce.

your roommate barely glances up from where she’s laying across your bed with choso half beneath her like a human mattress. “dramatic.”

“none of this looks right.”

“you’ve changed outfits six times.”

“because i look weird.”

“you literally don’t.”

you turn sideways in the mirror, scrutinizing yourself harder. the dress is just soft black fabric that skims your body, thin straps, lower neckline than what you normally wear. you bought it for some finance networking event your department hosted last month because your mom said you needed “staple outfits.”

your roommate sits up on her elbows finally, exasperated. “you know most people going on beach trips are worried about, like, sunscreen?”

“i am worried about sunscreen.”

“i forgot you made a spreadsheet for sunscreen.”

“uv rays are serious.”

choso laughs quietly from beneath her, hands resting loosely on her thighs. you point at him immediately. “don’t encourage her.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“the laugh felt judgmental.”

your roommate rolls her eyes before looking back at you properly. “you look hot,” she says flatly. “actually annoyingly hot. if you don’t pack the dress i’m stealing it.”

you scoff softly, turning back toward the mirror. “it’s too much.”

“for who?”

you shrug. some part of you already knows exactly who you’re thinking about, which is ridiculous. you’re literally standing in your bedroom overanalyzing a dress because suguru geto might see it.

your roommate seems seconds away from teasing you about exactly that when choso speaks absentmindedly from the bed.“geto likes that one.”

the room goes silent and you slowly turn around. “…what?”

choso freezes and his eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the mistake leave his mouth in real time.

your roommate lifts her head immediately. “what do you mean geto likes that one?”

“nothing,” choso says too quickly.

“choso,” she says.

“i’m serious.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “how would he even know this dress?”

another pause then choso makes the fatal mistake of hesitating. your roommate gasps dramatically. “OH MY GOD HE DOES KNOW THE DRESS?!”

“baby,” choso says weakly.

“no, no, come back.” she grabs his arm before he can sit up. “what do you mean he likes the dress?”

“i wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

you cross your arms slowly. “that’s an insane sentence.”

choso looks deeply distressed now. your roommate softens instantly though, because unfortunately for choso, she knows exactly how to handle him. she cups his face gently, pressing a tiny kiss against his jaw. “please?” she asks sweetly.

choso exhales heavily through his nose, cheeks going pink. weak man. he folds almost immediately. “okay but you cannot tell geto i said any of this.”

you and your roommate both nod way too fast and he points at both of you suspiciously before continuing. “you wore that dress to the frat one night.”

your brows pinch together slightly. “…when?”

“when you came to pick her up after that finance networking thing.”

oh.you remember that night.

you’d stopped by the frat around midnight because your roommate was too drunk to uber home alone. you were still dressed up from the event downtown. heels hurting. hair done. tired and irritated because gojo had answered the door already yelling.

you hadn’t stayed long, just long enough to drag your roommate upstairs to collect her stuff while half the frat stared at you like they’d never seen a woman before.

apparently including geto.

“what happened?” your roommate asks immediately.

choso rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “nothing happened exactly. some guy made a comment after you left.”

your stomach tightens slightly. “what kind of comment?”

“just saying you looked good or whatever.”

“and?” your roommate presses.

choso sighs. “and geto got weird about it.”

heat crawls instantly up your neck. “weird how?”

“he just…” choso pauses, visibly trying to decide how much to say. “he looked annoyed.”

your roommate’s jaw drops. “he got jealous?”

“well, I dunno, not—”

“choso.”

“i’m serious.”

“what did he say?”

another long sigh. “he said you don’t even realize how pretty you are.”

your roommate physically collapses face-first into the bed, laughing into a pillow. you just stand there your heart suddenly beating way too hard. “that’s not…” you clear your throat softly. “that’s not that serious.”

both of them look at you. your roommate lifts her head slowly. “you are genuinely the dumbest smart person i know.”

“i’m not dumb.”

“he said you don’t know how pretty you are.”

“people say things.”

“not like that.”

choso looks like he regrets existing and unfortunately for him your roommate isn’t done. “what ELSE has he said?”

“nothing,” choso mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“liar.”

“baby.”

another soft kiss against his jaw, pretty doe eyes, and you watch the fight leave choso’s body. he groans quietly. “he just asks about you sometimes,” he mumbles, glancing up at you.

your stomach flips again. “asks what?” your roommate says immediately.

“normal stuff.”

“define normal.”

“like if she’s seeing anybody.”

your eyes widen slightly.

“or what her type is,” choso admits.

your roommate grabs your arm so hard you almost lose balance. “i knew it.”

“stop saying that,” you hiss, feeling too warm and out of place in your own body now.

choso keeps talking now that he’s doomed anyway. “there were these guys talking to you outside one of our econ buildings a while ago and geto asked after if you knew them.”

you blink. you remember that too. two business majors from another frat trying very hard to impress you after class. geto had walked by while you were talking to them and you hadn’t thought he even paid attention.

apparently he had.

“and,” choso adds carefully, “he asked if they were bothering you.”

something warm and dangerous and twisting settles low in your stomach, and your roommate looks one second away from planning a wedding. “this is insane.”

“it’s not insane,” you say weakly.

“he likes you.”

“you don’t know that.”

“y/n,” she says flatly. “be serious.”

you sit on the edge of your bed, the black dress clinging to your skin, and now all you can think about is geto noticing it. remembering it. liking it enough to mention it after you’d already gone.

your roommate watches your expression carefully from the bed and then smiles slowly.

friday - day of departure

departure day starts at eleven in the morning and immediately feels cursed. gojo is late, even though the meetup spot is outside the frat. toji's holding an iced coffee and is directing where bags are to be put instead of actually helping. somehow, your roommate's lost one of her sandals already. choso's carrying about fourteen bags (thirteen of which are his girlfriend's) and you?

you're standing in the driveway trying to figure out how seven people accumulated this much luggage for a beach trip. a seven day beach trip. “why do you have three suitcases,” you ask gojo’s girlfriend.

"two of them are satoru's," she says, patting her boyfriend's head, and he grins like a lovesick puppy. "i don't know why he has so many clothes."

geto’s car sits at the curb behind gojo's girlfriend's car - the two drivers for the trip. geto's leaning against it, typing on his phone, and of course the fact that he looks good pre-noon makes your heart pang. you can only imagine what you would look like standing beside him, what with your frizzy hair and crooked glasses.

he's wearing a dark hoodie and shorts, sunglasses pushes up into his hair while choso helps him load luggage into the back. you try not to stare but your brain seems to enjoy self-destruction.

because watching geto lift heavy bags with one hand while calmly reorganizing everybody’s mess should not be attractive.

"okay," gojo announces loudly, clapping once. "vehicle assignments."

getp closes his trunk with a final solid thud. "my car's got the most space," he says. "why don't you transfer all the luggage over from the other car?"

your roommate perks up immediately. "perfect."

"there'll be room for one person up front too," geto adds casually. then he looks directly at you. your stomach flips so hard it almost makes you angry.

you glance away first. before you can say literally anything, your roommate beams. "great! y/n'll go with you."

you whip around instantly. "what?"

"you get carsick in crowded backseats," she says innocently.

which is true. unfortunately. “i can survive.”

“and i want leg room,” toji says. "no fuckin' way am i cramming in the back with the lovebirds," he grumbles, pointing to choso and your roomate, "with this fucker in the front." he points his thumb to gojo, who's smiling happily.

"then you can go in the front with geto," you say.

your roommate gives you a deadpan look. gojo's girlfriend sighs.

"toji, just sit in the back, please," choso says quietly. "it's only a two and a half hour ride."

he opens his mouth to retort an excuse but gojo's girlfriend promptly elbows him in the chest. he grumbles but settles in the back of gojo's girlfriend's sedan anyway.

geto looks almost relieved, but he quickly masks it with his typical aloofness.

your roommate grabs your shoulder, grinning ear to ear. "have fun!"

you narrow your eyes at her. “i hope your phone charger breaks.”

gojo leans out the passenger window of the other car. “pee break every forty-five minutes!”

“absolutely not,” both you and geto say simultaneously.

gojo points between you both immediately. “they’re married already.”

you ignore him completely, mostly because geto is already walking around to the passenger side of his car and opening the door for you. which should not affect you this much.

it’s basic manners. normal behavior. except when you pass him, the scent of his cologne mixes with cool morning air and coffee and suddenly your thoughts short-circuit for half a second.

annoying. very, super annoying.

you settle into the seat while geto finishes loading the last bag.

the car smells clean, like sandalwood and detergent and something distinctly geto. you hate that you know what he smells like.

the second he slides into the driver’s seat beside you, the space feels smaller. you feel him glance at you before putting the car into start, and you're driving off, leading the other car behind you.

your phone buzzes immediately.

roomie: have fun on your first date ❤️

you: i’m going to kill you with my bare hands

you shove your phone away quickly before geto can accidentally see. “you have the address?” he asks quietly.

“yeah.” you pull up the map. “did gojo’s girlfriend save it too?”

“i sent it to her twice.”

“good.”

“you don’t trust them?”

you stare out the windshield where gojo is currently hanging halfway out the car window yelling something about his spring break arc. “…should i?”

geto laughs quietly beside you and the sound makes your head spin happily. you don't hear him laugh often, unless he's mocking gojo. this quiet, real laugh is something you notice every single time.

after twenty minutes you hit the highway and you sink back into your seat with a sigh. “finally.”

“you stressed?” geto asks lightly.

“i like plans.”

“i noticed.”

you narrow your eyes slightly. “that sounded judgmental.”

“it wasn’t.”

“mhm.”

he glances at you briefly while turning onto the highway. sunlight catches against the rings on his fingers resting on the steering wheel. your brain immediately decides to become unhelpful so you look out the window instead.

for another few minutes, it’s quiet except for road noise and the distant bass vibrating from the other car behind, then geto taps the screen on the dashboard. “you want music?”

“i don’t mind.”

“you sure?”

“...yeah? why?” you glance over at him.

“because now if you hate my music taste you'll have to be super polite about it and the car ride will be awkward.”

you laugh softly. “i promise it won't be bad. i won't be that harsh.”

his mouth curves slightly before he scrolls through his phone. music fills the car a second later and you recognize it almost instantly.

your head turns before you can stop yourself. “wait,” you say. “is this the smiths?”

geto glances over briefly. “…you listen to the smiths?”

“obviously.”

“obviously?”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” he says, clearly amused now. “i just didn’t expect it.”

you scoff. “what did you expect?”

he thinks about it for a second. “something old. like classical music.”

"i don't mind classical, but the smiths have always been one of my favourites."

he flashes you a genuine smile, fingers gently tapping the rhythm of the song on the wheel. "i'm glad."

after that, conversation begins to flow easier. favourite albums, worst profs, gojo. (lots of gojo). he says something that makes you snort and that same small, real smile etches onto his lips and god, this is dangerous.

you watch the highway stretch under the pale morning sunlight while trees blur at the edges of the road. after a moment you steal another glance at him. he's relaxed, one arm resting near the window, sunglasses low on his nose.

he's so...pretty.

the thought hits so fast and hard it almost embarrasses you. as if sensing it, geto looks over suddenly. your eyes meet instantly and there it is again. that thing. that horrible, suspended moment where neither of you looks away fast enough.

his gaze flicks down briefly to your mouth then back up. your pulse stutters.

behind you, gojo’s girlfriend's car suddenly swerves slightly as gojo sticks his head out the sunroof, shouting something imperceptible.

the moment breaks. you clear your throat quickly, looking forward again. “they’re going to die before we even get there.”

geto’s laugh rumbles low beside you. “probably.”

gojo’s girlfriend has both hands gripping the steering wheel like she’s transporting explosives. “if you scream one more time,” she says flatly, eyes locked on the road, “i’m pulling over and leaving all of you on the highway.”

“that feels hostile,” gojo says from the passenger seat.

“you barked at a motorcycle.”

“it barked first.”

from the backseat, toji groans dramatically as choso’s girlfriend shifts closer into choso’s side again. “i’m in hell,” he mutters.

“you’re just bitter because nobody wants to cuddle you,” she says cheerfully.

“wrong. women love me.”

“do they?” gojo says from the front, shit-eating grin on his face.

“historically. your mother would know.”

“you don't know shit about my mom,” gojo laughs. “she doesn't have your fucking number.”

“that's cause she gave it to me.”

choso quietly adjusts his arm around his girlfriend’s waist so she can lean more comfortably against him. toji gags loudly. “there they go again,” he says. “the world’s most nauseating couple.”

"you're just single. quadruple-wheeling the trip. us, choso and his girl, and whatever the fuck is going on in geto's car."

toji kicks the back of gojo’s seat and the car swerves slightly.

everyone yells immediately. “if we die,” gojo’s girlfriend says through gritted teeth, “i’m haunting all of you.”

“you’d look hot as a ghost,” gojo says instantly.

she snorts despite herself. from the backseat, choso’s girlfriend glances down at her phone.

“they’re probably having the most awkward car ride ever right now.”

gojo twists around immediately. “you think they’ve kissed yet?”

“it’s been thirty minutes,” choso says.

“exactly.”

“they’re not kissing,” his girlfriend says, though she sounds deeply unconvinced.

toji stretches his long legs out miserably. “they do have weird tension though.”

“thank you,” gojo says, pointing dramatically. “finally someone sane.”

choso’s girlfriend smiles to herself a little, gaze drifting toward the road ahead where geto’s car moves steadily a few lengths in front of them. “i think they’re both just nervous,” she says softly.

“geto?” gojo laughs loudly. “nervous over a girl?”

if only they saw how bright geto's smile was right now as you talked animatedly about how well your finals went. with you and your legs propped up on the dash, smooth and perfect and he couldn't stop staring without seeming weird. how his heart skipped a beat every time one of your perfect smiles were directed to him.

if only they knew how gone for you he really was.

the second the beach house comes into view, everyone in the other car completely loses their minds. your phone starts vibrating before geto’s even finished pulling into the driveway.

SPRING BREAKKUHH

gojo: HOLY SHIT???

gojo: WHY IS IT HUGE

roomie: i warned u

you laugh softly under your breath as the other car practically screeches to a stop beside you. the house sits glowing gold in the late afternoon sunlight, all warm cedar and giant windows overlooking the water below. dune grass sways softly around the edges of the deck while waves crash faintly in the distance.

home.

you hadn’t realized how badly you needed this until now. gojo launches out of the car first. “BEACH ARC!” he screams.

“inside voice,” you call automatically.

“we’re outside.”

“future inside voice.”

toji steps out next, stretching dramatically. “thank christ. my knees were touching my organs back there.”

everyone starts unloading luggage in a blur after that. bags thumping against the deck, music already blasting from someones speaker, and of course, gojo attempting to carry six things at once before immediately dropping half of them.

you’re hauling one of the grocery bags up the front steps when your roommate appears beside you wearing the smuggest expression imaginable. “so,” she says casually.

you already know. “don’t.”

“you and geto looked cozy.”

“we were in a car.”

“alone.”

“with seatbelts.”

gojo’s girlfriend appears on your other side immediately. “the sexual tension was visible through the windshield.”

you nearly trip over the doorway. “there is no sexual tension.”

both of them stare at you and you adjust your glasses defensively. “there just objectively is not.”

“you’re doing the nerd thing,” your roommate says.

“what nerd thing?”

“the glasses push.”

your hand drops instantly away from your frames. traitors, the both of them. behind you, geto lifts two suitcases from the trunk effortlessly while listening to choso say something beside him.

he glances toward the front porch, toward you, and your stomach does the stupid thing again. once inside everybody immediately scatters to explore the house.

gojo runs directly toward the back windows dramatically. “the back deck is is insane.”

“don’t break anything,” you warn.

“you say that every time.”

“because every time you almost break something.”

toji opens the fridge. “this thing is bigger than four of the fridges at the frat.”

you kick your shoes off near the entryway while everybody talks over each other around you. the house smells faintly like cedarwood and ocean air, comfortable and familiar. comfortable. familiar.

geto pauses beside one of the windows quietly, gaze moving across the living room and you watch his expression shift slightly. he looks good, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair loosened slightly from it's usual knot, sunlight catching against his skin through the windows.

you look away before your brain gets worse.

eventually everyone gathers in the living room surrounded by luggage and grocery bags while you attempt to regain control of the chaos. “okay,” you say, clapping once. “room assignments.”

immediately, “dibs,” both gojo and choso say at the same time.

their girlfriends laugh. “obviously,” gojo’s girlfriend says. "we can take the upstairs bedroom, if you don't mind? the one on the side?"

“don’t be loud,” you say, and gojo flips you off. within seconds choso and your roommate have claimed one of the downstairs bedrooms, which leaves you, geto and toji, and two remaining bedrooms.

the master, upstairs. the guest room, downstairs, which has a double bed.

you’re mentally calculating sleeping arrangements when geto speaks first.

“y/n should take the master.”

your head lifts. geto’s leaning back slightly against the kitchen island now, arms folded loosely. “it’s her house,” he says simply.

heat flickers low in your stomach at how immediate the answer was. before you can respond, toji lets out a deeply offended noise. “what,” he says flatly.

everyone turns toward him. he gestures broadly at himself and geto. “so your solution is to cram two six-foot-plus men into a queen bed?”

“you survived the car,” gojo calls from halfway down the hall.

“barely. my spine compressed.” toji points accusingly at you. “i already sacrificed circulation for this trip.”

your roommate’s eyes flick between you and geto so fast it’s almost cartoonish. “easy fix,” she says. “geto and y/n share.”

silence, and your heart drops to your ass. nobody says anything immediately because apparently every single person in this house has collectively decided to make your life harder.

you stare at your roommate. she grins back innocently. beside him, gojo's girlfriend physically bites the inside of her cheek trying not to smile.

toji shrugs instantly. “works for me.”

“of course it does,” you mutter.

your roommate looks dangerously delighted now. “i mean…”

you whip around. “okay, that's--that's enough.”

“it makes sense.”

“does it?”

“logistically?”

you narrow your eyes. she smiles sweetly. geto has gone suspiciously quiet beside the kitchen island and when you risk one glance towards him he's already looking at you completely unreadable except for the faintest pink creeping up his ears.

your pulse stutters embarrassingly hard. “i can sleep on the couch,” you say quickly.

“absolutely not,” geto says immediately. too fast. the room goes quiet again and you feel every single person notice the tension. especially when geto clears his throat softly afterward. “i mean,” he adds more evenly, “it’s your place.”

gojo looks one second away from exploding with laughter.

toji stretches lazily against the armchair. “well i’m not sharing with him.”

your roommate suddenly stands. “perfect! problem solved.”

you stare at her in horror. “you didn’t solve anything.”

“you and geto get the master.”

your brain short-circuits. you open your mouth to protest then glance toward geto again. his eyes meet yours instantly, and you both look away.

biggest coward of all - your one and only, y/n.

everyone disperses after that. gojo immediately starts trying to connect his phone to the speaker system downstairs, toji disappears toward the back deck with a beer already in hand, choso and his girlfriend vanish into their room carrying bags and giggling like a disease.

you flee upstairs before your friends can torment you any further. your heartbeat still feels weird - you hate that.

the master bedroom sits at the end of the hallway overlooking the water, all soft linen and huge windows glowing gold from the lowering sun outside. you’ve always loved this room, not that you were in it often. throughout your childhood, it was occupied by your parents.

you especially love it at sunset. usually it calms you down.

usually.

right now all you can think about is the fact that suguru geto is sharing this room with you for an entire week.

it's insane and horrible and slightly thrilling in a way you refuse to examine too closely. you drop your bag onto the bed with a sigh before digging through your suitcase for something more comfortable. the drive left you sticky and overheated so you tug your shirt over your head absentmindedly, tossing it onto the bed before reaching behind yourself to unclasp your bra.

finally. freedom.

you’re halfway through pulling on a loose tank top when the bedroom door suddenly opens. you turn automatically.

geto walks in mid-sentence. “i was just gonna leave my ba—”

he stops completely. so do you.

silence detonates through the room because your bra is currently halfway off your arms and your tits are fully out.

oh my god. you yelp immediately, clutching the tank top against your chest. geto looks genuinely horrified. not in a bad way but shocked, like his brain physically short-circuited. his eyes flick upward instantly but it’s too late because the image is already there now, permanently burned into his consciousness forever.

“fuck,” he blurts immediately. “shit. fuck, sorry. jesus christ.”

you make another strangled noise while trying to cover yourself and pull the shirt on at the same time. geto turns around so fast he nearly walks into the doorframe. “i’m sorry,” he says again, voice suddenly rougher than usual. “i thought you were downstairs.”

“it’s okay,” you squeak.

it is not okay. your face feels approximately one million degrees.

geto grabs the doorknob blindly. “i’m gonna— yeah. sorry.” then he practically slams the door shut behind him.

you stand frozen in the middle of the bedroom clutching your shirt to your chest while your nervous system completely implodes.

oh my god.

OH MY GOD.

geto descends the stairs with a flushed face and rigid expression - the kind of forced composure that immediatley attracts attention in a house full of idiots.

gojo looks up from the couch instantly. “…the hell happened to you?”

geto keeps walking toward the kitchen. “nothing.”

“you look like you saw a ghost.”

“something like that,” geto mutters.

friday - 7 pm

by early evening, the house finally settles into something softer. the unpacking chaos dies down, most of your group is watching the ocean from the back porch. you’re cleaning up dinner dishes with choso, who keeps (politely) asking why you’ve got a weird look on your face.

it’s been four hours since that disaster upstairs. the awkwardness still hangs between you and geto, who can’t look you in the eye.

you change into one of your bikinis eventually, tugging an oversized button-up over it before heading downstairs with your glasses perched back on your nose. the second you appear, gojo grins. “beach time.”

“beach time,” you confirm with a small smile.

outside, the air smells like salt and warm cedar as everybody trails down the private wooden path toward the shoreline. the beach stretches mostly empty around you, pale sand glowing gold beneath the lowering sun while waves roll lazily onto shore. your roommate immediately grabs your hand and drags you toward the water. gojo sprints in after you both screaming for no reason. toji lights a cigarette. gojo’s girlfriend seems reluctant to put her feet in the water but she explodes into giggles when the white-haired man hauls her over his shoulders.

geto hangs back slightly. he still can’t think normally, not after upstairs. not after accidentally walking into the bedroom and seeing you half-dressed with your tits out looking shocked and all cute and soft beneath afternoon light.

jesus christ.

he’s trying very hard to be normal about it but the image keeps replaying against his will. the gentle curve of your chest and your startled expression and the way you scrambled to cover yourself.

he feels insane.

“you good?”

geto blinks. choso stands beside him now holding a cooler in one hand.

“fine,” geto says immediately.

choso hums, not believing him at all. ahead of them, you’re standing ankle-deep in the water now while your roommate splashes at gojo nearby. the ocean catches sunset light in shifting ribbons of gold and blue around your legs and fuck, geto’s pulse jumps instantly.

your oversized shirt hangs open slightly over your swimsuit whenever the wind catches it. your hair glows warm at the edges beneath the fading sun while you laugh at something gojo yells from farther down the shoreline.

pretty doesn’t even feel like the right word anymore.

it’s worse than that now. every time geto looks at you lately, something low in his chest tightens painfully. beside him, choso watches quietly for about three seconds. “you should probably stop staring.”

geto tears his eyes away immediately. “i wasn’t.”

“mhm.”

annoying.

they walk farther down the beach together while the others spread out ahead. waves crash softly nearby, the wind cool against their skin. “you know,” choso says after a minute, “she likes you too.”

geto nearly chokes. “…what?”

choso shrugs lightly. “i’m just saying.”

“you shouldn’t say anything.”

“okay.”

barely a pause before geto blurts, “does she actually?”

choso laughs quietly while geto rubs a hand over his jaw with a sigh.

this whole situation feels increasingly impossible to manage. before this trip, there was distance. space and campus distractions. now there’s shared car rides and a shared room and seeing you every five minutes. and apparently accidental nudity.

and of course there’s the fact that geto genuinely likes being around you. he likes talking to you. likes the way your brain works. the way you explain things when you’re excited. the little irritated face you make whenever gojo says something stupid.

it’s becoming a real problem.

“you’ve spent six months pretending you weren’t obsessed with her,” choso observes quietly.

geto glares at him. “i’m not obsessed.”

choso looks unconvinced. fair enough.

the sound of you laughing (at something toji or gojo did, likely) hits geto square in the chest. there’s something different about you here already. you’re lighter, less tense than you are on campus. he watches you push your glasses back up your nose while smiling toward the ocean, sunset washing warm gold across your skin.

beautiful.

the thought arrives with startling clarity this time, like he could spend an entire lifetime memorizing moments exactly like this. you glance back toward him suddenly and your eyes meet across the beach.

there it is again, that pull.

that awful suspended feeling like the rest of the world drops slightly out of focus whenever you look at each other too long.

friday - 9 pm

it's properly evening when you all head back to the beach house. the sky's a pretty shade of dark blue, stars shining little dots above your head. you all file into the house and you say something about not trailing any sand in, looking very pointedly at gojo.

salt clings faintly to your skin, your hair's a mess from the wind, and your brain still hasn't recovered from the way geto looked at you on the beach. you slip into the kitchen first to grab water, hoping for approximately thirty seconds alone to regain your sanity.

so, naturally, geto walks in immediately after you. of course he does.

you busy yourself with the fridge while he moves toward the sink beside you, sleeves pushed up again as he washes sand from his hands.

silence stretches, and it's not uncomfortable, exactly. it's worse - aware. you can feel him there without even looking. the heat of him beside you, the sound of water running over his hands. your pulse does something deeply irritating when his shoulder brushes yours accidentally reaching for a dish towel.

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“you keep saying that this trip.” you regret the words as soon as they come out. why would you bring up that incident?

his mouth twitches slightly.

before either of you can spiral further or say anything else gojo’s voice erupts from the living room.

“movie night?!”

you close your eyes briefly. saved by the idiot.

everybody migrates downstairs afterwards where the basement living room is. it's cozy and there's a huge projector setup against one wall, and an entire cabinet full of old dvds your parents collected over the years.

gojo kneels in front of it like he’s discovering sacred texts. “this is so fucking cool.”

“don’t touch them with your greasy hands,” you warn.

“snob.”

he ends up carefully plucking the first indiana jones movie from one of the shelves and hands it to you. "good pick? i've never seen it."

"great pick," you approve. you crouch down to the dvd player, fiddling with the wires to connect it properly to the projector. behind you, everyone's already claimed spots on the couches.

you don't think much of it until you finally turn around and freeze. one end of the sectional is occupied by toji's giant limbs. the rest has a very comfortable looking choso-and-roommate combo who are already curled into each other. the beanbag has gojo and his girlfriend squished onto it.

the only open spot left is beside geto on the loveseat.

your roommate suddenly becomes very interested in not making eye contact and gojo's girlfriend looks seconds away from laughing. you narrow your eyes at both of them before trudging toward the loveseat.

you sit as far from geto as physically possible, which on the loveseat is not very far. there's maybe a foot of space between you both ,close enough to feel hyperaware of each other's presence.

as the movie starts gojo's already stealing popcorn from his girlfriend and your roommate is practically asleep against choso's chest within minutes. geto's still infuriatingly still beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch. not touching you, just there, and your heartbeat won't calm down.

you manage to balance this thin line of whatever-this-is between you and geto for half the movie, hardly paying attention to the plot, though you've seen the flick a dozen times. you keep gettind distracted by his arm (it's right there) and how if you inched just a liiiitle bit over, you'd basically be pressed against geto.

your bubble's interrupted by gojo bolting up from the beanbag, shouting about about a plot twist he 'totally saw coming,' and the volume of his screaming is so aggressive you jolt slightly.

your thigh brushes geto's. the rush that flows through you is electric and you both go still instantly. the contact lingers half a second too long before you shift subtly back except now geto's arm behind you lowers slightly. closer. his fingers brush your shoulder lightly and your pulse spikes so hard it hurts.

you stare very intensely at the movie screen pretending your entire nervous system isn’t imploding, then his thumb moves - small absentminded circles against your shoulder through the thin fabric of your shirt.

oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god -

you stop breathing for a second and beside you, geto’s voice drops low enough only you can hear. “…this okay?”

your throat feels weirdly tight. you nod once, his arm sliding lower around you slowly, careful enough to give you time to pull away if you want.

you don’t.

so instead he gently pulls you against his side, warm and solid, your brain short-circuiting instantly. somehow curling against him feels natural already. your head settles near his shoulder while his arm stays firm around your waist now, thumb still tracing slow patterns against your side.

the movie disappears completely and all you can think about is him. his cologne and the warmth radiating through his hoodie and the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek.

your heart feels seconds away from exploding.

geto feels equally doomed. having you tucked against him like this is significantly worse than he imagined. you fit there too easily. soft against his side and warm beneath his arm. he can smell coconut sunscreen faintly lingering on your skin from the beach and it’s actively destroying his ability to think. he's also trying very hard not to tighten his grip every time you shift closer unconsciously.

from across the room, toji announces, with zero social awareness, “i’m cold.”

toji’s voice cuts through the moment like a gunshot. you pull away instantly and geto’s arm drops from around you immediately like he touched fire.

“i can get blankets,” you say quickly, already standing.

“i’ll help,” geto says, glancing at you.

“you don’t have to—”

“it’s fine.”

you swallow thickly and nod, walking up the stairs, legs feeling like jello, geto right behind you.

from the couch, choso's girlfriend grabs a pillow and hurls it directly at toji's head. “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

toji catches it midair, deeply offended. “what?”

“they were having a moment.”

“how was i supposed to know that?”

“because everyone with functioning eyes knew that.”

gojo starts cackling.

when you make it upstairs, the silence between you and geto feels heavy and sharp and you move the hallway quickly trying to regain control of your heartbeat while grabbing blankets from the linen closet.

geto stands too cloise behind you that when you turn accidentally, you nearly walk straight into his chest.

your breath catches. his does too.

for one suspended second neither of you moves.

the hallway feels narrow suddenly and you're focused on warm, dim light spilling softly across his face and his dark eyes fixed on yours. your pulse pounds violently as geto's face flicks briefly to your mouth, then back up.

you think he’s going to kiss you.

you really think he’s going to kiss you.

instead, he quietly says, “…you don’t have to feel weird about downstairs.”

the words feel strange and your stomach drops slightly. “…weird?”

his expression shifts instantly like he realizes too late how that sounded. “no, i just meant—”

“right,” you say quickly.

humiliation flashes hot beneath your skin. he thinks you misread things, or worse, that he did. you step back first, push your glasses up too quickly. “no yeah. obviously.”

geto looks frustrated suddenly. “that’s not what i—”

“it’s okay,” you interrupt softly. “really.”

the tension curdles painfully into awkwardness as you grab as many blankets as possible before he can say anything else, then practically flee downstairs.

everyone looks up when you return. you toss blankets at people mechanically before settling onto the far end of the loveseat, as far away as you can from geto.

your roommate notices immediately. so does choso. so does gojo. gojo's girlfriend would've, too, if she weren't out cold asleep.

geto comes downstairs a second later quieter than before and he hesitates briefly looking toward you, then sits separately too.

on the floor.

distance stretches cold and strange across the room now. your chest aches and you tightly pull a blanket around yourself, staring at the movie screen without really seeing it.

geto watches the side of your face in silence from his spot on the floor and from that point on the rest of the movie feels wrong. nobody says anything outright but everybody notices, because thirty minutes ago you'd been curled into geto's side looking soft and shy while he stared at you like you painted those stars in the sky over the ocean.

now you're curled up like a hermit and geto's face seems almost painful as he stares at his feet.

gojo's eyes flick between the two of you every few seconds with all the subtlety of a car accident. his girlfriend, now awake, elbows him every time

choso notices too, though he’s more discreet about it. he just keeps glancing toward geto occasionally like he’s trying to figure out which one of you panicked first.

(toji remains blissfully clueless.)

you stay tucked beneath your blanket staring blankly at the projector screen while the movie plays out in blurry colors you barely register.

geto looks equally miserable. worse, actually, because now that he's replaying the conversation upstairs in his head, he realizes exactly how badly he phrased it. 'you don't have to feel weird about downstairs'. god. he sounded like he regretted it, like he was trying to backtrack, which is the opposite of what he meant.

he’d only wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. that you didn't feel pressured and that he hadn't crossed a line. instead he'd watched your face fall in real time. idiot. he's an idiot.

when the credits finally roll, everybody starts talking at once again. gojo arguing about the ending and toji asking if there's leftover chips and your roommate whispering something to choso while glancing at you.

you quietly push the blanket aside and stand. “i’m gonna go to bed,” you mumble. you’re not even sure anyone hears, but geto does. his head lifts immediately but you don't look at him, disappearing upstairs before anyone can stop you.

you trudge to your bedroom, straight to the en suite. the shower helps a little. the warm water and the silence as you scrub salt from your skin and try very hard not to think about how close geto had been in the hallway upstairs. or how badly you wanted him to kiss you.

humiliating.

by the time you finish changing into your university sweatshirt and tiny sleep shorts, exhaustion finally starts creeping in around the edges. the bedroom is dark when you return except for moonlight spilling silver across the floor through the giant windows.

geto isn’t there yet. your stomach twists at the thought but you climb into your side of the bed anyway, pulling the blankets up to your chin while ocean waves crash softly somewhere outside.

you tell yourself not to care, then eventually fall asleep anyway.

when you wake up again, the room is still dark. for one disoriented second you don’t know why your chest feels strange then you glance toward the other side of the bed.

empty. empty?

your brows knit together immediately. the digital clock beside the bed reads 4:07 am. you push yourself upright slowly. “…geto?”

nothing, and the bathroom’s empty too. confused now, you slip quietly out of bed and head downstairs.

the house is silent, dark except for one of the kitchen lights left on.

and there he is. geto's asleep on the downstairs couch, or at least attempting to be. one arm thrown over his eyes, long legs awkwardly cramped against the cushions because the couch is way too short for him, a blanket half falling onto the floor.

your chest tightens. he thought you didn't want him upstairs and guilt floods through you instantly. you carefully walk closer. “geto,” you whisper.

he wakes almost immediately. years of frat-house living apparently killed deep sleep permanently. his arm drops from his face slowly when he realizes it’s you standing there. his hair’s messy, voice rough with sleep. “…hey.”

you hesitate, suddenly nervous again. “why are you down here?”

his eyes flick away briefly. “didn’t wanna make things uncomfortable.”

your heart sinks. “you weren’t,” you say quickly. “i just thought…” you trail off awkwardly.

geto pushes himself upright slowly, watching you carefully in the dark. “thought what?”

you fiddle with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “that maybe you regretted it. when...we were on the couch.”

his expression changes instantly, softens to something almost confused. “what?”

“upstairs,” you mumble. “when you said i didn’t have to feel weird.”

geto exhales quietly through his nose then drops his head back against the couch cushions. “that is not what i meant.”

heat creeps into your face again. “oh.”

he looks up at you then, eyes all sleepy and honest in the dim blue light. “i was trying to make sure you were okay,” he says quietly. “because i wanted to kiss you.”

your breath catches hard. silence fills the room save for the hum of the fridge, ocean waves somewhere outside and your heartbeat going completely feral.

geto's gaze stays fixed on yours. “and i wasn’t sure if you wanted that too.”

you stare at him for one suspended second. “i thought you were going to.”

his mouth parts slightly, something warm flashing through his expression. “yeah,” he says softly. “i was.”

your pulse feels violent now and you shift your weight nervously. “you should come upstairs.”

geto studies your face carefully for another second like he’s making absolutely sure, then stands. the couch blanket slips forgotten onto the floor while you both just stand there in the dark living room breathing the same air.

when geto’s hand brushes lightly against yours heading toward the stairs, neither of you pulls away. walking beside him somehow feels more intimate than the almost-kiss downstairs. your hand brushes his once on the staircase and suddenly your pulse is trying to escape your body.

neither of you talks much once you reach the bedroom either. it’s painfully awkward now in that fragile post-confession way. you hover near your side of the bed, and geto stands near the dresser rubbing the back of his neck.“…sorry again,” he says quietly.

“for what?”

“all of this being weird.”

you blink at him then laugh softly despite yourself. “you saying that is making it weirder.”

his mouth twitches. “right.”

when you both scramble into bed you face opposite directions, approximately three feet apart. you can physically feel the tension across the mattress. as you stare at the ceiling you're trying very hard not to think about the fact that geto is right there.

same bed, same room, close enough that you can hear his breathing if you focus.

saturday - 10 am

you stir faintly as the sun wakes you up, bright enough to peek through the edges of the blinds. you stir faintly, something heavy resting around your waist. your brows pinch together sleepily.

wait.

you blink your eyes open slowly and realize with immediate horror that sometime during the night, both of you migrated completely across the bed. you’re practically tangled together now, your head tucked against geto’s chest, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist beneath the blankets, one of your legs halfway thrown over his.

before you can even process it fully, geto shifts too, his arm tightening instinctively for half a second before he wakes up enough to realize.

you both freeze then very slowly, geto looks down at you. his hair is completely loose from sleeping now, dark strands falling around his face messily and eyes still heavy with sleep.

his voice comes out rough and groggy when he finally speaks. “...morning.”

his voice sounds unfair, deep and sleepy and warm against the quiet room. you want to choke. instead you stare at him for one embarrassingly long second before scrambling backward so fast you nearly fall off the bed. “good morning!”

too loud. way too loud.

geto pushes himself upright slowly, clearly trying not to laugh.

you’re suddenly acutely aware now of your oversized university sweatshirt riding up slightly from sleep and the tiny shorts you forgot you were wearing. you can feel oil slicking to your skin and you probably look horrible, meanwhile geto looks basically offensively attractive for a man who literally just woke up. dark pools of hair fall over his shoulders, features softened

your nervous system cannot survive this week. “i’m gonna change,” you announce suddenly.

geto blinks once. “…okay.”

you point at him very seriously while backing toward the bathroom. “do not come in there.”

that finally gets a real laugh out of him, low and sleepy. “wasn’t planning on it.”

“good.” you disappear into the bathroom before your dignity can deteriorate further and once inside you stare at your reflection while trying to regain basic human functionality.

you slept wrapped around suguru geto. comfortably.

eventually you change into denim shorts and a fitted tank top before putting your hair up and emerging from the bathroom again.

the bedroom’s empty and for a confusing second you think maybe geto left downstairs already, before movement catches your eye through the balcony doors.

geto’s outside stretching in the early morning sunlight. shirtless. warm golden light spills cross his skin while he stretches one arm over his head lazily, back muscles shifting beneath the sunlight. his sweatpants hang low enough that the sharp v-lines disappearing beneath the waistband are very visible.

extremely visible.

you feel warm all over immediately because sure, you knew geto was attractive. obviously. but this feels actively engineered in a lab to ruin your life specifically.

outside, he rolls his shoulders once before turning slightly and immediately catches you staring. your soul leaves your body as geto pauses then very slowly raises a brow. “…morning again.”

heat floods your face so fast it’s almost violent. you look away instantly. “you could warn people.”

“about what?”

you gesture vaguely toward him without looking directly.

“that.”

his laugh drifts softly through the open balcony door and when you glance at him again you see how prettily the sun catches against the winding tattoos along his arms.

geto watches your expression carefully and smirks slightly.

you swear you'll die before noon.

the house is (unfortunately) wide awake as you and geto walk downstairs. gojo’s voice echoes through the kitchen before you even hit the last stair. “WHY IS IT SMOKING?”

you immediately close your eyes. “what did you do,” you say, voice dangerously low.

“nothing!”

you walk into the kitchen to find everyone gathered around the coffee machine like it’s a bomb squad situation. steam hisses violently from the side of it and gojo stands there holding the glass pot. “i pressed brew,” he defends.

“with no water in it,” his girlfriend says.

toji looks half asleep at the island. “natural selection should’ve taken him years ago.”

your roommate's eyes narrow immediately as she sees you and geto walk in. her gaze drifts to the living room, specifically the blanket crumpled on the couch and the pillow on the floor.

you grab a mug to avoid eye contact with her, geto moving toward the counter beside you like this is a completely normal morning.

gojo squints suspiciously. “…you two look weird.”

“you always look weird,” you mutter into your juice.

“true but irrelevant.”

“the coffee machine’s dead by the way,” toji interrupts.

“i figured as much,” you sigh, examining the machine with a frown.

“he killed it,” gojo's girlfriend says.

“it was weak,” gojo argues.

“it was a twelve hundred dollar espresso machine,” you say, rubbing a hand over your eyes. "my parents are so going to kill me."

gojo freezes. “it was how much?”

you groan softly, dropping your forehead against the counter. “i’m going back to bed.”

beside you, geto laughs under his breath, low enough only you heard it. your stomach flips and you glance at him accidentally and immediately regret it because his hair's tied loosely back and he's in a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing helpful for your concentration.

plus you know what's under it. worse - you know what it looks like first thing in the morning sunlight.

your brain needs to be chemically sterilized.

everyone slowly migrates toward breakfast eventually while arguing over plans for the day. gojo offers to toast bagels (provided he doesn't break the toaster, too) and your roommate keeps kicking your ankle beneath the island every time you look at geto too long.

“stop that,” you hiss quietly.

“make me.”

you’re still groggy as hell from waking up at four in the morning and emotionally spiraling before sunrise so eventually everyone starts looking at you expectantly when discussion turns toward plans.

“what’s the weather?” choso asks.

you glance out the giant kitchen windows toward the water. clear skies, barely any wind. perfect.

“it’s gonna be a good beach day,” you say, wrapping your hands around your mug (yes, still full of juice. you'd kill for coffee right now). “we can stay down there most of the afternoon.”

gojo pumps a fist. “beach arc continues.”

“then maybe head into town this evening,” you continue. “there’s a boardwalk and some restaurants by the marina.”

“shopping?” your roommate perks up instantly.

“you don’t need more clothes.”

“counterpoint, yes i do.”

“we can do dinner there,” you say. “then come back for the sunset.”

everyone nods along pretty quickly after that but geto’s not really paying attention anymore, because while you’re talking, sleepy and slightly disheveled in your little tank top with your glasses sliding down your nose, sunlight catches against your skin through the kitchen windows.

all he can think about is waking up with you curled against his chest.

you look over toward him mid-sentence.“does that sound okay?”

geto realizes a full second too late that everyone’s waiting for his answer. “…yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on you. “sounds perfect.”

after breakfast, the second you head upstairs, your roommate and gojo’s girlfriend follow immediately with excited little grins. you barely make it into the bedroom before your roommate shuts the door behind her dramatically.

“spill.”

you blink. “about what.”

both of them stare at you. “y/n,” gojo’s girlfriend says flatly, “there was visible yearning at breakfast.”

“there was not.”

you move toward your suitcase quickly before they can corner you properly. “nothing happened.”

“liar,” your roommate says instantly.

“nothing serious happened.” you push your glasses back up your nose. you ignore their little comments and start sorting through your bikinis instead. “we’re focusing on beachwear now.”

“avoidance,” your roommate whispers solemnly.

“coping mechanism,” gojo’s girlfriend agrees.

you throw a swimsuit at both of them and eventually the three of you end up sitting cross-legged around the open suitcase debating bikini options. “this one’s cute,” your roommate says, holding up a blue floral set.

“i dunno why i packed that one.”

“this one?”

“too bright.”

gojo’s girlfriend suddenly digs deeper into the suitcase before pausing. “…wait.” she lifts a black triangle bikini from the pile. sleek black fabric and a tiny gold charm dangling between the cups.

you laugh nervously. it's smaller than what you typically wear - you prefer more full-coverage, something that doesn't let the plush of your stomach and thighs fully exposed. the top'll push up your tits way more than anything you normally wear.

both girls stare at it reverently like archaeologists uncovering forbidden treasure. “THIS one,” your roommate breathes.

“absolutely this one,” gojo's girlfriend agrees.

you snatch at it immediately. “that’s too...much. i don't -”

“y/n, you're going to look amazing in it, no matter what comments you have to say about yourself or your body,” your roommate says. “you're hot. it's hot. you're going to look good.”

“i’m literally not wearing dental floss to the beach.”

“y/n.”

“what.”

“put it on.”

five minutes later you emerge from the bathroom already regretting every life decision that led here. the bikini really is tiny.

the black fabric contrasts sharply against your skin while the gold charm rests perfectly between your chest. the top pushes everything up unfairly well and the bottoms sit low against your hips with thin strings at the sides.

you instinctively cross your arms slightly. your roommate’s jaw physically drops and gojo’s girlfriend just stares.

“…holy shit,” she says softly.

“you HAVE to wear that.”

“i look insane,” you say, glancing at your feet. "bad insane."

“you look hot.”

heat crawls across your face instantly, and you glance toward the mirror again. okay. maybe it does look good. “it’s more revealing than what i usually wear,” you mumble.

“and you rock it.”

eventually they encourage you to keeping it on and you throw on a loose white cover dress afterward at least, something soft and flowy enough to hide most of the bikini beneath it.

then you start filling your beach bag. book, sunscreen, waterbottle, lip balm, portable charger.

your roommate watches with deep affection. “you pack for the beach like a divorced father.”

“preparation prevents suffering,” you say wisely, and gojo's girlfriend laughs while you shove sunglasses into your hair.

the three of you head downstairs together where the guys are still getting ready. gojo's already shirtless and toji's hoarding chips and choso nearly walks directly into a wall when his girlfriend appears in her bikini.

geto looks up from the kitchen counter when you enter. you feel his gaze drift down your face, down the cover dress you're wearing, and your pulse jumps instantly.

gojo ruins the moment by throwing sunglasses at him. “beach.”

everyone starts heading outside after that. the walk toward the shoreline is warm and breezy, sunlight sifting through dune grass while everybody talks over each other around you. you’re halfway down the road when somebody calls your name suddenly.

you turn instantly, recognizing the voice with a smile. “aaron?”

geto watches as a guy about your age jogs over from the neighboring property, grinning broadly. he's tall, sun-bleached hair, and apparently he knows you very well because he immediately pulls you into a quick hug.

“holy shit,” he laughs. “when’d you get here?”

“yesterday! i didn’t know your family was coming down this week.”

“mom wanted the boat out, even though it's kinda early.”

you smile easily at him - you did practically grow up together, summer after summer.

behind you, your friends have gone suspiciously quiet.

“oh, these are my friends,” you say, gesturing to your group. aaron shakes everyone’s hands easily while you chatter beside him naturally, smiling more openly than you usually do around new people.

geto watches the entire thing in silence and immediately dislikes this guy. he knows it's irrational but you look happy talking to him. not nervous or flustered, just easy and warm and familiar. aaron says something that makes you laugh and geto's jaw tightens.

logically, this means nothing. he knows that, but still. he watches aaron’s hand brush briefly against your arm while talking and suddenly feels the deeply primal urge to throw him into the ocean.

gojo notices instantly, of course, despite being a bumbling oaf most of the time. his eyes slowly widen behind his sunglasses. “he’s jealous,” he whispers as he leans towards choso.

“obviously,” choso whispers back.

the second aaron finally heads back toward his family’s place, the group starts moving again. something's shifted now, though. you notice it almost immediately walking beside geto down the sandy path toward the beach.

he’s quieter. thinking.

gojo notices too, his grin getting increasingly more dangerous every few seconds. eventually he speeds up to walk backward in front of you both. “so,” he says brightly. “beach boyfriend.”

“don’t start,” you sigh.

“he looked rich.”

“his parents are both lawyers and they own three beach houses here.”

“shit, well -”

gojo’s girlfriend drags him away by the arm before he can get worse. bless her.

for a minute it’s just you and geto walking side by side while the others move ahead laughing about something. ocean wind catches softly at your cover dress, your sunglasses rest pushed into your hair.

geto finally speaks. “…you two close?”

you glance over. his expression’s careful, casual sounding. “kinda,” you say. “i only really see him in summers though. it's been a while.”

geto hums once. silence stretches another few steps then before he can stop himself, he asks, “you ever date?”

your brows lift slightly.

geto stutters, “i just mean—”

“no, i know what you mean.” you laugh softly under your breath a little awkwardly now. “not seriously. we messed around a little as teenagers.”

geto goes still. you say it so casually, like it means nothing, and his brain instantly starts supplying images he absolutely does not want. you younger, laughing with that guy at bonfires, swimming together at night.

that guy touching you.

“oh,” he says evenly.

you glance at him sideways. “…you okay?”

“fine.”

liar. he’s absurdly jealous which is insane because he knows he has zero claim over you whatsoever. (and yet he thinks about last night and how you almost kissed and that soft look in your eyes and he feels waves of jealousy wash over him again.)

the thought of anyone else having touched you makes something dark and unpleasant twist low in his stomach. the walk to the beach is silent and the shoreline opens wide before all of you again.

everyone starts setting up camp and the warm sand burns pleasently beneath your feet. umbrellas, chairs, coolers, towels are all placed in motion

toji tries to ram an umbrella into the sand with zero clue what he's doing and you laugh softly, setting your beach bag down near one of the chairs.

geto watches you from a few feet away while pretending to unfold a towel as you reach for the ties of your cover dress.

his brain short-circuits instantly, watching the thin fabric slip from your shoulders. jesus christ, that bikini is devastating.

sleek little triangle top, gold charm catching sunlight perfectly between your chest, tiny straps against your skin. the bottoms sit low on your hips with those little thin side ties and geto physically has to look away for a second because blood rushes south immediately.

fast.

he’s actually in hell because now not only does he remember accidentally seeing your chest upstairs yesterday, but he also has visual confirmation that your body is genuinely engineered to ruin his life specifically.

nearby, your roommate whistles. “see?” she says smugly. “told you.”

heat creeps across your neck while you shove your sunglasses on quickly. “stop making announcements.”

toji glances from you to geto and laughs under his breath. “…dude.”

geto doesn’t answer. he's still staring until toji smacks his shoulder hard enough to jolt him back to reality. “get in the ocean.”

geto blinks. “…what?”

“cold water.”

realization hits instantly and his ears turn red immediately.

“shut the fuck up,” geto mutters. gojo walks by and smirks, shouting no way at the top of his lungs with absolute glee.

you look between all of them confused. “what’s happening?”

“nothing,” geto says too quickly.

toji’s grin turns downright evil. “he just really likes the scenery.”

your face burns alive instantly.

geto looks seconds away from committing homicide. he starts trudging towards the ocean, following everyone who's running towards the water.

choso's girlfriend stops him, pausing with the slyest smile you've ever seen in your life. “y/n needs someone to put sunscreen on her.”

geto stares at her blankly. “…okay?”

your roommate glares at him pointedly. “you dumbass.”

when realization hits, geto goes still, cause you’re standing there in that tiny black bikini looking suddenly very interested in literally anything except him, and now he’s imagining touching sunscreen onto your skin for an extended period of time while already painfully hard.

cool.

great.

awesome.

gojo’s girlfriend physically drags your roommate toward the lake before either of you can escape.

“have fun!” she calls sweetly.

silence settles immediately afterward except for distant waves and screaming from the water where gojo’s already drowning dramatically. you stand awkwardly beside the chairs clutching the sunscreen bottle and geto pushes a few loose strands of hair back from his face slowly before reaching for it.

his fingers brush yours. your pulse jumps. (his does too.)

“…so,” he says.

“mhm.”

“…where do you want it?”

you choke, brain interpresting that in the worst way possible.

geto's eyes widen slightly. “i didn’t mean it like that.” his ears are turning red again.

“right,” you mumble weakly. god, the tension between you lately feels actively lethal.

geto clears his throat once. “i just meant sunscreen.”

“i know.”

“okay.”

you very quietly mumble, “…just put it everywhere.” you realize how that sounds approximately one second too late.

geto shuts his eyes briefly like he’s asking the universe for strength then gestures toward the towel laid out beneath one of the umbrellas. “you can, erm, lay down. or stand. dunno.”

you nod quickly, and the sand's warm beneath the towel as you settle carefully onto your stomach. geto kneels beside you, close that you can hear the bottle of sunscreen click open. your heartbeat pounds harder instantly.

“tell me if i’m using too much,” he says quietly.

“okay.”

cool sunscreen hits your shoulders first, then his hands. geto’s fingers spread the lotion slowly across your skin, warm palms gliding carefully along your shoulders and upper back.

he’s trying very hard to stay normal about this but your skin’s warm from the sun and soft beneath his hands and when you shiver slightly when his thumbs press near the base of your neck it certainly doesn’t help his…situation.

geto swallows hard. “…cold?”

“no.” your voice comes out quieter than usual.

you hear him exhale softly through his nose and his hands move lower slowly, fingers spreading sunscreen across the middle of your back now, dragging lower and lower inch by inch. it feels intimate, the kind of slow touch that settles beneath your skin.

you wonder, briefly, what your roommate, or gojo’s girlfriend, or choso, or any of them really, think of the sight (if they’re looking) geto leaning over you beneath the umbrella with his hair falling loose around his face slightly while his hands move slowly across your skin like he’s memorizing it. you lying there visibly tense every time he touches you.

“you missed a spot,” you mumble weakly, pointing toward your side mostly just to say something.

mistake. big huge mistake because you throb as geto’s hand slides carefully along your waist, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your ribs. as your breath catches so does his and his hand lingers one dangerous second too long against your side before pulling away.

“…done,” he says roughly.

you sit up slowly, face to face with him at extremely close range. his hair’s falling into his eyes slightly from the wine, jaw tight, expression unreadable except for the very obvious tension simmering beneath it.

the moment snaps apart before either of you can do something catastrophically stupid. “y/n!” gojo’s voice echoes from the water.

you jerk backward slightly like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t and geto clears his throat immediately and pushes to his feet a little too fast. “…i’m gonna get in the lake.”

“okay,” you say too quickly.

he nods once before practically escaping into the water, leaving you sitting there afterward feeling completely disoriented. your skin still tingles everywhere he touched so to attempt to distract yourself you grab your book from your beach bag.

it doesn’t work. you read the same sentence six times in a row without processing a single word because all you can think about is the feeling of geto’s hands slowly sliding over your waist.

you’re hopeless.

your roommate and gojo’s girlfriend eventually wander back up from the shoreline dripping water everywhere and both immediately clock your expression.

“wow y/n,” your roommate says sweetly.

“don’t.”

“your sunscreen is blended sooo thoroughly.”

gojo’s girlfriend nods solemnly. “very even application.”

you close your book dramatically over your face. “i hate both of you.”

“he looked one touch away from cardiac arrest.”

“i’m serious,” you say, voice muffled from beneath the pages.

“and you looked like you were gonna melt into the towel,” your roommate adds wisely. you groan into the book.

out in the lake, geto’s standing waist-deep in freezing water, mind still scrambled, because shit, he can still feel the shape of your waist beneath his hands. he can still remember the tiny sound you made when he touched your side.

he thinks you might have noticed his situation downstairs. the water helps a little, at least, and beside him, gojo suddenly appears floating on his back. “you know,” he says conversationally, “you were sporting a fucking hard-on.”

geto nearly drowns him. “what the fuck is wrong with you.”

“you could see it from across the beach.”

“why were you looking, you piece of shit.”

“because you looked stupid.”

toji barks out a laugh nearby. “i’ve never seen you this bad over anybody.”

geto drags both hands through his wet hair with visible frustration. he knows they're right. this is bad. worse than bad. you're going to be upstairs sharing a bed every night walking around in tiny little outfits and looking at him with those shy nervous eyes whenever he gets too close.

from your spot in your chair on the beach you glance to the shoreline again over the edge of your book. you make the mistake of seeing geto standing waist-deep in the water with his wet hair pushed back.

by late afternoon, you're all making your way to the marina, everyone sun-kissed and buzzed off coolers. there's cute little boutiques with sun-faded signs, ice cream stands, tourists wandering around with shopping bags, boats bobbing against the docks while seagulls scream overhead.

it should be relaxing but instead, everyone’s acting weird. well, not everyone - gojo is still normal, unfortunately, which means he’s being loud as shit and trying on ugly sunglasses in every store while his girlfriend tells him he looks like a divorced dad. toji's carrying everyone's bags very bedgrudgingly and choso’s girlfriend keeps linking arms with him and dragging him into little souvenir stores.

meanwhile you and geto keep ending up next to each other by complete accident, which is to say, absolutely on purpose by everyone else. you’re walking along the docks eating gelato at one point when your roommate suddenly grabs your arm. “come into this store with me.” before you can respond, she’s already yanking you inside.

you blink, looking back where geto’s left standing outside with gojo and toji before you get tugged into a store.

gojo smirks immediately. “you gonna keep staring at the door like that?”

geto doesn’t even look at him. “shut up.”

“bro.”

“satoru.”

“you’ve had the expression of a war widow since sunscreen.”

by dinner, if possible, things have gotten even weirder. you all end up at this marina-side restaurant right on the water, string lights overhead and music drifting faintly from somewhere nearby.

the seating arrangement was personally made to ensure you don't survive the meal, obviously, what with gojo and his girlfriend together, choso and his girlfriend together, toji sitting like he’d rather die, and you and geto next to each other. close enough that your knees almost brush beneath the table.

drinks come, everyone's talking about the beach tomorrow and whether they should rent paddleboards. "we have the budget, but everyone has to pitch in," you say, which makes toji groan.

gojo says, "i saw that you can get a boat tour? we could go fishing or something."

you're all talking animatedly (save for geto, who's oddly quiet and keeps looking at you from the corner of his eye) then the waiter comes over. he's probably around your guys' age, eyes skimming over gojo's girlfriend tucked under gojo's arm, choso's girlfriend pressed against choso's shoulder, then you.

sitting alone, or rather alone-adjacent. “and what can i get for you?” the waiter asks you with a smile that lingers a little too long.

you look up awkwardly. “um…”

“good choice on the drink,” he says after glancing at your glass. “not everybody appreciates taste.”

your roommate nearly chokes on her water and you stare at the waiter awkwardly. “thanks?”

the waiter grins. “you guys visiting?”

you can physically feel everyone at the table stop listening to their own conversations. geto’s gone silent beside you, more silent then earlier. “yeah,” you say after a beat.

“nice,” the waiter says, leaning slightly against the table. “hope someone’s shown you the good spots around town.”

you laugh weakly because what the fuck do you even say to that. “uh…”

“hey, if you need someone to show you around, i get off at ten.”

“i think i'll get the chicken parm?” you say, laughing nervously. “please.”

“or maybe i could just give you my number,” the waiter says with a smile that makes your toes curl in disgust.

geto finally looks up, slowly, expression completely unreadable except for the fact that he looks deeply unimpressed. “she’s very clearly not interested.”

silence. complete silence. you even stop breathing, and the waiter blinks, looks between you and geto. “…sorry, man,” he says with an awkward little laugh, hands up. “can’t blame me for trying.”

geto doesn’t even smile. “yeah.” he pauses before saying, coldly, “just get the food and go.”

the waiter straightens. “alright.” he scribbles something on his pad quickly, then mutters, “didn’t know your boyfriend was so serious,” and walks away.

the silence is nuclear. nobody says anything, nobody moves, and your face is so hot you think you might actually die.

because boyfriend.

because geto didn’t correct him.

because nobody corrected him.

gojo is staring at his plate so hard his shoulders are shaking. your roommate won’t look at you. choso’s girlfriend is chewing on her straw like she’s witnessing live television and toji actually says nothing for once in his miserable life.

you risk one glance sideways to see geto staring straight ahead, jaw tight, ears slightly red.

you immediately look away.

dinner proceeds in the most painful silence known to man.

conversation starts back up eventually, but it’s all stilted and everyone keeps exchanging looks when they think you and geto aren't noticing.

you barely taste your food. geto says maybe twelve words the entire meal.

when the bill comes everyone’s kind of ready to leave purely to escape the tension. checks get split, gojo grabs his and his girlfriend’s without looking. choso pays for his girlfriend’s too.

toji stares at his own bill like it insulted his bloodline.

“why the fuck is grilled salmon thirty dollars.”

“because you ordered grilled salmon,” gojo says.

you reach for your wallet quickly.

“i got mine.”

“same,” geto says at the exact same time.

your fingers brush awkwardly near the bill tray, both of you jerking back like you touched fire. chairs scrape back and everyone starts filing out onto the marina walkway under the string lights and the tension between you and geto follows like a third person walking right between you.

saturday - 10 pm

on the drive back to the beach house, gojo’s girlfriend controls the aux while everybody talks intermittently about dinner and shopping bags and whether toji could survive prison after complaining about restaurant prices loud enough for the waiter to hear.

but underneath all of it sits that awful electric awareness between you and geto. every glance feels more loaded than before now, especially after the boyfriend comment. especially because a small part of you didn't want to correct it.

you stare out the window most of the drive pretending the cool night air coming through the cracked glass is enough to settle your heartbeat. (newsflash - it isn't).

when you finally pull into the driveway, the sky’s gone deep navy overhead, stars scattered bright across the water beyond the dunes. gojo stretches dramatically exiting the car. “i feel alive. this was a good day.”

“you screamed at a seagull today,” his girlfriend says.

“well, it was disrespectful. did you see how it took the hotdog out of my hand -”

everyone slowly filters toward the back deck unloading leftovers and drinks while the ocean crashes softly somewhere below. you’re halfway through carrying cups into the kitchen when gojo’s girlfriend suddenly says, “bonfire?”

you all immediately agree and you're honestly grateful for the distraction, because if you had to go straight upstairs right now and exist in a quiet bedroom with geto after today, you think your nervous system might actually collapse.

outside, the fire crackles warmly against the cool night air while everyone settles into chairs scattered around the pit.

you end up directly across from geto. the flames flicker gold across his face while he leans back slightly in his chair listening to gojo argue about horror movies beside him.

he’s not really listening, you can tell. every few seconds his eyes drift back to you again, and the look in them makes your stomach twist painfully.

yearning.

there’s genuinely no other word for it anymore. it’s there in every glance and every pause and every second too long his eyes stay on your face. you feel warm all over despite the ocean breeze.

around the fire, conversation drifts lazily between everyone else toji and gojo arguing and your roommate curled against choso’s side and music humming faintly from someone’s speaker. nobody comments on the way you and geto keep looking at each other. they just quietly notice, giving you both space.

across the fire, geto feels like he’s losing his mind a little.

you look beautiful tonight, your hair slightly windblown, oversized hoodie on, firelight dancing warm across your skin while you smile softly at something choso says.

he can’t stop looking at you and doesn’t really want to. his chest physically aches with it now, this awful wanting.

god, geto’s never been this gone over anybody before.

when yawns start appearing, everybody heads inside. gojo drags his girlfriend upstairs and your roommate shooting you one deeply knowing look before disappearing too.

it’s just you and geto left outside.

you crouch near the firepit gathering empty bottles quietly while embers glow soft orange against the dark.

geto watches you for a second.“…wanna walk to the beach?”

your heart stumbles immediately. “sure.”

the shoreline’s almost completely dark except for moonlight silvering the waves. sand cool beneath your feet, wind soft against your skin. you walk side by side in silence at first. comfortable silence this time. above you, the stars stretch endlessly bright across the sky untouched by city lights.

you stop eventually near the waterline where waves curl around your ankles gently before retreating again.

geto looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something. like his chest hurts with it. like every glance all semester somehow led here, to you, moonlight catching softly against your face when you tilt your head upward to the stars.

beautiful.

the thought, though not new, hits him so hard it almost steals his breath. “…you know what the worst part is?” he says quietly.

you glance over. “what?”

geto laughs softly once, self-aware and helpless. “i spent months trying not to want you this bad.”

your breath catches yet his eyes stay fixed on yours, steady and honest in a way that makes your pulse pound harder. “and now i don’t think i’ll ever stop.”

something in your chest melts completely. there's no teasing in his voice, just aching sincerity. geto looks at you like you're something precious and terrifying and like you're everything all at once, and suddenly you can’t stand the distance anymore.

so you kiss him.

his breath catches sharply against your mouth before he melts instantly, completely. one hand slides gently against your waist while the other cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real, kissing you back slow and deep beneath the stars. warm, careful for approximately two seconds before all that pent-up wanting finally cracks open.

you feel him exhale shakily against your lips. it feels a lot like relief.

you kiss him back just as deep, hands sliding up into his hair you've been aching to hold for months now, tangling your fingers there, and he groans into your mouth, pulling you more flush against him.

your toes curl from the sand when you feel his hardness poking against the top of your stomach.

from one kiss?

when he pulls back it's reluctant, his hands cupping your face and staring into your eyes like you're the only person he's ever seen.

"should we go back?" you ask softly, and he nods immediately. your lips are tingling, geto's hand laced tightly with yours like he physically can't let go now that he finally has you. every few steps he glances at you again with that same dazed expression that makes your stomach flip violently.

like he still can’t believe you kissed him first.

the house is dark when you slip inside, quiet, everyone asleep in their rooms already. you barely make it through the kitchen before geto pulls you gently against him again, kissing you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

you laugh softly into it, hands catching against his chest while he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.

months of tension finally snapping all at once.

you nearly stumble into the staircase together trying to stay quiet and by the time you reach the bedroom, both of you are flushed and breathless and grinning a little helplessly.

the door clicks shut behind you and suddenly geto’s hands are on your waist again and your back hits the wall softly beside the door while he kisses you deeper, warm and hungry. your fingers slide automatically into his hair again and he makes this low sound against your mouth that nearly destroys you.

“fuck,” he murmurs quietly against your lips. you can feel how nervous he is underneath it too though, how his hands careful despite how badly he wants you. you tug at the hem of his shirt first and geto pulls back just enough to drag it over his head quickly before immediately kissing you again.

shirtless in the dim moonlit bedroom, he looks unfair. your eyes stare at the tattoos winding along his arms and chest, dark hair loose around his face from the beach wind.

you stare for half a second too long because geto's cheeks flush slightly. (this, of course, makes him infinitely more attractive.)

“don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

you laugh breathlessly while your hands slide down his chest, his muscles tensing beneath your touch instantly. his fingers hook gently into the hem of your hoodie, hesitation flickering briefly across his face. you nod softly, and that's all he needs.

geto pulls the hoodie over your head slowly and when it drops to the floor he just stares quietly. his eyes drag across your skin with open awe now, nothing hidden in his expression anymore.

this is how he wanted to see you. not startled or accidental. wanted.

heat blooms across your entire body under that look and geto steps closer again slowly, one hand settling against your waist while the other brushes lightly up your side like he’s still convincing himself you’re real. “…pretty girl,” he says softly.

you kiss him again immediately because otherwise you think you might combust, your fingers fumbling with the button of his pants while geto's lips start to press kisses down your jaw.

your back eventually hits the mattress gently as you both stumble toward the bed, and for one second he hovers over you breathing hard while moonlight spills silver across the sheets behind him. he's gazing at you with those lidded eyes, his boxers strained as his hands run up your stomach slowly, savouring, until he's cupping your tits in his hands, squeezing with gentle reverence.

“…i wanna take my time with you,” he says quietly. one hand moves to slide up your thigh while he properly settles over you, his other elbow braced beside your head. one of his legs slips naturally between yours and the pressure makes your breath catch immediately.

a faint smugness flickers briefly through his expression now, that quiet confident energy finally surfacing. “there she is,” he murmurs softly.

heat floods your face instantly and geto kisses you again before you can hide from it. your lips, deeply, tongue sliding against yours, brushing along your mouth. then your jaw, then your neck. his mouth lingers just beneath your ear, sucking gently, while his hand drifts carefully along your waist, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin.

“fuck,” he mutters quietly against your throat. his voice sounds wrecked already.

your fingers slide through his hair, tugging lightly without thinking, and geto exhales sharply against your neck before lifting his head to look at you. dark eyes and flushed cheeks and hair falling loose around his face.

he looks gone.

completely gone for you.

his hand smooths slowly along your waist again before drifting higher, fingertips tracing along your side with almost unbearable patience. your breathing stutters when he holds your tits again, kneading them once before rolling your stiffened nipples between his fingers.

“you okay?” he asks softly.

you nod quickly and he kisses you again while his thumbs slowly brush over sensitive skin, drawing another shaky breath from you. the sound goes straight through him - geto's spent months imagining this. wondering what you'd sound like, how you'd react to him touching you.

(the little, jealous part of his brain remembers aaron. he shoves the thought away immediately.)

reality is infinitely worse for his self control. you squirm slightly beneath him and his leg presses more firmly between yours automatically.

your breath catches harder this time and geto looks at you, something a little darker simmering beneath his eyes. “that feel good?” he murmurs quietly.

you hide your face briefly against his shoulder. “…maybe.”

his laugh comes soft against your hair. “maybe?”

heat floods your face when he tilts your chin back toward him gently. “use your words, pretty girl.”

your stomach twists and you nod once. “yeah.”

“yeah what?”

you stare at him in disbelief. “you’re annoying.”

he grins properly for the first time all night. “and you’re avoiding the question.” before you can answer, he kisses you again, swallowing the tiny embarrassed sound you make while his hand drifts lower along your thigh slowly.

your fingers curl against his shoulders when his mouth returns to your neck again, kissing lower this time while his hand squeezes gently at your thigh. when his hands defly dip into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down, you moan quietly, head turning to the side.

he makes you so nervous and excited your heart feels like it's going to lurch out of your chest.

"can i touch you here, pretty girl?" he murmurs, fingers sliding along your inner thighs until they ghost over your cotton panties. if you'd known you'd end up like..this tonight, youd've chosen a more tasteful pair of underwear.

"please," you whisper, pulling him to your mouth as his fingers press against your clothed cunt, applying just enough pressure to make you mewl into his lips. you feel him smile, pushing your panties to the side before running a finger through your folds.

"you're wet," he chuckles before pushing his finger in, crooking it against your spongey insides. your head falls back against the pillow, hands digging into his back.

"oh my god, geto," you whimper, lips parting.

"suguru," he corrects, pushing another digit in, curling them deep enough to find the gooey spot that has your nails making crescent against his arms.

"suguru, please, 's so good," you babble, thrusting your hips to meet his hand.

he stills for a moment at the sound of his name on your lips. how you moan his name so prettily, begging for more. he leans down, kissing you hard, fingers moving faster and faster inside you, the sound lewd and so dirty and buzzing right to his crotch.

geto feels how you clench around his fingers, and he swallows thickly at the thought of how you'll take his cock. he groans, low and wrecked, capturing your nipple between his lips, teeth grazing along it slightly.

your head's dizzy, stars behind your eyes, gazing at geto and how he's sucking little bruises along your tits, up your neck, down your stomach. constellations of bite marks across your body.

"suguru, i—i'm close," you say, voice breaking. his eyes darken and he thumbs tiny circles over your clit, his two - no, three - fingers curling against all the right spots inside your core.

when you cum, body pulsing hard and hot in waves that make you tingle all over, geto groans, fingering you slowly until your breathing evens. the sight of you coming undone for him has him hardening impossibly more in his boxers, now damp at the front with precum.

you're panting below geto and your hand inches to his boxers, itching to tug them off. "you sure?" he asks quietly, restraint obvious in his voice.

"i'm sure, suguru," you say softly, kissing him again, palming over his boxers. he lets out a strained sound as you reach to pull them down and he quickly obliges, shrugging them off.

suguru geto, in all of his naked glory, is the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

you're rather partial to his pretty, leaking cock, too.

your eyes trace over the vein that runs along one side, the flushed, mushroomed dip, slick with precum, the thick shaft. how it twitches slightly under your gaze, hard and angled up towards his abs. you watch in a daze as he pumps himself slowly, his lips parted, watching you sprawled out so prettily for him, your hair like a halo around your head as you lay there.

you watch his gaze drift down your body, down past your tits, down past the splattering of marks he's left across practially every square inch of your skin. down to your pussy, still slick from your orgasm.

you squirm under geto's face and he tuts, leaning down and pressing his tip to your core. "don't have to be nervous, pretty girl," he says, kissing the side of your neck. his cock brushes against your folds and you both moan quietly.

geto's forehead drops to yours as one of his hands hooks through your thighs, pushing it up as he pushes in slowly. you wince at the pressure, eyes watering slightly - none of the men you've been with have been this...proportionate. he's quick to wipe the tears from your eyes, kissing your cheeks softly, jaw tight as he pushes in more, and more, passing each wall of muscle with a grunt.

"you're squeezing me, y/n, shit," he manages, pushing your thigh higher to deepen the angle. when he finally bottoms out his eyes roll back and you whine.

loud.

geto pushes his thumb into your mouth, his hand cupping your face, and you suck on it gently, face contorting with pleasure as he starts to thrust slowly, struggling to fit his cock back in when he pulls out.

"so tight," he groans raggedly, and all you can do is moan in response, his thumb still in your mouth, his other hand still warm against your thigh, sliding up to squeeze your waist. when geto manages to set a slow, steady pace, he's grunting every time he thrusts in fully, watching your hands grip the sheets desperately.

"right there, suguru," you moan, muffled against his thumb.

"here, pretty girl?" he rumbles, pistoning his cock deep and faster now, brushing your cervix with every thrust.

you nod, babbling incoherently, tugging his hair, holding his biceps, wrapping around his neck, touching everywhere you can and he lowers himself, chest pressed to yours. your tits soft against his skin, your tongue swirling around his thumb.

he holds you reverently, kneading the plush of your thighs as you clench around him, chasing another orgasm. you pull his thumb out of your mouth with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the digit. "suguru," you whimper, "suguru, suguru, suguru—"

"yeah, i know," he coos, thrusting so deep inside you you can see where he pokes at your stomach, the bulge bumping against your skin every time his cock presses deep in your cunt. "look at that, pretty girl. taking me sooo good, yeah? so good for me."

blood rushes hot through your body, liquid heat coursing through your veins, and your back arches off the bed, pulling geto impossibly closer to you as you moan softly into his ear, biting his neck as you feel your climax build and build and build.

"are you close? 'm gonna cum," he says, voice rough and eyes blown wide. "you feel me here?" he presses his hand to where his cock bulges against your stomach, the pressure stealing the air from your lungs.

"inside," you breathe, panting now. "cum in me, suguru."

and so he does, seconds later, because your voice saying those words along with his name fully break him. he holds you against him as he cums, pulsing thick and hot spurts of release, coating your walls. he rubs circles over your nipples as you climax, too, with a cracked moan of his name and your hands tangled in his hair.

after, you’re both a little breathless, tangled in rumpled sheets with the balcony doors cracked open enough for the ocean air to drift in. geto just stays close, one arm wrapped around your waist while his fingers lazily trace little patterns against your skin like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all this softness in his chest. you’re tucked against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat finally slowing down. “…you okay?” he asks after a while, voice low and sleep-rough now.

you tilt your head to look at him, how pretty he looks with his pink lips and flushed cheeks. you smile softly. “you’ve asked me that like eight times.”

“i know.”

“paranoid?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, looking at the ceiling. “a little.”

your heart squeezes and you lift yourself enough to kiss him softly. geto smiles into it, eyes closing briefly. "you like me," he murmurs, and you bury your face in his shoulder so he can't see you smiling.

he helps you clean up, gently rubbing a warm cloth along your inner thighs where his cum's dried, hands you your hoodie, tucks blankets around you when you both collapse into bed. when you instinctively curl toward the far side like you did the first night, geto just blinks at you. "...seriously?"

you look over. "what?" and he wordlessly lifts an arm. your stomach flips and you slide back over, letting him pull you into his chest. his chin rests lightly on top of your head, one hand smoothing once down your back.

sometime in the middle of the night, you both fall asleep smiling.

sunday - 8 am

the next morning feels surreal. when you wake, blinking sleepily, you realize two things immediately. one: you're basically half on top of geto. two: he's already awake, watching you. the second your eyes meet, he smiles, small and sleepy and completely soft. "...hi," you mumble.

"hi." his voice is still rough with sleep and you both just stare at each other for a second like idiots then start laughing quietly for no reason at all.

everything feels weirdly giddy, soft. you brush hair out of his face, he catches your wrist and kises your palm. as you both get dressed you exhange stupid little smiles the entire time.

however, when you both head downstairs together, something awful starts to creep into your brain. there's no way anyone heard, right...? gojo's girlfriend is a notoriously heavy sleeper, though you don't know much about how gojo sleeps...toji and choso and your roommate, being downstairs, couldn't have heard anything at all. and you weren't that loud.

the living room comes into view where choso's sitting drinking coffee (from a new, temporary machine you bought at the marina yesterday). when he sees you and geto walk down the stairs he goes tomato red and your soul leaves your body. beside you, geto's trying so hard to act normal.

"morning," he says in the most suspiciously casual voice ever.

choso makes a sound that is not a word. "...morning." he looks away so fast he nearly spills coffee on himself. you stare at him, horrified. there is no way. there is absolutely no way they heard anything. they couldn't have.

before you can spiral further, gojo strolls in from the kitchen, looking smug for no reason. "good morning!" he says brightly. you narrow your eyes immediately. never trust that tone. he starts making coffee, chatting casually about breakfast plans like a completely normal person. too normal.

geto relaxes as gojo stirs sugar into his cup. takes a sip, then says, "so."

you feel the danger immediately. gojo glances over with the smile of a man about to ruin lives. " 'cum in me , suguru'?" he says thoughtfully. "that's the best you got?"

you swear time stops. geto goes completely motionless, full red ears to collarbone. your body leaves this earthly plane. choso coughs so hard he nearly dies on the couch. from the back porch, where you now see your roommate, gojo's girlfriend, and toji watching with rapt attention, they all burst laughing.

which means. oh my god.

you stare blankly at the wall in front of you and geto slowly turns toward gojo. "i'm going to kill you."

gojo raises both hands, grinning. "hey, don't shoot the messenger. walls are thin, lover boy."

you make a strangled noise and bury your face into your hands. somehow, impossibly, gojo makes it worse. "also," he says, taking another casual sip, "the name thing was kinda hot. personal fave detail."

"SATORU."

"WHAT? i'm being supportive!"

a/n ~ did u cry when they kissed? no? just me blubbering like a baby writing this? ...

[owwllly]

one more time

[zuunary]

geto and zuko twin moment

[toraluvs]

SAVE ME SAVE ME SAVE ME BEAUTIFUL LONG HAIRED MEN

[randombtsprincessa]

Bed Bereft

All Rights Reserved. © RandomBTSPrincessa, Tulips98.

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Kim Taehyung x Reader x Kim Seokjin

Words: 25.7k (it’s long! if Tumblr crashes, please head on over to my Ao3 to read)

Genre: Smut, Angst (but I’ve kept it mild!)

Rating: Mature (18+)

Summary: You’ve loved your college best friend for ages, too bad he’s got a boyfriend. Twisted decisions lead to revelations about sexualities, secrets, feelings and confrontations.

Playlist: Mosis - You & Me | Doja Cat - So high | Black Parachute - You Know | Broze Whale - Say it (Baile Remix) | Myth - Summerboys

Warnings: Touchy-feely Taebear, mutual pining, social drinking, miscommunication, literally they’re all idiots in love, cold shoulders, wrongful assumptions of sexualities, cunning schemes, MC is an oblivious brick wall, mxm scenes, Tae gets angry for a bit, kissing, threesome, voyeuristic and exhibitionist themes, oral (m and f receiving), fingering (f receiving), face fucking (f receiving), mild nipple play, fxm unprotected sex, mxm unprotected and protected sex, shower humping, face sitting, polyphilia/polyamory. 

A/N: Happy birthday to TaeJin! I’m on the hooks if this is a good fic or not so please do let me know what you thought! Also disclaimer; just because a particular mxm pairing is mentioned, does not mean I ship them. This is just for fiction purposes. Moodboard by yours truly!

Keep reading

[toraluvs]

got the urge to show a little love for one of my favorite fics of all time at 2am

[starspenxcie]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

fluff - baby!gumi walking in dad!toji's footsteps

it’s snowing softly.

big lazy flakes falling slow. landing in toji’s dark hair. sticking to megumi’s fluffy hood.

the grocery bag in toji’s hand is light - just some milk, bananas, hot chocolate (and lollies) you forgot to grab earlier.

you stayed home to start dinner and said, 'gumi’s been cooped up all day. take him with you. he loves the snow.'

toji grumbled per usual. but didn’t say no.

now they’re walking through the park on the way back. bundled up in scarves and puffy jackets. the world quiet and pale under a blanket of white.

megumi is toddling along behind him.

slow. careful. focused.

toji hears the crunch of his own boots in the snow, steady and deep.

then, he hears the softer pats of megumi’s smaller boots.

and then-

he hears a grunt.

turns around.

megumi is pausing every few steps… and very seriously, very determinedly, very adorably, placing his feet directly in the footprints toji left behind.

toji just blinks.

megumi blinks back. then steps into the next footprint. stumbles a little. adjusts.

“…what’re you doin’ back there?” toji calls.

megumi frowns. “walk.”

“you’re copyin’ me?”

the toddler shrugs, like maybe.

toji watches him.

tiny arms out for balance. cheeks pink from the cold. green eyes narrowed in full concentration. he looks like a serious little snowball. a puff with a mission.

and something about it - makes toji’s chest feel weird.

soft. full. stupidly fond.

he turns back around.

but this time, he walks slower. and he steps a little closer together. so the footprints are easier to follow.

he doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t look back yet.

just walks.

soft step. soft step.

and behind him, megumi toddles forward. a perfect little echo.

boot in footprint. boot in footprint.

every now and then, gumi hums a little tune. softly. distracted. proud.

they pass a family building an ugly looking snowman. a fat dog running in circles, stupidly happy. a couple with their arms linked, smiling. 

toji adjusts the bag in his hand.

then looks back again.

megumi’s still going. a little red in the face now. but still so determined. stepping exactly where toji stepped, fully confident. like he knows he won’t slip. like he trusts that it’s safe where papa’s already been.

and toji’s heart cracks open just a little bit more.

he crouches. waits.

when megumi finally toddles up to him, he plops down into the snow dramatically. 

“my feet,” he says, pointing. “tired.”

toji chuckles and ruffles his spiky hair. “wanna ride?”

megumi nods immediately. lifts his arms. toji hoists him up with one arm, rests him on his hip and holds him close.

“you did good,” he murmurs.

megumi rests his cheek against toji’s shoulder. “i walk in your steps.”

“i know, kid,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft. “i know.”

and the snow keeps on falling.

A/N: this is heavily inspired by that one amazing artist on x, who makes the CUTEST fushiguro family drawings! @/DDub1618

taglist: @im-a-simp139, @tojiful, @happyberryave, @lisabelhyhn, @mialafavorita, @tet-yy, @sxpernova, @airfyre, @chewiebee, @iquitfindingausername, @anonymous123sm, @justiceforkira, @widaamins, @thejujvtsupost, @inkedbynova, @gypsiegoop, @icebearcucumber

[toraluvs]

every time i think it can’t get any worse (100000x cuter) IT DOES 😭😭😭😭😭😭 WDYM BABY GUMI LITERALLY WALKING IN TOJI’S FOOTSTEPS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

i’m so fragile pls i’m gonna start sobbing i can’t take much more of this my heart is gonna burst with affection

[starspenxcie]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

fluff - finding baby!gumi's drawings of you

you’re busy cleaning under the couch when you find them…

folded up, smelling vaguely like apple juice and dust. a little stack of papers tucked behind a pillow like a secret. you almost miss them - but then you see a crayon-scribbled corner peeking out.

so obviously you investigate.

and when you unfold the first one, your heart melts.

it’s… barely adrawing. squiggly green lines and two black dots floating in space. but when you squint-

“is this… froggie?”

you grab another one. this one is brighter. big suns. red splashes. something that might be a tree.

and right in the center: a wobbly rectangle with stick legs and huge eyes.

his favorite picture book. the dinosaur one.

the next one? two people. very crooked. very round. one has spiky hair. the other has really long legs for some reason. they’re holding hands.

your throat goes soft.

you peek into the living room. toji’s sprawled on the rug with megumi in his lap, both of them staring very seriously at the tv like it’s the godfather and not peppa pig.

you walk in slowly.

“gumi,” you say gently. “can i ask you something?”

he turns. his eyes go wide when he sees the papers in your hand.

you sit down beside them. “were you hiding these?”

he blinks. then nods. sheepish. chubby fingers curl in his lap.

“why, baby?”

he frowns. “they’ not good.”

you and toji both freeze.

“what?” you breathe.

megumi shrugs, looking down. “lines are wrong. i drawed da eyes weird.”

your heart physically breaks.

you hold up the drawing of his beloved plushie. “this looks exactly like froggie.”

“really?” he mumbles.

“and the book one?” you hold up the next. “i knew this was the red dinosaur. you even got his teeth.”

toji nods solemnly. “you gave him six. he does have six teeth.”

megumi perks up a little.

and then you show him the last one. the messy one. the one with long legs and spiky hair and crooked hands.

“this one…” you say softly, “this one’s mama and papa, isn’t it?”

he nods.

you smile so hard. and then you kiss his chubby cheeks, over and over again until he’s giggling and trying to squirm away.

“mamaaaaa! why you kissing me,” he laughs, “stoppp-”

“because you love us,” you whisper. “you see everything. you notice the frog and the teeth and the hands. you’re the smartest, sweetest little thing.”

he beams. his ears go pink.

you hold his drawing up again. toji takes it from you gently, like it’s precious.

“…gonna frame this,” he mutters.

you nod. “i want it on the fridg. and the frog one. and the teeth one. and every single one after.”

megumi hides his face in your shirt. you kiss the top of his head.

you’ve never been prouder.

based ont this request

A/N: GUYS THIS IS MAKING ME HAVE BABY FEVER

[toraluvs]

i have GOT to stop reading these. every single one is giving me baby fever and i don’t even know if i want kids at all 😭😭😭😭

but baby gumi is the cutest my heart can only take so much

[creamkissed]

FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES! s. ryōmen [ part two ]

pairings. bsfsbrother!sukuna

synopsis. you needed experience for a writing assignment. sukuna offered to help. it got… complicated.

warnings. 12.3k words, explicit sexual content, oral, fingering, overstimulation, dry humping, sex as a learning experience, p with plot, 69 standing up... a lot more but i'm lazy

author's note. part two yay! read part one here

you don’t sleep that night—well, what's left of it.

not really.

you lie down for maybe an hour, but your eyes never shut. not all the way. every time you blink, you see him—your bedroom under his gaze, the heat of his palm on your thigh, the exact sound of his voice when he said rewrite the scene.

so you do.

you write like you’re possessed, hunched over your laptop in the blue glow of your desk lamp, sweatshirt pulled over your knees, blanket draped across your shoulders like it can protect you from the flush still crawling under your skin.

you write until the sun rises. until your eyes burn. until your thighs ache.

you don’t even remember what you titled the document. probably something stupid. maybe project_draft_v6_FINALfinal. maybe just fuck. you don’t check.

you save it. slam the laptop shut.

then you drag yourself through a shower like that’ll fix anything. you drag yourself to class like you’re not still hearing him in your head. you drag your pen across your notebook like any of this matters anymore.

he made you say pussy out loud. how embarrassing.

you’re never recovering.

you zone out for the whole lecture, still playing back how his breath felt against your ear, how still he was behind you, like he was in control of his pulse and yours. he never rushed. he never touched you there. he didn’t have to.

he made you ask.

and you did.

you don’t remember what class it was. maybe sociology. maybe statistics. you nod when people speak to you, blink when the professor says “good job,” pack your bag with mechanical motions and drift out into the daylight like a ghost.

your body feels separate from you. everything’s too loud. too bright.

you walk two blocks before realizing you’ve been clutching your laptop like a bible.

by the time you settle into your usual spot at the campus café—corner seat, outlet by your ankle, iced coffee sweating on the table—you’re back in the document again. rereading. tweaking. rereading. questioning whether the sentences are true enough. if he’d approve.

you bite the inside of your cheek. fix a comma.

your cursor’s blinking in the middle of a line about how he made her wait—how he touched everywhere but—when your phone lights up and rings.

you blink.

you stare.

sukuna incoming call

your stomach flips, like violently.

you scramble, nearly knock over your iced coffee trying to answer, your voice catching halfway out your throat. “...hello?”

“hey,” he says.

you freeze.

he sounds... casual. like he didn’t just ruin your life last night and leave you panting on your bedroom floor like a discarded experiment.

you swallow. “hi.”

there’s a rustle on his end. fabric, maybe. movement. then, “i’m back on campus. parents came home early.”

your breath stutters. “oh.”

“you free tonight?” he asks. “i’ll pick you up. pack a bag and bring your laptop.”

you blink. your mind blanks. the world goes muffled around the edges.

“...yeah,” you say. “yeah, okay.”

he hums like that’s what he expected. “eight. side entrance.”

the line clicks off before you can say anything else.

you sit there, dazed, phone still pressed to your ear like it might explain what just happened.

and then—

“what’s got you looking like you just saw a ghost?”

you flinch so hard your elbow knocks into the table, ice clinking sharp in your cup. you whip your head around.

yuji’s already halfway into the chair across from you, backpack slung off one shoulder, hoodie sleeves pushed up, looking annoyingly alive and normal.

“jesus—” you breathe. “don’t do that.”

he squints at you. “you okay? you look… weird.”

“i’m fine,” you say too fast, lowering your phone and locking the screen like it’s incriminating evidence. “just—tired.”

“uh-huh.” he leans back, eyes flicking from your face to the laptop in front of you. open. cursor blinking. a paragraph half-highlighted like you froze mid-thought. “you’ve been tired for like two days straight.”

you close the laptop a beat too late.

he clocks it anyway.

“wait,” he says, leaning forward, interest sparking. “were you writing?”

“no.”

he grins. “that was the fastest lie i’ve ever heard.”

“yuji—”

he’s already reaching, hand sliding the laptop back toward him. “come on, i won’t judge. unless it’s bad.”

“it’s not bad,” you snap, then immediately regret how that sounds. “i mean—stop—”

he flips it open.

reads.

his eyebrows climb.

then climb higher.

“…holy shit,” he says.

your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“give it back.”

“wait, wait—” he squints, scrolling just a little. “when did you get like… good?”

“yuji.”

“no, seriously,” he laughs, stunned. “this is—this is insane. this is not ‘deadline panic.’ this is, like… motivation.”

you lunge. he dodges.

“it’s almost like,” he says slowly, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you had sex and became a sex god overnight.”

“i’m going to kill you.”

he finally shuts the laptop, still grinning, and slides it back to you. “okay, okay. sorry. but you gotta admit—that doesn’t come from nowhere.”

you pull the laptop into your chest like a shield, heart hammering.

“drop it.”

you nod. “yeah. just—busy.”

he hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. for now.

“anyway,” he says, stretching. “you heading back to the dorms?”

you think of the call. eight o’clock. bring your laptop.

your pulse kicks again.

“yeah,” you say. “i should—i’ve got stuff to do.”

“oooh,” he sings. “stuff.”

you flip him off, standing. “don’t read my things.”

“no promises,” he grins.

you sling your bag over your shoulder and walk away before he can say anything else, before your face gives you away.

and you already know tonight isn’t going to just be about writing anymore.

—

you don’t remember the walk back.

maybe it was fifteen minutes. maybe it was five. you’re not sure. your phone’s still warm from the call, and your hands feel hollow without it, like you’re supposed to be holding onto something and forgot what.

your coffee’s half-melted when you throw it away. your laptop’s heavy in your tote. your legs don’t stop moving even though your brain’s still parked back at the café table, back at the part where his voice dropped when he said bring your laptop.

you go to the library because you don’t know what else to do.

you sit at one of the tables near the third-floor windows, where no one really talks and the late-afternoon light comes in all soft and golden. you open a textbook you won’t remember reading. you scroll through half an assignment without answering a single prompt.

a group of students sits down at the table beside you. they’re laughing about something. you flinch at the volume, then realize it’s not even loud.

you’re just jumpy.

too much adrenaline. not enough sleep.

your whole body feels like it’s in the middle of a sentence he hasn’t finished.

you give up after an hour. go back to your dorm. try to clean. pick up a pair of socks. wipe down your desk. fold one towel. stare at your mirror too long. shower. get out. shower again because you forgot to actually wash your hair.

your phone buzzes twice while you’re toweling off.

first: don't forget your laptop.

second: i’ll text when i’m outside.

you stare at the screen like it’s written in another language.

your reflection looks… flushed. nervous. soft at the edges, like a sketch not fully inked in.

you pick out something to wear. something stupid. plain tank, zip hoodie, sleep pants. you put it on. you take it off. you change again. you wipe down your desk one more time. you light the same candle as before, then blow it out, then light it again.

you glance at the time. it’s not even that late.

but it feels like midnight already.

like something irreversible is about to happen.

like tonight, if you’re not careful, you’re gonna find out exactly how far this little project is going to go.

and how deep you already are.

your fingers twitch around the zipper of your tote.

he didn’t say for how long. he didn’t say what to wear.

you pack anyway.

first the laptop. then your charger. then a notebook you probably won’t use.

then—just in case—clean underwear. a change of clothes. a soft t-shirt that smells like your favorite detergent. a pair of sleep shorts you never wear in front of anyone but somehow fold on top of everything else like you’re not hoping he’ll see them.

you hesitate before zipping it up.

you add your toothbrush.

then stare at it like you’ve just exposed yourself.

like he’ll unzip the bag later and laugh at what he finds.

your pulse skips.

you check the mirror again. fix your hair for the third time. smear a little tinted balm across your lips and then wipe it off like it was a mistake.

you open your phone.

no text yet.

you sit on the edge of your bed. your candle flickers low.

the silence crawls under your skin.

you wonder if this is how he felt when you texted him—frantic, impatient, desperate for the next step. for confirmation.

you close your eyes.

you wait and then your phone finally buzzes once, soft.

sukuna: here.

you grab your tote—sling it over your shoulder, check the mirror again, check yourself again, like you’re expecting to be caught. like he’ll know you changed your bra. like he’ll notice you shaved your thighs.

you text back coming, but your fingers are shaking.

his car’s parked off-campus near the corner, engine idling low.

he leans against the passenger side door, hoodie loose around his frame, hood half-up like he only cares when it looks good. he glances at you once as you approach—eyes flicking down, then back up, mouth twitching like he wants to say something cruel and can’t decide which version of it to go with.

he opens the door for you. doesn’t say anything until you’re buckled in.

“took you long enough.”

you shoot him a look. “you didn’t give me a time.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

you turn toward the window, pulse already climbing.

he drives like he doesn’t care if you like the ride—sharp turns, fast merges, one wrist limp over the wheel while the other fiddles with the volume knob on the console, flipping through stations like none of them are worth his time.

you sit stiff beside him, bag in your lap, thighs pressed together, trying not to let the air between you collapse.

finally, his mouth twitches.

“you dress like that for me?” he says casually, eyes still on the road.

you look down—hoodie, shorts, tank top visible beneath it. normal.

“what?” you blink. “this? i threw it on.”

“mm,” he hums. “could’ve fooled me.”

you glance over. “i wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“sure,” he says, turning the wheel lazily with one hand. “just thought you’d flash a little thigh and roll up your sleeves for yourself, huh?”

you stiffen. “this is what i always wear.”

“mm. funny how it looks different tonight.”

you look at him. really look. the faint smirk, the relaxed posture, the way his hand shifts on the gear like he knows you’re watching.

“you’re imagining things,” you say.

he glances over, finally—one quick sweep of your legs, your profile, your hand clutching your bag a little too tight.

“if you say so.”

the silence stretches. thick. weighted.

then—

“so what’s in the bag?” he asks, voice too casual.

you hesitate. “…laptop.”

“just the laptop?”

“yes.”

a beat. he grins. “damn. was hoping you brought something more fun.”

your stomach flips. “like what?”

he shrugs. “notes. diagrams. diagrams on you.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re blushing.”

you whip your head toward the window again. “shut up.”

he laughs, soft and smug. it bubbles in his throat like something easy, something practiced—like teasing you is just instinct by now. and somehow it’s worse that he doesn’t force it. that he makes you come to him. that you keep doing it.

you clear your throat. “do you always harass your students?”

“only the promising ones.”

you roll your eyes so hard it gives you a headache. “i’m not your student.”

“sure you are,” he says, pulling into the campus lot, parking with one smooth motion. “you just haven't figured out what the test is yet.”

he turns the engine off. leans back. glances at you again.

“you ready?”

your hand’s already on the door handle. “for what?”

“extra credit,” he says, with that sharp little smile that splits his face like it’s a secret he already knows you’re gonna beg for.

the lights from the lot cast gold shadows across his cheekbones. his hood’s still up, but it’s slipping back a little, showing more of that dark pink hair, that thick scar at his brow, those eyes—heavy-lidded, slow, dragging.

you hate the way he looks like he’s already undressing the night.

you hate more how warm you feel.

“you don’t need to be such a dick, sukuna,” you say under your breath as you step out of the car.

he doesn’t even look at you when he closes his door.

“mm,” he hums. “i guess you’re right.”

but his smirk deepens.

and the walk to his dorm is quiet—but not peaceful. not when your hands are sweating. not when your skin’s buzzing. not when his shoulder brushes yours just enough to short-circuit your spine.

it’s dark. quieter than usual. the air smells like pine needles and cheap weed, the kind that hangs near the freshman dorms. your bag’s starting to dig into your shoulder, but you don’t readjust it. you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.

not when he’s this close.

he doesn’t speak as he leads the way through the dorm lobby, just gives a lazy nod to the kid behind the desk, hoodie half-up like a veil, gait loose and easy like he belongs here more than anyone else.

you trail behind him, nerves rattling, bag clutched like it might anchor you.

you step into the elevator. he doesn’t press the button. he looks at you, waiting.

the ride’s silent. tense. you can feel him beside you—warm, tall, unbothered. he rocks slightly with the motion of the lift, fingers drumming once against the metal bar behind him. it’s casual. bored. but it’s so him it makes your lungs stutter.

you don’t speak again until you’re outside his door.

he unlocks it with a little flick of his wrist, pushes it open, steps aside.

you hesitate.

“you gonna stand there all night?” he says, voice low. teasing.

you step in.

the door shuts behind you.

you don’t turn around. you just stand there, blinking into the dim of his room, still warm from the day, dusk bleeding in through the half-cracked window, blinds tilted like they don’t know what to make of this either.

you feel him behind you.

not touching. just there.

like gravity. like tension. like the kind of storm you don’t realize you’ve been walking into until the air starts to taste metallic and your skin prickles like a warning.

“so,” he says, voice low, still teasing. “you gonna drop your bag or keep hugging it like a teddy bear?”

you exhale—shaky. move on autopilot. set your bag down by his desk like you’ve rehearsed it in your head.

your pulse doesn’t slow.

his room is neater than you expected. not clean, but lived-in. bed messy. hoodie tossed over the chair. open textbooks on the desk, some highlighted, some dog-eared, one flipped upside down like he got bored halfway through and wandered off to do something more interesting. a single candle half-melted on the window ledge. no photos. no posters. no proof of anyone else.

just him.

and now you.

you cross your arms like that’ll help.

he moves past you—slow, close, unnecessary—and you don’t even flinch. just hold your breath, eyes forward, trying not to notice how good he smells or how fucking tall he feels when he walks by like that, like you’re a piece of furniture and he already knows how much space you take up.

he flops into the desk chair again, one thigh spread obnoxiously wide, the other bent up just enough to make you look away when you catch a flash of skin above his waistband.

his voice drags across the room. “does yuji know you’re here?”

you don’t answer fast enough.

he tilts his head. watches you. sharp.

“what?” he says, faux-innocent. “he doesn’t? damn. that’s crazy.”

you don’t rise to it. not fast enough, anyway. your mouth opens, then closes, the sound caught somewhere between excuse and admission, like maybe if you don’t say it, it won’t count. like maybe if you breathe slow enough, he won’t notice the way your shoulders inch higher with every second of silence.

he notices.

of course he fucking does.

“hm,” he hums, quiet. “bold of you.”

he’s already pulling his hoodie over his head. the black cotton bunches around his arms for a second before it slips free, revealing bare skin underneath, lean and cut and just soft enough to make your brain stutter.

and then the shirt comes off, too.

just because you’re watching now and he knows it.

he stretches a little when he tosses it aside. like it’s casual. like it’s comfortable here, in his room, with you standing five feet away and trying not to look.

you fail.

he sees it in your eyes, the flick, the stutter, the catch in your throat that betrays you even before your knees shift.

he doesn’t say anything about it.

not yet.

just leans back into his chair again—bare chest on full display, muscles relaxed, neck loose, legs spread—and crooks a finger like you’re on the clock now.

“come here.”

your pulse spikes. “what?”

he jerks his chin toward his lap. “you heard me.”

you hesitate.

“don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice dry, low, just teasing enough to curl heat down your spine, “i’m not gonna bite unless you beg.”

your breath catches.

he tilts his head again. “unless that’s what you came here for.”

you’re not sure when the air got so thick.

you take one step. then another.

and he just watches you come. every inch. every second. like he’s already figured out the ending and he’s letting you waste time pretending you have a choice in it.

his hands don’t move.

but yours do.

your fingers twitch by your sides, awkward and restless, until you’re standing in front of him, knees nearly brushing his, heat pouring off your skin like a confession.

his gaze drags up, up, up your body—slow and mean.

and then he murmurs, softer this time.

“sit.”

and you do.

the second you settle onto his lap, everything goes quiet in a way that’s not quiet at all.

his thigh is solid under you. too solid. warm, unmoving, like he decided this was where you belonged and your body agreed before your brain could catch up. you sit there stiff, perched wrong, unsure where your weight is supposed to go, hands hovering uselessly like you forgot how arms work.

he exhales through his nose, amused.

“relax,” he murmurs. “you’re gonna give yourself away like that.”

before you can respond, his hands come up—not grabbing, not yanking—just there. one slides to your waist, thumb pressing into the dip above your hip like he’s mapping it. the other drifts up your side, fingers splaying over your ribs, feeling the way your breath stutters under his touch.

you suck in a sharp inhale.

he feels it immediately.

his thumb presses a little firmer. not possessive. not gentle either. just enough to remind you he’s there.

“nervous?” he asks, voice low, right against your jaw.

you nod before you remember you’re supposed to answer.

he chuckles. quiet. pleased. “yeah. figured.”

his fingers trail higher, brushing the underside of your chest—not quite touching where you want him, just enough to make your skin prickle, to make your nipples ache with awareness.

“look at me,” he says.

you hesitate.

his hand shifts—two fingers under your chin, lifting, not forcing, just guiding until your eyes meet his.

he holds you there.

close enough that you can see the little notch in his brow when he’s concentrating. close enough that his pupils look darker than they should.

“good,” he murmurs. “now stay.”

your pulse is everywhere. throat. chest. thighs. it’s embarrassing how fast your body gives you away.

his hand returns to your waist, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles like he’s soothing a skittish animal.

“learn anything so far?” he asks.

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

his brow lifts. “no?”

“i—” you swallow. “i think so.”

“think,” he repeats, unimpressed. “that’s not an answer.”

you scramble. “i—i learned that it’s not about rushing. that—” your voice wobbles, and his thumb pauses, attention sharpening instantly. “that waiting makes it worse. better. i don’t know.”

his mouth curves.

“better,” he corrects calmly. “for me.”

heat blooms low in your stomach.

his hand drifts again, this time slipping just enough to cup the side of your chest, thumb brushing over fabric, pressure light but unmistakable. you gasp, soft and unguarded.

he doesn’t stop.

“mm,” he hums. “yeah. you’re learning.”

you squirm without meaning to, hips shifting, and his grip tightens just a fraction—anchoring you in place.

“easy,” he murmurs. “don’t get greedy.”

your face burns.

there’s a beat. then he says, casually, “what do you say?”

you blink. “…what?”

his eyes flick up to yours again. sharp. expectant.

“what do you say,” he repeats, slower this time, “when someone offers to help you.”

oh.

your throat goes dry.

“um.” you swallow. “thank… you?”

your heart pounds. “thank you, sukuna.”

he hums, satisfied, fingers squeezing your waist like a reward. “there you go.”

then, like it’s nothing—like he didn’t just unravel you with two words and a look—he leans back slightly, voice easy, almost amused.

“of course,” he says. “that’s what friends are for. right?”

and somehow, that’s the part that wrecks you the most.

his mouth trails back to yours like he’s starving and you’re just what’s on the menu tonight—slow drag of lips, plush and warm, like he’s enjoying the process of softening you up.

your chest presses into his, your tank half-ridden, your thighs still loose around his hips. he kisses you deep, but not fast. not greedy. he takes his time, and somehow that’s worse. every flick of his tongue feels like a promise he doesn’t intend to keep.

you sigh into it. melt a little. let yourself fall.

then he pulls back.

“get your laptop.”

you blink. “huh?”

he nods toward your bag. “go on.”

“…now?”

his smirk is already back. “you hearing another voice in here?”

you scramble, half-confused, skin still flushed and tingling. when you return to him—laptop in hand—he doesn’t even pretend to make space. he pats his thigh. “c’mon.”

you hesitate. then obey, settling back into his lap with your laptop between you, your breath shaky again, hands clammy as they hover over the keyboard.

“why?” you ask quietly, like maybe it won’t count if you don’t say it out loud.

his voice brushes your ear. “open it.”

your stomach lurches.

but you do.

the file’s still there. the same one you stayed up all night revising. you pull it up slowly, praying the screen is dim enough that he won’t read it too fast.

“now read it to me,” he says, like he’s asking about the weather. casual. cruel.

your head whips toward him. “w-what?”

he’s already leaning back a little, arms around your waist, chin grazing your shoulder. “i’m grading your work.”

“but—you could read it later,” you protest, weak. “why do i have to—?”

“you embarrassed?”

“i—” your voice catches. “yeah?”

he hums. “good.”

you squeeze your thighs together, pulse climbing too fast.

“go on,” he says, tone dipping lower, smug as sin. “read it. out loud. and don’t skip the parts that made you wet.”

so you do.

you don’t even realize how close he’s gotten until the backs of his fingers skim your belly, right under the hem of your tank top, like he’s measuring your tension. like he’s feeling for how hard you’re trying not to squirm.

and then—nothing.

no warning. no threat. he just moves.

hands under your thighs, grip warm and steady, lifting you like it’s nothing. like you’re his project now, and this is part of the assignment. your laptop wobbles in your grip as he carries you the few steps back to the bed and sits you on the edge, mattress dipping, his knees between yours.

you’re breathless. strung out. staring at him like he just unplugged your brain.

“keep reading,” he says, casual as ever. like he’s not the reason you can’t remember what words are.

you blink. “what—?”

he leans in, his mouth at your cheek. “don’t stop now.”

your pulse skips. your hands tighten around the laptop.

but you try. you try. you find your place again, voice already shaking.

“his—his hand—dragged up her thigh, slow, like—like he was teasing something—”

you don’t even get to the next line before he hooks his thumbs into your waistband.

“these come off now,” he says, soft and amused.

you nod, too fast.

he pulls your shorts down with a practiced ease, slow and unbothered, dragging the fabric over your thighs until your panties are all that’s left.

he pauses.

then grins, head tilting slightly.

“you always wear cute shit like this, or is it just for me?”

you start to answer—something defensive, probably, something stupid like they’re just normal—but he’s already shifting again, crouching slightly, dragging his gaze down like he’s studying how wet you’ve already gotten through the fabric.

and then—he exhales. soft. warm.

“mm,” he hums. “starting to think you like me.”

you open your mouth. no sound comes out.

“go on,” he says, voice darker now, hunger creeping around the edges. “read.”

your lips move. you force out the next line. something about tension winding too tight. about her stomach flipping under his breath.

and that’s when his mouth presses against the damp crotch of your panties.

you gasp.

he doesn’t pull them aside. doesn’t ask for permission. just licks—long and lazy, tongue broad and deliberate through the fabric, dragging from the bottom seam to the top, like he’s savoring the way your hips jerk, the way your voice catches mid-word.

you whimper. your hands clutch the laptop tighter.

“keep going,” he murmurs, words muffled against the heat of you. “don’t stop.”

you try. god, you try.

“sh-she—she arched into it—didn’t mean to—but—” your sentence melts off as he flattens his tongue and presses hard.

you choke.

his hands tighten around your thighs. he doesn’t lift his mouth. just hums into you, slow and steady, like he’s not done making you forget how to think.

“what’s the next line?” he asks, barely lifting his head.

you blink down at him, flushed and dazed.

he smirks. “don’t tell me you forgot already.”

you stammer. something about control. you think. about how she stopped caring if she was being too loud.

he grins. “then stop caring.”

and then he pulls your panties aside and kisses your clit.

the second his mouth leaves you, the silence is deafening.

no tongue. no breath. no pressure. just the hollow echo of what was and the sharp awareness of how exposed you are now, panties tugged aside, thighs still spread by his hands like he hasn’t decided what to do with you next.

you gasp, confused. wrecked. “w—why did you—”

he looks up at you, eyes dark, mouth wet, expression almost bored.

“you stopped reading,” he says simply.

your stomach drops.

“that’s not fair,” you breathe.

he shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s got all the time in the world. “grading criteria’s clear.”

and then he waits.

just sits back on his heels between your legs, hands resting easy on your thighs, thumbs tracing idle, maddening little half-circles like he’s soothing you away from the edge instead of pushing you toward it.

you swallow. your hands are shaking around the laptop.

your clit is aching. pulsing. so sensitive it almost hurts, like it’s been abandoned mid-sentence.

you drag in a breath and force your eyes back to the screen.

“o—okay,” you whisper. “okay.”

he raises a brow. “whenever you’re ready.”

you start reading again, voice thin, breathy, betraying you with every word.

“she—she couldn’t think straight anymore. every thought kept slipping—kept breaking—because he wouldn’t—”

his mouth is back on you before you finish the line.

hot. open. devouring.

you cry out, a sharp, broken sound that punches out of you before you can stop it, thighs snapping shut instinctively—and his hands are there instantly, forcing them apart again.

“ah-ah,” he murmurs into you, tongue flattening against your clit. “keep them open.”

your back arches off the bed. your fingers claw into the sheets. you forget the laptop entirely for half a second—until his mouth stills again.

gone.

you sob, actually sob. “i—i’m sorry—”

“read,” he says calmly.

you’re shaking now. desperate. your clit feels swollen and angry, every nerve screaming.

you force the words out, voice cracking.

“he kept stopping—kept pulling away—every time she lost focus—”

his tongue flicks out again, sharp and precise, right over your clit like punctuation.

you scream.

then he sucks.

harder this time. deeper. lips sealing around you, tongue working with purpose now, like he’s decided you’ve earned at least a little mercy.

your hips buck uncontrollably. your thighs tremble.

you barely manage to keep reading, voice dissolving into breathy fragments between gasps.

“she—she couldn’t—couldn’t tell if it was punishment or—”

he pulls away.

you choke on the rest of the sentence.

“don’t,” you whimper. “please—”

he looks up again, mouth glossy, eyes sharp. “finish the thought.”

you’re crying now. not sad—overloaded. overstimulated. your body teetering right on the edge with nowhere to go.

“or—reward,” you gasp. “she couldn’t tell if it was—meant to teach her—or break her—”

he dives back in.

no warning this time.

no teasing.

his tongue moves fast and firm now, relentless, circling your clit with purpose, sucking and flicking like he’s undoing you sentence by sentence. his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open while your body tries to escape what it wants too badly.

you scream his name.

you don’t even realize you’ve dropped the laptop until it hits the mattress beside you with a soft thud.

his mouth stills instantly.

he pulls back, breath heavy now, jaw tight.

“where’s the rest?” he asks, cool as ice.

you sob. “i—i dropped it—”

he straightens, hands leaving you completely.

your body aches without him. feels wrong. unfinished.

“then pick it up,” he says.

your legs are shaking so hard you nearly slide off the bed, but you grab the laptop, hands slick with sweat, eyes blurry with tears and need.

you don’t even read anymore—you recite, voice breaking as you scramble for the next paragraph.

“she—she realized—too late—that every time he stopped—it only made her want it more—made her beg—”

his mouth is back, and this time he doesn’t slow down.

he eats you out like he’s been waiting for permission to ruin you, tongue relentless, lips tight, sucking so hard your vision goes white around the edges. your hips slam down into his face, helpless, desperate, body completely gone.

“f-fuck—i’m—i’m gonna—” you choke.

he groans into you, the vibration ripping through your clit like a live wire.

“keep reading,” he growls.

your voice is nothing now. pure sound. pure plea.

“p-please—she—she begged—she couldn’t—couldn’t hold it—”

your body locks up.

your thighs clamp around his head. your back bows. your mouth opens in a silent scream as your orgasm tears through you, violent and overwhelming, your clit pulsing against his tongue as he doesn’t stop, riding it out with you, drinking every broken sound like it’s proof.

he pulls away slowly, wiping his mouth again, eyes still on you like he’s watching the aftermath of something he set in motion on purpose.

“good,” he murmurs.

your chest is still heaving. your legs feel useless. your mind is blank.

“now,” he says softly, almost kind, “we can write the ending.”

you start to say something—some shaky postmortem, some half-sentence about being done, about how embarrassing that was, about how you can’t believe you just read your porn scene out loud while he touched you through your panties like it was a listening exercise.

but then he kisses you.

long. deep. no more teasing.

your breath hitches on contact. your thighs twitch, your mouth falls open under his like your body’s more honest than your brain, and suddenly it’s all heat—tongue, teeth, a low noise caught in his throat that rumbles through your chest.

you don’t even realize you’re grabbing at him until your fingers are curling into his shoulders, his body everywhere. you think, stupidly, oh. he tastes like me. and it makes you gasp harder. makes you want more.

you chase the kiss without thinking. open-mouthed, desperate. your laptop slips off your lap and lands somewhere forgotten on the bed. he barely glances—his hands are already on your hips, pulling you closer to the edge like you’re his, like he gets to move you now. he kisses like he’s rewarding you for finishing a final. like he’s about to assign extra credit.

you moan into his mouth.

it startles you a little. you didn't mean to—didn’t even realize you were holding that sound in—but he catches it like a prize and presses closer, hips slotted between your knees, one hand sliding down, down, gripping your thigh like a warning.

and then he pulls back, just barely, lips still brushing yours.

you blink at him, wrecked.

his smirk is slow. sharp. almost fond.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “you read for me, now you wanna kiss me like you mean it.”

your mouth opens to say something—anything—but the words never make it out.

because you don’t answer him with your voice.

you answer him by moving.

it’s not graceful. not confident in the way porn pretends it is. you just… slide closer to the edge of the bed, palms bracing behind you for a second before you shift your weight forward and drop down off the mattress.

knees hit the carpet.

soft. quiet.

the sound of it makes his breath hitch.

you don’t look up right away. you can’t. your heart’s beating too hard, your ears buzzing, your body still humming from his mouth on you like every nerve’s been left exposed and rewired.

he’s standing in front of you now.

shirtless. bare chest still flushed, skin warm and slightly damp, stomach tight when he inhales slow like he’s bracing himself. his hands hang at his sides for half a second—like he’s letting you choose this. like he’s giving you the space to back out.

you don’t.

your fingers reach for his waistband instead.

his jaw tightens.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low, not teasing this time—testing.

you nod, still not looking up. “i wanna try.”

that’s all it takes.

he exhales hard as you tug his sweats down, helping him step out of them, and when you finally look up—

fuck.

he’s already hard. fully. thick and heavy against his stomach, tip flushed, a faint sheen catching the low light like he’s been ready for this longer than you have.

your mouth goes dry.

he watches your face closely, eyes dark, sharp, reading every micro-expression like this is still part of the lesson.

“don’t stare too long,” he murmurs. “you’ll psych yourself out.”

you swallow. “…okay.”

you wrap your hand around him.

and he groans.

it’s not quiet. not controlled. it punches straight out of him like his body forgot how to filter.

“fuck—” he mutters, head tipping back just slightly before he catches himself. his hand comes down to the back of your head—not pushing. just resting there. grounding. “that’s it. slow.”

your grip tightens instinctively. you feel the weight of him in your hand, the heat, the way he twitches when your thumb brushes the head.

your breath shudders.

you lean in and lick.

just once. flat tongue. experimental.

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “jesus.”

that reaction alone almost does you in.

you lick again. slower. this time letting your tongue drag along the underside, following the vein like you’re tracing it on purpose.

his hand tightens in your hair now. still not forcing. just… there.

“good,” he murmurs. “yeah. like that.”

you take the tip into your mouth.

just the tip.

your lips stretch around him, warm and soft, and you hum without meaning to—more nerves than confidence—and the sound vibrates straight into him.

his hips jerk.

“fuck—okay,” he says quickly, breath breaking. “don’t rush. use your hands.”

you do.

both hands now. slow strokes. one following the other, like he told you, like you’re trying to memorize how it feels. how he reacts. how sensitive he is right at the head, how his stomach tenses when you twist your wrist just a little.

you suck again. deeper this time.

his thighs flex.

his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s steadying you instead of stopping you.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “on your knees for me. pretty thing.”

your stomach flips.

you open your mouth wider and take him in a little more, lips stretching, tongue flattening as you go, and the sound he makes this time is low. rough. barely held back.

“that’s it,” he says. “just like that. slow. breathe.”

you pull back slightly, catching your breath, spit stringing between your mouth and him—and he watches that too, eyes flicking down like he’s cataloging the image.

“don’t be shy,” he adds quietly. “use it.”

you spit into your hand.

your face burns.

but when you wrap your slick palm around him again and stroke, the noise he makes is instant and unfiltered.

“fuck. yeah. that.”

you smile around him this time when you take him back into your mouth—still shallow, still learning—but more confident now. more deliberate. your tongue moves how you want it to. your hands set the pace.

he lets you.

lets you explore.

lets you feel the way he starts to lose control.

his breathing’s heavier now. uneven. his fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab you harder.

“don’t rush,” he murmurs again, but his voice is strained now. “you’re doing… really fucking good.”

you look up at him, cheeks flushed, mouth still full.

his eyes meet yours.

and something shifts.

“shit,” he mutters. “careful with that look.”

you pull off slowly, lips wet and swollen. “what look?”

“that one,” he says. “the one that makes me forget i’m supposed to be patient.”

his hand slides back into your hair, this time firmer.

not pushing yet.

just warning you what he could do next.

but he doesn’t warn you.

he just steps back and pulls you up by your arms like you’re weightless. like you’re not already trembling from the way he sounds when you suck him off slow. like you didn’t just make him forget he was supposed to be teaching. your knees lift off the floor before your brain catches up.

“up,” he murmurs, already guiding you.

your hands find his shoulders instinctively. he’s shirtless. hot and solid under your palms. you blink, breath stuttering, confused for a half-second—but his grip is steady. sure. he shifts one arm under your thighs and lifts. again. like it’s nothing. like you’re meant to be carried. like this is just a new page in the textbook.

you gasp, reflexively clinging tighter, legs folding as he manhandles you upward—and then you feel it.

his mouth on you.

wet.

open.

already licking.

you jolt in his hold. your spine snaps straight. your moan cracks raw out of your throat before you can even process the heat of his tongue sliding through your folds, the way he tilts you, angles you, buries his face so deep you can feel the curve of his nose drag against your clit.

“fuck,” he growls into you, muffled but clear. “knew you’d taste good.”

your hips twitch, legs locking around his neck on instinct.

you’re upside down now. straddling his face. his arms cradling you under your thighs like a trophy. he’s holding you up while standing. while licking. while groaning like he doesn’t even care if you suck him off anymore because this is better, this is the real payoff—your cunt dripping into his mouth while you squirm in midair.

but you do care.

because he’s still hard.

right there.

right in front of your face.

you’re dangling over it—flushed, slick, messy—watching his cock twitch every time your moans get louder. and you can feel it pulsing. leaking. begging. his hips jerk the closer your mouth gets, like he’s daring you to try it again while you’re shaking like this.

so you do.

you wrap your lips around him again. upside down. slower now. messier. spit runs down your chin immediately, and he groans—into you—so hard you almost drop him from your mouth again.

“two hands,” he grits. “stroke what you can’t take. make it messy.”

you do.

slick and sloppy and shameless, your hands twisting at the base while your lips suck around the head, spit trailing down your chin, your thighs clenched around his face as he groans into your cunt like he’s losing it.

you rock your hips on him without meaning to. grind into his tongue. he moans louder. his grip tightens.

“fuck—you taste so good,” he rasps, voice muffled under you. “ride my face, pretty girl—don’t stop.”

you try not to.

you try to keep sucking even as your body spasms again, hips jerking, thighs clenching, mouth flooding with slick and sweat and salt. his cock pulses in your throat. your cunt pulses against his tongue.

everything is too much. too wet. too loud.

and still—not enough.

his tongue flicks your clit at the same time.

you whimper. moan around his cock.

“shit,” he grunts, pulling you tighter against his mouth. “don’t stop.”

you can’t. even if you wanted to. his hands are digging into the backs of your thighs now, holding you exactly where he wants you, spreading you open over his face like you’re dessert and he skipped dinner. and you—you’re sucking him off like you’re trying to make up for the sounds you’re making. for the way you keep twitching. for how close you already are.

he starts rocking into your mouth now. slow, shallow thrusts. letting you take him deeper each time. your jaw aches. your hands tremble. your throat burns.

but he doesn’t stop eating you out.

his mouth gets greedier. tongue rougher. lips sucking your clit like he wants to see how fast he can break you in this position. and it’s working. god, it’s working too well. your thighs start to shake. your mouth falters around him. your moans go soft and slurred, desperate little whines that vibrate through his cock every time he groans into your cunt like this is heaven and he’s earned it.

“that’s it,” he pants, hips jerking. “suck. cum. gimme both.”

you choke on it. can’t help it. you’re right there—so close you can’t see straight, the pressure curling behind your ribs, your legs locking, his tongue driving you insane with every goddamn flick.

“don’t hold back,” he growls. “let it go.”

and you do.

you fall apart on his face. mouth wide around his cock. whole body shuddering as you come with a sob, toes curling, hands gripping his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. which—he is. literally. he holds you steady while you shake. keeps fucking your mouth with slow thrusts, gentle now, careful, like you’re fragile. even though you just came on his face with no warning.

even though he’s still hard.

still hungry.

still standing.

he pulls back slowly from your cunt, slick and panting, and lowers you to your knees like he’s putting his favorite toy away for now. your lips are puffy. chin wet. eyes dazed.

he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

“lesson’s nowhere near over.”

he doesn’t rush you after that.

that’s the thing that fucks with you most.

he guides you up onto the bed instead—hands firm but unhurried, like he’s resetting the room before the next part of the lesson. you end up on your back, knees bent, feet planted awkwardly in the mattress like you’re not sure where they’re supposed to go yet.

he notices.

of course he does.

“relax,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knee until it drops open a little more. “you’re not doing anything wrong.”

your chest tightens at that. you nod anyway. swallow.

he climbs over you slowly, bracing himself on his forearms so he’s not putting his weight on you yet. he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way his cock presses warm and insistent against your lower stomach, slick from your mouth, flushed and heavy.

you glance down.

then immediately look away.

he catches it.

“hey,” he says quietly, tipping your chin back up with two fingers. “look at me.”

you do.

his expression’s different now. still intense. still hungry. but focused. grounded. like he’s flipped into a different headspace entirely.

“this part matters,” he says. “i need you with me. okay?”

“…okay.”

he nods once, like that’s all he needed.

one hand slides down between your thighs, fingers spreading you open again—not to tease this time, not to make you melt—but to check you. his thumb presses lightly at your entrance and you gasp, whole body tensing.

“breathe,” he says immediately. “don’t fight it.”

you inhale shakily. exhale. your muscles loosen just a fraction.

“good,” he murmurs. “you’re already wet. that helps. but it’s still gonna feel… different.”

your stomach flips. “…is it gonna hurt?”

he doesn’t lie.

“maybe,” he says. “a little. at first. i won’t push past you.”

the way he says it makes your throat burn.

he lines himself up slowly, guiding you with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you feel the head of him press against you and the sensation alone makes you gasp, sharp and startled, because it’s so much—thick, insistent, impossible to ignore.

“tell me when,” he says.

you hesitate. heart hammering. then nod.

“…okay.”

he presses forward just a little.

the stretch is immediate. unfamiliar. tight in a way you’ve never felt before. you cry out softly, hands flying to his arms.

he freezes.

“hey,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. stay with me.”

you breathe. nod again. your eyes sting but you don’t pull away.

“that’s it,” he says, easing back just a fraction, then forward again—slow, patient, letting your body adjust inch by inch. “you’re doing good. i know it’s a lot.”

you feel the burn. the pressure. the way your body resists him at first, instinctively, like it doesn’t know what to do with something this big. tears slip from the corners of your eyes and he leans down immediately, forehead resting against yours.

“look at me,” he whispers. “you okay?”

“…yeah,” you breathe. “just—don’t stop.”

something flashes in his eyes at that. dark. reverent. controlled.

“fuck,” he mutters. “okay.”

he pushes a little deeper. slower than slow. waiting for you to relax around him, to stop clenching. his hand strokes your thigh, grounding, steady.

and then—

he’s in.

not all the way. not yet. but enough that you feel it. enough that your breath stutters and your body goes still, stunned by the fullness, the ache, the intimacy of it.

he doesn’t move.

just stays there. lets you adjust. lets the moment settle.

“that’s the hardest part,” he says softly. “you did it.”

your chest rises and falls. “…it still kinda hurts.”

“yeah,” he says. “it will. give it a second.”

he shifts his hips just a little, barely a motion, testing how you respond. it aches—but there’s something else under it now. warmth. pressure that’s not unpleasant anymore.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he says.

you shake your head.

“…no. i want to keep going.”

his jaw tightens.

“you’re sure?”

you nod. “teach me, professor.”

and that’s the exact moment his whole expression changes.

his brows lift slowly, mouth curving into something smug, and his hips roll forward without warning—just once, just enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your cunt clench down around him like your body’s trying to adjust too fast.

“yeah?” he mutters, voice lower now, crueler. “that what you want, sweetheart?”

you gasp, hands tightening on his arms.

he rocks in again—slow but deeper, intentional, dragging the weight of him through your already sensitive walls like he’s trying to imprint the stretch in your memory.

“want your first time to be a fucking lesson?”

you nod, then shake your head, then nod again—eyes wide and glassy.

“i—i just want—”

“no, you wanna learn, right?” he cuts you off, grinning down at you like he already knows the answer. “wanna be a good little student. show me how fast you pick shit up.”

your stomach twists.

his hand slips under your knee, pushes your leg up higher, and fuck—you feel it. deeper now. sharper. you gasp again, the burn still there but fading, dulled by the heavy pulse of something needier.

“of course it is,” he murmurs. “never had anything in this pretty pussy, huh?”

you shake your head, breath hitching when his hips roll forward again, slow and deliberate, dragging the length of him through you like he wants you to feel every inch, every stretch.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “i can tell.”

“…sukuna—” you gasp, fingers digging into the sheets when he pulls back and presses in again, deeper this time. it still aches, still burns a little, but there’s something else there now—heat, pressure, a building want that makes your thighs tremble.

“stay with me,” he says, voice steady. “tell me what you’re feeling.”

“it—it hurts a little,” you admit, breathless. “but it feels good too. like… full.”

his mouth curves. “that’s what i wanna hear.”

he keeps moving. slow thrusts. controlled. every time he pushes back in, you feel him stretch you again, your body slowly learning how to take him, how to relax instead of fighting it.

“okay,” he says after a moment. “new rule.”

your heart jumps. “what?”

“i wanna see how you touch yourself,” he says, still fucking you, still watching your face. “show me.”

your breath stutters. “…right now?”

“yeah,” he says easily. “right now. while i’m inside you.”

you hesitate, overwhelmed by how much there already is—him, the bed, the feeling of being split open.

he notices immediately.

“hey,” he says, softer for half a second. “you can do it. i’ve got you.”

then his hips snap forward just a little harder, just enough to remind you who’s in control.

“go on,” he adds. “hand between your legs.”

your fingers slide down slowly, past your stomach, past the place where you can feel him moving inside you every time he thrusts. when you touch your clit, the sensation is almost too much—oversensitive, buzzing, raw.

you whimper.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “how do you do it?”

“…i—i rub,” you say quietly.

“how.”

you start moving your fingers in tight circles, careful at first, matching the rhythm of his thrusts without even meaning to. every time he pushes in, your fingers drag just a little firmer.

your back arches.

“fuck,” he groans. “yeah. just like that.”

he speeds up slightly, thrusts getting a little deeper now, the wet sounds between you louder, messier.

“you always do it like that?” he asks.

you nod. “slow at first.”

“good,” he says. “don’t rush it.”

your circles tighten. the pleasure starts to build fast now, way faster than it ever has before, because he’s inside you, because every thrust sends a ripple through your whole body.

“tell me when it changes,” he says. “when it starts feelin’ different.”

“…it’s—it’s getting really good,” you breathe. “i’m getting close.”

he smirks. “already?”

you flush. “i can’t help it—”

“i know,” he says, cutting you off. “you’re sensitive. first time always hits harder.”

his hand comes down over yours suddenly, pressing your fingers more firmly against your clit, guiding the motion.

“like this,” he murmurs. “you don’t need to be gentle.”

you cry out, hips jerking. “oh—fuck—”

“yeah,” he says, thrusting a little harder now. “that’s it. keep those circles tight.”

your body starts to shake. your walls flutter around him, clenching without permission, and he groans low in his throat.

“feel that?” he asks. “that’s you squeezin’ me. that’s your body learnin’.”

you nod frantically, breath breaking. “i’m close—i’m really close—”

“good,” he says. “cum for me.”

he keeps moving, steady and deep, every thrust lining up perfectly with the way his hand guides yours, pressure building and building until you can’t think straight anymore.

“don’t stop,” you whimper. “please—”

“i won’t,” he promises, voice rough. “let it happen.”

your fingers move faster, circles tightening, and then you break—cumming hard around him with a cry, body arching, thighs trembling, walls clamping down around his cock like they’re trying to pull him deeper.

“fuck,” he groans, thrusting through it. “that’s it. good girl.”

he doesn’t stop moving until you’re shaking, until your hand falls away, overstimulated and breathless, chest heaving beneath him.

he leans down, mouth close to your ear.

“see?” he murmurs. “you learn fast.”

you’re still shaking, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths, your hand limp on your stomach, too overstimulated to move, thighs trembling from how hard that just hit—but he doesn’t let you come down from it.

he stays inside you.

still hard.

still moving.

just slow now, lazy, like he’s not ready to stop yet. like you finishing didn’t count.

you gasp when his hips roll again, the friction too sharp on your raw clit, your whole body twitching.

“s-sukuna—”

“shh,” he says, lips brushing your cheek. “you can take it.”

your muscles clench at that—of course they do—and he fucking grins, pulls back a little and thrusts again, slow and deep, deeper than before, like he’s testing what you can handle now that he’s opened you up properly.

you whimper. your legs twitch.

“don’t go all soft on me now,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “you said you wanted to learn.”

you nod—barely.

“so let’s change the position.”

your eyes fly open, dazed. “what?”

he’s already pulling out, slow and slick, your walls fluttering at the loss—and then his hands are on your hips, flipping you with no effort, guiding your knees up under you, pushing your chest down to the sheets with one firm palm.

“want you like this,” he says. “on your hands and knees. want to see what this angle does to you.”

you freeze, face buried in the sheets, body still buzzing.

“…i’ve never—”

“yeah,” he cuts in. “i know.”

his hand strokes your spine once, then down between your legs, two fingers sliding through the mess dripping from you.

“you’re wet enough for it now,” he says, casual. clinical. “you’ll be fine.”

you shiver. “…is it gonna hurt more?”

“might feel deeper,” he says, and then leans in, voice right behind your ear. “but you liked that last time, didn’t you?”

you flinch when he lines up again, the head of him nudging your entrance from behind, already too big, already too much—but your body gives easier this time, like it remembers him now, like it knows what to do.

he pushes in slow.

you choke on a gasp. your back arches.

“fuuuck,” he groans. “this angle’s even tighter.”

his hands grip your hips, not rough—but firm, controlling. he slides in deeper, slower than before, every inch pushing you forward into the mattress.

“that okay?” he asks, voice different now—lower. hoarser.

“…y-yeah,” you stammer. “it’s a lot—but—it feels good.”

he pulls back and thrusts again—deeper this time, dragging a whine out of your throat.

“jesus,” you breathe.

“mm,” he hums, fucking you slow, steady, grinding in at the end like he’s trying to make a point. “what’s that? not gonna call me ‘professor’ now?”

your arms shake. you reach for the sheets. “you’re so annoying—”

“but you’re taking it,” he says. “so well. first time and you’re already arching back for it.”

his hand slides down your back again, to your ass, thumb dragging down the curve as he keeps thrusting.

“you feel how deep this goes?”

you nod. “yes—oh my god—i can’t—”

“yeah,” he says. “there. right there.”

“sukuna—”

“talk to me.”

“it’s too much—” you cry. “but it’s good—i don’t wanna stop—”

his fingers dig into your hips now, pulling you back onto him harder, fucking you in slow, punishing strokes while you sob into the mattress, overwhelmed but addicted, ruined but desperate for more.

and then—

“arch more,” he mutters, breath ragged. “deeper if you arch.”

you try—arms shaking, thighs quivering, back bending in a desperate curve—but it’s not enough. not to him. not for him. his palm lands flat against your lower back, pressing down until your spine dips and your ass tilts higher, and the next thrust makes you cry out, high and raw, cheek mashed to the sheets.

“there,” he grits. “right fucking there. stay like that.”

you nod, mouth open but useless, trying to breathe, trying to stay still when your body keeps jerking from how deep he’s hitting now, each stroke heavier than the last, his pace never fast but somehow more brutal, more exact, like he’s fucking the lesson into you.

“fucking tight,” he hisses. “keep squeezing me like that and i’m not gonna last.”

you whimper. broken. soaking. your knees slipping in the sheets.

he leans over you again, chest warm against your back, mouth brushing your ear, and his voice is lower this time—meaner. teasing again.

“hands.”

you blink, dazed. “what—?”

“reach back,” he growls. “spread 'em”

your stomach drops.

“sukuna—”

“don’t make me ask twice.”

you whimper, but you do it, shoulders trembling as you shift forward just enough to plant your elbows down and reach back, palms clumsy, fingers digging into your own skin to spread yourself open for him.

“good fucking girl,” he breathes.

the angle changes again. you feel everything. the stretch, the drag, the way his cock glides through your soaked cunt and punches into something deeper now that you’re holding yourself open for it—so exposed like this, so filthy, and he knows it. god, he knows it.

“hold it,” he murmurs, fucking into you deeper, slower. “keep holdin’ it like that.”

you choke on a moan, head tipping back, shoulders burning, and that’s when he says it—

“look at me.”

you freeze.

“look. back.”

you do. you turn your head, messy hair clinging to your cheek, and meet his eyes over your shoulder—and he looks wrecked, flushed and sweat-damp and grinning like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

“fuck,” he mutters. “look at you. holding yourself open for your best friend’s brother while he ruins your pussy.”

you whimper, breath shattering. “s-stop saying shit like that—”

he slams in, once, and you scream.

“why?” he pants. “too fucking true?”

your voice cracks. “yes—fuck, yes—”

his eyes burn through you. his thrusts get harder. meaner. steadier.

and you just stay there—knees wide, ass up, hands spreading yourself for every stroke, every inch, every filthy word he drops like it’s a reward.

“you were made for this,” he growls. “look at you taking it. dripping on my cock. first time and you’re already fucking addicted.”

your arms give out. your back arches harder.

“sukuna—i can’t—i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he snaps. “don’t look away. stay right there. lemme see your face while i fuck you dumb.”

you do. you hold his gaze, lips parted, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed and wet from tears you didn’t know were falling, and the second you lock onto him like that he growls—like you lit a fuse in his chest. his thrusts turn ragged, heavier now, faster, like he’s chasing something. chasing you.

and you—you moan. loudly. no filter, no control, every sound high and desperate and sugar-slick with pleasure, because it’s too much,

it’s all too much—his cock punching into you again and again, his voice in your ear, the sting of your own fingers still digging into your ass to keep you open for him like a good girl, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the way he keeps groaning with every thrust like he’s trying not to break apart.

“listen to you,” he pants, voice barely holding. “all those pretty fuckin’ sounds. you hear that?”

you do. it’s obscene. loud and perfect, the slap of his hips meeting your ass, the drip of slick every time he drags out, the thick, broken grunt he lets out when you squeeze down around him without warning.

“shit—just like that,” he gasps. “do that again.”

you whimper. “i can’t—it’s too good—sukuna—i’m—i think i’m—”

“you gonna cum again?” he growls, not stopping, not even slowing down. “fuck—now?”

“yes—fuck—yes—”

“don’t hold back,” he snaps. “give it to me. make a mess all over this dick.”

your voice cracks on a sob as you start to cum again, tighter this time, faster—your orgasm slamming into you without mercy, your body locking up, your back arching so hard it hurts, and you scream, loud and wrecked and ruined, soaking the base of his cock, thighs trembling, whole body pulsing around him.

“fuck,” he snarls, hips jerking, pace falling apart. “that’s it—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—i’m gonna—”

his head drops back, jaw clenched, muscles flexing over you like he’s trying to hold it back—but he can’t. he slams in one last time, deep, buried to the base, and groans, loud and rough and raw as he spills inside you.

you feel it.

hot. thick. endless.

your body jolts with every pulse, cunt fluttering around him, milking him while he empties himself deep, deep, so fucking deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach, and he stays there, grinding through the aftershocks, dragging the orgasm out until you’re both shaking.

he moans your name—and collapses forward, weight braced on his arms, forehead against your spine, both of you gasping for breath in the silence that follows.

the room smells like sex and sweat and heat. your knees are sore. your arms are numb. you’re still spread open, still full of him, still twitching.

and he’s still inside you.

“fuck,” he mutters after a minute, voice hoarse. “look what i did to you.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your breath’s still gone, dragged out of your lungs and left somewhere in the mess between your thighs, where his mouth just was, where the ache still pulses so hot and deep you swear it’s rewiring your brain chemistry. your spine’s barely functioning. your muscles feel like someone unplugged them. and your face, god, your face is on fire, sticky with sweat and disbelief and whatever he didn’t clean off his tongue.

he’s still crouched there, naked and flushed, the sweat at his temple catching in the overhead glow. your panties are still off to the side, soaked, your laptop somewhere in the pillows, screen dimmed like it knows you forgot how to be a student.

he grins. smug. mean. indulgent.

“so,” he says, voice rough but teasing, “was that… educational?”

you blink up at him like you don’t speak the language.

he brushes his thumb up the inside of your thigh. barely-there touch. just enough to make your muscles flinch like you’re still being eaten alive.

“what,” you croak.

his smirk grows. “you said you needed to learn, right? for the assignment. for the scene.”

your stomach flips.

“that wasn’t the scene,” you say too fast. “i mean—that’s not the kind i was writing—”

“no?” his head tilts. his hands drag a little higher, warm palms settling at your hips like he owns them now. “that wasn’t ‘slow burn’ enough for you?”

you open your mouth. no argument arrives.

“what’d you learn?” he asks again, quieter this time. mock-serious. like it’s a real discussion section. like you’re supposed to defend a thesis on what it means to get your brains fucked out and still hit your word count.

you stammer, “i—i don’t—”

he tuts. “c’mon. you’re a writer. words, baby. what’d you feel?”

your whole face burns.

“pressure,” you manage. “um. build-up. delayed gratification. sensory overload—”

“mmhm.” he nods slowly. “pacing. rhythm. repetition.”

you swallow. “tension.”

“yeah?” he leans in. kisses the inside of your thigh once, quick. “where?”

you choke. “what—what do you mean—”

“be specific,” he says, already dragging his mouth higher. “describe it.”

you breathe uneven. “every time you stopped—it—it got worse—”

“better,” he corrects. “you meant better.”

your brain glitches. your tank is damp. your thighs are still sticky.

“sukuna—”

“shh.” he presses his lips to your hipbone. “you’re still being graded.”

you hesitate before asking it, because part of you already knows the answer and part of you is scared of how much you want to hear it anyway.

“what would you write?” you ask, voice rough, honest in a way you didn’t plan. “if it were… from your side.”

he stills.

then he laughs under his breath. low. disbelieving. like you just handed him something sharp and told him to use it.

“you sure?” he asks. “you’re already wrecked.”

you nod anyway. your legs feel heavy. your body’s still humming, oversensitive, sticky in ways you’re very aware of. you’re open. not just physically—mentally. raw.

he looks at you for a long second. really looks. the mess of you. flushed skin, parted lips, the way you’re still trying to catch your breath like you ran instead of came.

“fine,” he says. “but you asked.”

he steps closer. not touching yet. which somehow makes it worse.

“i’d write,” he starts, voice slow, like he’s dictating, “about how she kept pretending she was in control right up until she wasn’t.”

your stomach flips.

“how she talked a big game,” he continues, eyes dropping, dragging, “but the second i had her spread out like that, she couldn’t keep her voice steady.”

you squeeze your thighs together without meaning to.

he notices. of course he does.

“i’d write about how she tried to focus on words while she was begging me not to stop,” he says quietly. “how she kept saying she was fine and then cried the second i pulled away.”

your face burns. your pulse spikes.

“i’d write about how pretty she looked when she finally gave up,” he adds. “when she stopped worrying about sounding stupid and just let herself ask for it.”

you swallow hard.

he tilts his head, watching you like he’s checking your reaction against his own memory.

“and i’d definitely write about how she came,” he says, softer now. “how her whole body locked up like she wasn’t ready for it, like she didn’t believe she was allowed to feel that good.”

your breath catches.

silence stretches. thick. charged.

then he exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s reconsidering something.

“actually,” he says, almost to himself, “yeah. no.”

you look up. confused. “no?”

he meets your eyes again, that familiar sharp glint back in place.

“you haven’t learned enough from tonight alone,” he says plainly. not unkind. not teasing. matter‑of‑fact. “you got the theory. you felt the edge.”

his hand settles on your hip. grounding. claiming.

“but you still think it ends there.”

your chest tightens.

“maybe,” he continues, thumb pressing in just enough to make you shiver, “you need another round to knock some sense into you.”

your mouth opens.

no words come out.

“for research,” he adds, like an afterthought.

—

the document is still open.

not empty anymore.

thirty thousand words, give or take. some of it readable. most of it humiliating. your fingers are stiff, your thighs are numb, and you don’t remember how long you’ve been hunched over like this—but the heat’s still rising up your neck and your laptop’s still warm against your legs, and your brain feels like it just crawled back from a different dimension.

you don’t move.

you don’t breathe.

you just stare at the final line—for research—like it might catch fire if you blink too loud.

“you good?” yuji asks without looking over, eyes on his phone, sprawled out like a cat beside you. “you’ve been dead silent for, like, twenty minutes.”

you blink. your chest is tight. your fingers twitch over the keyboard like you might keep going.

“yeah,” you say. your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “just… got in the zone.”

he hums. “cool. proud of you.”

you don’t answer.

the document’s still open, right there on your screen. the words still warm, still echoing in your head like they happened. like you felt them. you scroll up, skim past the part where he lifts you onto the bed, where you choke on his cock, where his tongue spells sentences into your cunt.

your stomach flips.

you almost laugh.

none of it happened.

not the lesson. not the kiss. not the lap. not the part where you begged.

you’ve never even kissed anyone like that. never sucked anyone off. definitely never sat on a face and came so hard you cried. you’ve never sat in sukuna’s lap. you’ve barely even spoken to him lately. and even if you had—he’d never look at you like that.

it was all just writing.

just a story.

just a thought experiment that got out of hand. that’s what you’ll tell yourself later, when the heat fades and your hands stop shaking.

you’re still scrolling when the door opens.

sukuna walks in—hoodie half-zipped, yawning, eyes still foggy from sleep. his hair’s a mess, his chain’s tucked beneath the collar, his sweatpants are loose enough to make you look away too fast.

he scratches the back of his neck. “yo.”

you freeze.

your laptop is open. your cheeks are burning.

yuji waves from the bed. “sup.”

sukuna barely glances at you as he grabs a water bottle from the desk. “you still working on that paper?”

your breath catches.

“uh—yeah,” you say, too fast, like your voice forgot how to lie casually. “just finished.”

“cool,” he says. “good luck or whatever.”

and then he’s gone.

the door clicks shut behind him.

yuji yawns. “you okay?”

you nod. “mhm.”

he stretches and rolls over.

and you stare down at the words you wrote like they belong to somebody else. like they aren’t yours at all.

maybe that’s the fun of it. maybe that’s why you needed to write it. maybe it’s easier to pretend it’s not about him if he never sees it.

you close the document.

you don’t hit save.

but you’ll remember all of it anyway.

hello friends... @st4rlightisa @softtashoney @nishinoya-senpaai

andddd lowkey if you made it this far pls don't hate me this is my first attempt on like unreliable narrator/plot twist type beat soooooo.....

[rawkuna]

୨୧ shy girl's first time smoking w frat!sukuna

you didn’t even like parties. not really. the music was always too loud, the drinks too warm, and the couches too sticky with god-knows-what. but sukuna had invited you—told you to “just come for a bit,” palm heavy on the small of your back like he knew you’d say yes. and now you were here. outside. standing on the cracked concrete steps behind the frat house, your fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sweater sleeves.

he lights up without saying anything at first. leans back against the railing, tattoos glowing under the flicker of a motion sensor light. it smells like weed and cold air. he’s wearing a black tank top like he’s not freezing and his sweatpants hang low on his hips, drawstring barely tied. the smoke curls out of his mouth slow, lazy. like he’s not even trying.

you watch, kind of mesmerized.

“you ever tried it?” he asks.

you shake your head. too fast. “no.”

he grins, pink tongue pressed against his teeth. “want to?”

you hesitate. then: “maybe.”

he laughs. not in a mean way. in a you’re cute kind of way. and it makes your stomach flutter embarrassingly hard.

“c’mere,” he says, offering you the joint between two fingers.

you take a tiny step forward. he smells like sandalwood and cologne and something warm. his fingers brush yours when you take it, and your breath catches. he notices—but doesn’t say anything.

you hold it wrong. obviously.

“not like that,” he murmurs, and before you can blink, he’s stepping behind you, hand on your waist to turn you slightly, chest brushing your shoulder. “like this.”

his fingers curl around yours, adjusting your grip. he’s close. too close. you can feel his breath on your ear when he speaks.

“okay,” he hums. “don’t overthink it. just breathe in. not too deep. hold it a sec. then out.”

you do. try, at least. it burns. your lungs seize. you cough hard enough to double over, hand to your chest.

sukuna laughs again, low and full. “aw, shit. that was adorable.”

you shoot him a look. glare weak, eyes watery.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, already brushing your back, soothing in a way that shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

“i’m fine,” you mumble, embarrassed. your voice cracks.

he grins again, mouth all smug and soft. “wanna try again?”

“…maybe.”

he watches you this time. doesn’t say anything when you steal another puff, smaller this time. still a little rough. still not good. but you don’t choke. not as bad, anyway.

“attagirl,” he says, and something in your stomach twists.

you hand it back.

“tastes weird,” you admit.

“you’ll get used to it.” he takes another hit, exhales toward the sky. then he glances over. “bet you’d like it better from my mouth.”

your heart skips.

“w-what?”

he shrugs, casual. “shotgun. ever tried?”

you shake your head.

he taps ash into an old beer can on the railing, then takes one more drag. when he looks back at you, it’s all heat.

“c’mere,” he says again, voice lower. slower. “i’ll show you.”

and you do. you hesitate, which only makes him smirk deeper. cocky. knowing. like he can feel your pulse skipping through your wrist.

“relax,” sukuna murmurs, voice thick with smoke. “just open your mouth for me.”

you shouldn’t listen. you know that. but your lips part before you can think twice.

he steps in closer. impossibly close. one arm braces against the railing beside your head, his other hand holding the joint with two lazy fingers, almost burned down now. the smoke clings to him, to the collar of his shirt, to his breath. he brings it to his lips again, inhales slow—then leans down before he exhales, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger like he’s done this a hundred times.

his mouth barely grazes yours.

and then he breathes it out.

warm smoke floods your mouth, your lungs. it’s smoother than before, still hazy, but your focus is too scrambled to register the burn. because sukuna’s lips are hovering over yours, eyes half-lidded, watching you like he’s already undressed you with his gaze.

you swallow, hard. his mouth lingers, breath mingling with yours, lips not quite touching.

“good girl,” he says, so low it’s almost a growl.

your stomach flips violently. the praise settles between your thighs like heat.

“see?” he adds, thumb dragging down the curve of your jaw. “tastes better like that, doesn’t it?”

you nod. or try to. it’s barely a motion, just enough to make him grin again.

“one more?” he offers, already moving in again, like he doesn’t need your answer.

and this time—this time when he exhales, your lips brush. soft. smoky.

he’s not kissing you. not really. but it feels like one anyway.

your knees wobble. his mouth hovers again, so fucking close.

and then he licks his lips. eyes flick down to your parted ones. waits.

“you wanna taste me again?” he asks, almost amused. “or you gonna be shy on me now, sweetheart?”

you don’t realize how warm you are until you’re back inside. maybe it’s the way the room tilts a little. not enough to scare you, just enough to feel like the floor’s moving soft beneath your socks. maybe it’s the bass still thumping through the walls. maybe it’s him, still pressed against your side.

you’re not even high, really.

just… warm. tingly. floaty. like a fizzy drink. like your mouth tastes like smoke and sugar and you’re not sure if it’s from the shotgunning or just him.

he doesn’t move away. his hand finds the small of your back when you wobble slightly. not to steady you. just to touch.

“you good?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

you nod. too quickly. then blink up at him.

and then—god help you—you giggle.

his brow arches. “oh?”

you don’t even know what’s funny. the way his shirt’s positioned? the way his necklace dangles right at your eyeline? the way your body feels like it’s made of candlewax?

you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

and he knows it.

“you’re high,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

you shake your head. “no,” you whisper, though you sound more breathless than you mean to. “just a little… floaty.”

he hums. fingers brushing your side, lower now.

“floaty,” he echoes. “that what we’re calling it?”

you nod again. but slower this time. eyes still locked on his mouth like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

“you’re staring,” he murmurs.

“m’not.”

“mmhm.”

you’re still staring. especially when his tongue flicks across his lip, like he’s daring you to do something about it.

and—god. you do.

you lean in.

not a kiss. not yet. just close. your nose grazes his. your breath catches. your hand fists the front of his shirt like you need something to hold onto, and his eyes flicker, half-lidded.

“you’re actin’ different,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something low and amused.

“noooo,” you whisper, lashes fluttering.

“no?” his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you snug against him.

“you’re just… really sexy,” you say. it slips out too fast. too soft. the moment it leaves your mouth, your eyes widen in horror.

he laughs. full-on.

you cover your face with both hands, mortified.

he pulls them down, gently.

“don’t hide,” he says, grinning now. “i like this version of you. high and horny.”

your mouth drops open. “am not—”

“baby,” he interrupts, dipping his head until your noses bump, “you’re grinding on my thigh.”

you freeze.

then blink down.

you are. barely. just a little. soft and slow, like you didn’t even notice. and now your hands fly back up to your face.

he groans, deep in his chest.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged. “you’re gonna kill me.”

he presses a thigh up firmer between your legs and watches your lashes flutter.

“damn,” he murmurs, pulling your leg over his lap, “who knew my girl just needed a little smoke to show me how she really is.”

you squirm, half-embarrassed, half still riding whatever fuzzy, low-buzz high is humming in your limbs. you press your face into his shoulder, but he’s already grinning, hand dragging up the inside of your thigh like it’s second nature.

“don’t get all shy now,” he teases, voice dipped in that lazy charm. “too late for that.”

your legs tighten around him.

and he feels it.

he groans under his breath, head falling back for a second like he’s collecting himself, before his eyes drop back to you—a little heavy, a little wild.

“bathroom,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

“bathroom,” he repeats, already shifting you off his lap, steadying you when you stumble slightly. “unless you wanna grind my thigh in front of the whole fuckin’ party.”

your eyes widen, heat climbing up your cheeks. but your hand still finds his, fingers lacing without thinking.

the walk is a blur. music thudding behind you, hallway lights too bright. you barely notice people talking. laughing. someone calls his name but he doesn’t answer, just tugs you down the hall, his hand firm on your waist like he owns it.

you hadn’t even realized how bad it’d gotten until he locked the bathroom door behind you.

until the echo of the party vanished, muffled through tile walls and music-thick floors, leaving you both in this tiny, hazy space that smelled like weed and faded cologne and something sweeter—him. you were dizzy. not just high, not just warm from the smoke still coating the back of your throat, but dizzy from the way he’d been looking at you all night. since the shotgun. since the way your lips had brushed and you’d looked up at him with glassy eyes, pupils blown wide.

you don’t remember who kissed first, only that your back hit the counter and his hands were already everywhere. under your skirt, gripping your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing and sitting you on the edge of the sink.

“can’t believe you,” he muttered, pulling your panties down to your knees. “you’re fuckin’ soaked. this from one hit?”

you whimpered—barely nodded. it wasn’t just one. it was him. the heat of his palm against your neck. the heavy drag of his voice every time he called you baby in front of the other guys. the way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin you, just so he could build you back up again.

his rings were cold when they brushed your folds, but the burn of his mouth made you jolt. he knelt between your legs like he had something to prove, mouthing at your pussy like it was the only thing in the world worth praying to.

and fuck, you wanted to cry—his tongue was slow, thick, greedy, curling inside you while his thumb circled your clit just the way you liked. you could feel yourself dripping down the curve of his wrist, making a mess all over his hand, but he didn’t care. didn’t pause. just kept groaning into your cunt like he was starving and you were the only meal he’d ever wanted.

you tugged his hair. moaned his name. rocked your hips against his face and choked out a high, half-sobbing plea when your thighs started to shake.

“’kuna—fuck, wait, i’m—”

he didn’t wait. he never waited when it came to your pleasure. you came on his tongue like it was the only thing that made sense anymore, thighs clamped around his head, one hand slipping behind you to keep from sliding off the sink. your vision blurred. your lungs trembled. your legs twitched as he kissed back up your body, his cock already out, already hard—heavy against your inner thigh as he licked his lips like he could still taste you.

“you want me inside?” he asked, and you nodded fast, too fast, whispering something that barely made sense but sounded like yes and please and need it now.

he fucked you slow at first, one hand gripping your waist to keep you steady, the other sliding up the back of your neck to cradle your head. he kissed you while he did it, tongue hot and slick, swallowing every noise you made, like he didn’t want anyone outside that door to hear how good he made you feel.

but he got mean when you clenched. when you whispered his name like a prayer. his hand dropped to your throat, thumb resting against your jaw, and his hips snapped harder, faster—fucking up into you like he owned you. like you were his, and he was going to fuck that fact into your soul.

“look at you,” he rasped, fucking you so deep your body jolted back against the mirror, “high off one little hit. letting me fuck you dumb in the frat bathroom. you like this, baby?”

you nodded, gasped, whimpered—his cock hitting that soft spot inside you over and over until tears leaked out the corners of your eyes.

“yeah,” he growled, fucking you harder, sloppier, voice breaking with it. “you’re my good fuckin’ girl, huh? my sweet little thing who gets high and begs for dick. gonna let me cum in this pussy, sweetheart?”

you couldn’t answer. not really. not with how hard you were trembling, how your nails dug into his shoulders and your mouth parted in a silent moan. he took it as a yes anyway, slamming in once more and spilling inside you with a guttural sound you’d never forget. you were still panting when he kissed you again, slower this time. messier. his cum leaking out of you, still pulsing around the base of his cock.

he pulled back, sweat-damp and grinning, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

your lips are kiss-swollen. your lashes heavy. your thighs still trembling.

his thumb traces the corner of your mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged. “you’re unreal.”

you blink up at him, a little dazed. still floaty. still warm.

“can we go again?” you whisper.

his brow arches. “...like round two?”

you nod slowly, lips tugging into a half-smile.

“of which one?” he asks, grin tugging at his mouth. “smoking or sex?”

you pause, pretend to think about it, then shrug.

“both?” you offer, sweet as sugar.

he groans.

“you’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

[alygator77]

love hard

summary. after years of failed dating app matches, you finally hit it off with someone. he’s funny, charming, emotionally available… and apparently?! not who you thought he was... literally — because he used his ex-best friend suguru geto as his profile picture! so now, you’re stranded in a foreign country for the holidays, stuck with the real satoru gojo: a digimon-loving, trivia-winning, six-foot-tall nerd who... sure. may have catfished you. but he also might just win your heart.

tags/warnings. fluffy holiday au. nerdjo. light angst. slow burn. eventual smut. long distance relationship (reader is from cali, satoru is from japan). fake dating. one bed trope (yuuuup). found family feelings w/ the jjk cast. lots of dorky humor. alcohol/weed usage. there’s a bit of suguru x reader (also sukuna hits on you a lot bc he wants to piss gojo off). endgame is satoru x reader w/ a happy ending! soft and silly romcom vibes. 

author note. merry christmas! this fic is loosely based on the movie Love Hard (w/ my own retelling). it'll be 2 parts! i wanted it to be a oneshot and was rly hoping to finish it before christmas but life got in my way so alas. i'll say more towards the bottom but enjoy this first part for now~

Love is… hard. 

Not ‘hard’ like an honest misunderstanding, or a fight you work through with emotional maturity and a seasonally appropriate Hallmark movie kiss. 

No — ‘hard’ like dodging your fifth unsolicited dick pic of the week while Googling ‘how to spot a narcissist,’ because apparently you need a manual now. Like realizing your therapist makes more money off your dating trauma than you ever will. 

Which is funny, considering people pay you to write about it. 

“Do I believe in love? No. But I do believe in ad revenue. And trust me — what you’re writing? Sells. You’ll make it big, darling. I swear.” 

Wise words from your boss, Mei-Mei. And by wise, you mean cold, calculated, and unfortunately? Very on brand. 

You’re a columnist for Swipe Right into Hell, and your beat? Disaster dates. Ghostings. Red flags. You write about it all. One guy asked if he could wear his ex-wife’s wedding ring during sex. Another told you he didn’t believe in astrology or feminism — but he did believe in Bitcoin. 

So, yeah. If love is a battlefield, you’re the war correspondent. Bulletproof. Jaded. Always packing a pen. 

You’d think by now — after all the swipes, the situationships, the nights replaying bad decisions in bathroom mirrors — you’d have cracked the code. Found the formula. Unlocked the algorithm to real connection. 

Mei-Mei certainly thinks you did. 

“Ughhh. You’re a genius! I swear, your last column was chef’s kiss,” she purred to you on Monday, tapping her lacquered nails against a chart of engagement analytics. “Tragically humiliating… in a relatable way, of course!” 

Tragically humiliating?  

Yeah, sure. That’s one way to describe it. Your date dumped you via a Venmo memo when you asked him to split the bill with you. 

(“Lunch was great. You’re not. ✌️”) 

“Uh... thanks. I think?” 

You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred. 

“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly. 

“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?” 

Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love. 

So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again. 

| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |   “Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?” 

Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t) 

Swipe. 

| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |   “Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.” 

Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.) 

Swipe. 

| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |   “What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.” 

You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…) 

Swipe. 

| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |   “Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?” 

You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.) 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.  

So? You expand your distance radius. 

Like...  

Way out.  

Just to see what would happen. 

| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |   “Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.” 

It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.  

He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s— 

…gorgeous.  

And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen. 

~  ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo!  ♡ ︎  ~  ...typing  Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.  Satoru: So… hi! Satoru: Wanna test fate?  You: lol 😂 You: well then... You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝 Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉

He was... normal. 

Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.  But somehow? It worked. He made you smile. 

...typing  Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...   Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?  You: 😨😨 You: excuse you!!   You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒 Satoru: Phew 😩 Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before 

And just like that, you were hooked. 

You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything. 

Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers. 

One day he asked: 

...typing  Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl? 

You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone. 

...typing  You: hmmm..... You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?  Satoru: 👀 Satoru: Well shit... Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...  You: hehehe 😇 You: what do YOU think i am?  Satoru: Oh, hell no... Satoru: I’m not falling for that Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.  You: pshhh...  You: that response answers for me 😛  You: but hmm... i guess i’m both? You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.  Satoru: Okay cool Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way. You: ruin you?? You: never!! You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️  Satoru: ❤️  Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question... Satoru: Snacks Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart. You: hmm...  Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨 You: imma salty kinda girl Satoru: ...  You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘 Satoru: Siiiiiigh...  Satoru: Fine. I respect it Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship

Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe. 

It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life. 

Until you started calling each other. 

What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs. 

He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind. 

And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it. 

“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?” 

“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?” 

His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.

“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.” 

“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”

A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.

“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”

His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.

“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”

You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.

“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”

Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.

“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”

It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.

“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.

You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.

“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”

Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.

“…I met someone.”

That gives her pause.

“Oh?”

Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.

Satoru.

“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”

But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.

“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.

“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”

At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.

“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”

“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.

Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”

“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”

“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”

Your heart drops.

God. That’d be just your luck.

“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”

“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”

You scoff, brows furrowing.

“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”

And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

That… bitch.

Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.

You must.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.

You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.

“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”

Little does he know…

It’s you you’re sending.

(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)

Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.

“Uh…. sumimasen?”

It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)

As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.

But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.

Because what the hell.

The place is huge.

It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.

Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.

God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?

Fuck.

You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?

When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—

Click!

The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—

A woman.

“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”

She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.

Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.

Double fuck…

Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?

It feels like a kick to the chest.

What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!

 “ちょっと、聞こえてる？”

She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.

“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.

God. You’re such an idiot.

“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.

“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”

As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.

“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”

“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”

Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.

Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.

They’re all staring at you with stone faces.

One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.

Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”

“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”

“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”

The words hits harder than it should.

Girlfriend? Secret?

God, what are you to him?

And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?

You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”

You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.

“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”

“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”

There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.

“Damn. Lucky bastard.”

You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.

"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"

Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”

“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”

You blink again.

Is he… hitting on you?

“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.

And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”

“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”

You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.

“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”

...fangirl?

The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.

What made you think you were any different?

You shouldn’t have come.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”

And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.

“W-What… what are you doing here?!”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.

“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"

“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”

At the mention of his name, you freeze.

Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.

But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.

No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Nothing like his profile pictures.

“Satoru?” you breathe.

His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.

“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”

“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”

“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.

“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”

The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.

He lied.

And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.

Love is dead.

“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”

And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.

“Wait—shit. Wait!”

Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.

He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.

And now he’s watching you walk away.

“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”

“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”

He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.

“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”

A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”

He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.

But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.

“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”

He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.

Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.

“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”

“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.

“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"

“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”

He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.

You don’t speak the language.

You don’t know the city.

You don’t have a car.

Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.

“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”

Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.

It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.

You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.

By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.

Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.

You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.

The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.

Beautiful.

Almost like…

The photos on Satoru’s profile?

Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??

You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.

“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.

You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.

Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?

“Hey—hey! There you are!”

Oh, yeah. It can.

Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.

“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.

“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”

He sighs, exasperated.

“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”

“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”

You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”

The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.

“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”

“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.

“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”

“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”

“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”

Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.

Because you’re... crying.

Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.

“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.

His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.

“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.

He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.

“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”

You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.

“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because that’s the cruel part.

He didn’t lie about everything.

He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.

And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.

“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”

Satoru stiffens.

“Uh… Suguru?”

“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”

You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt. 

“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”

You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.

“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”

His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.

“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”

Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”

He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”

“That’s insane,” you mutter.

“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”

You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”

He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.

“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”

Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.

“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”

But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.

“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.

He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.

“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.

“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”

You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.

He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.

It’s going to be a long Christmas.

The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.

You looked impossibly beautiful.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.

“Hey… uh. We’re here?”

But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”

He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.

As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.

“Woah. Dude. She okay?”

“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”

Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”

Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.

He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.

“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”

As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.

But as he’s reaching for the blanket—

“Mmmph.”

Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.

“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.

“Mm… s’toru…”

His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.

Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.

So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.

‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’

You’re dreaming again.

Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.

‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’

You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.

Dreaming.

“Mmph…”

Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.

“Fffuck…”

The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.

“Unngh… b-baby…”

As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.

This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—

“S-Satoru?!”

You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.

But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.

“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.

“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”

Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You both look down at his dick.

“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”

“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”

“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”

“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”

Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.

But mostly?

Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.

“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”

There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.

“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”

Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.

“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”

He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.

You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.

Because you liked him.

You really, really wanted it to be real.

Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.

Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~

You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.

“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”

a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖

[toraluvs]

i’m so so so in love with this trope and this storyline. i already love the dynamic between the found jjk family and i’m so excited to see more of their relationship and how reader fits into it all… ahhhh i can’t wait for part 2 !!! 😭😭😭

[starlightkun]

➺ word count: 15.7k ➺ genre & warnings: fluff, strangers to lovers, modern magical creatures au, college au, siren shotaro, human reader, same universe as strawberry sunday; starts off with some drowning and a scene in a hospital (no needles or anything!), shotaro strips (to his underwear, not fully) in front of reader for siren transformation purposes not sexy reasons, uhm LOWKEY(?) monsterfucker vibes but NO smut as always i promise i just wanted to give y’all fair warning that the vibes are… different in this one lol ➺ synopsis: in which you’re saved from a near-drowning by friendly siren shotaro, who also happens to be the cute bobarista that had caught your eye at the boba tea place near campus. everything seems to be falling into place in the bubbly beginnings of your new relationship, but you just can’t shake the image of the sea monster that you swore you saw that day in the murky ocean depths ➺ extra info: this work is set in the same universe as strawberry sunday but can be read as a standalone! there is no continuing plotline between fics in this universe, they simply take place in the same world/magic system and may have overlapping characters (neos may pop up in more than one work!) ➺ author’s note: bye what even are those tags im sorry y’all. look i love this fic but there’s something about sirens that just make me need to write little freaks (reader/renjun in dr. magic, and now reader in this fic). it’s mostly cute and fluffy but then takes a sharp turn into freakdom. taro isn’t a little freak but he’s 100% supportive of reader letting their freak flag fly

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ explore the strawberry sunday universe more here!

What felt like a hand grabbed your arm, and you involuntary screamed, the rest of your air escaping in a burst of bubbles as your eyes flew open. Something monstrous had a hold on you, flashes of pale skin, reflective eyes, long claws, and sharp teeth all you could see in the dark water.

The old fishing pier required caution to navigate even on the calmest of summer days. No railings, and it wasn’t well-maintained, so there were the occasional splinters, nails, or loose wood panels. But you knew that, you came here all the time. Which was why you thought you thought you could do this in the first place.

You had gone to the beach in the middle of winter by yourself, and instead of just being content with all the pictures that you took from walking up and down the shoreline, decided that getting on the old fishing pier was a good idea. There were a couple boats further out that you wanted to get a better shot of, if you could just get a little closer. So you inched towards the end of the pier, sea spray from the waves crashing against the pilings hitting your face. There was ice that had been built up from layers of sea spray continuously freezing over itself. Which you realized exactly as your foot hit a patch of it and you slid right off the edge.

Panic shot through you as the freezing cold ocean swallowed you immediately. You kicked your feet in your heavy winter boots and desperately paddled to try to get back up. Your head broke the surface for just a second, and you tried to gulp in any air that you could, but were cut off by a violent wave, inhaling saltwater as the turbulent seas pushed and pulled you down again. All your thick clothes that had been keeping you warm in the cold air were now soaked through and weighing you down, down. You were already exhausted. You stopped trying to swim and instead started pulling off whatever you could reach. First your gloves, then you tried to undo the knots on your boots by feel, but your fingers were frozen and bumbling.

You squinted your eyes open, the ocean water stinging, to try to see anything that you were doing. It was dark, you were sinking further and further down. You were so tired from fighting the water that you couldn’t even lift your leg towards your face to see it. You’d have to leave your boots on. As you went to unzip your overcoat next, a movement caught your gaze. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest. There was something large swimming nearby, and you prayed it wasn’t going to get curious.

You were getting lightheaded now, fumbling with your zipper as you tried to work faster with the fear of whatever that was doubling up on your fear of drowning. Your eyes burned too much, and you closed them as you continued fighting with your zipper. Your lungs felt like they were on fire, and you held back the urge to cough up the saltwater you had swallowed earlier.

What felt like a hand grabbed your arm, and you involuntary screamed, the rest of your air escaping in a burst of bubbles as your eyes flew open. Something monstrous had a hold on you, flashes of pale skin, reflective eyes, long claws, and sharp teeth all you could see in the dark water. Black spots began to fill your already blurry vision, and you—

You were hacking up seawater, scrambling onto your side on the rocky shoreline to not immediately inhale it again. Your fingers and toes were numb, everything that you could feel was freezing cold, made even worse by the seabreeze whipping by.

“There you go,” a relieved voice said from beside you as a hand patted your back firmly. “Water out, air in.”

After you finished spitting the saltiness out, you turned your head to see who was next to you. Your head was still spinning, but you were pretty sure it was a young man about your age, dressed for the beach—in swim trunks. He offered you a bright smile, pushing some of his dripping wet hair out of his face.

“Take a few deep breaths. You should probably get checked out. Hypothermia, dry drowning, all that. You know?”

You weakly tried to sit up, and he helped you with a hand on your back. It took you a few inhales to get enough air to talk. “Were—” You sounded winded and hoarse, and every word hurt. “Were you… swimming?”

“Were you?” He laughed.

“Obviously not!” You huffed, gesturing to your outfit. “I fell in!”

“I didn’t see another car in the parking lot. Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

You patted your jeans pocket to find that your phone had somehow stayed put through this whole ordeal. Pushing the power button, that was where your luck ended. The screen stayed dark. It was entirely waterlogged. You groaned.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

The man stood up first, then grabbed your arm to help you to your feet. You thought about the creature you saw underwater, and looked back to the ocean.

“What happened?” You asked him.

“I pulled you out,” he said matter-of-factly. As he looked you up and down, a ray of sunlight finally peeked through the gray cloud cover, catching on a patch of iridescent pink scales on the tip of his button nose. “Can you walk?”

“Oh, you’re a siren,” you realized belatedly. “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

You hesitated to tell him about the sea monster now, feeling a bit silly as his wide eyes searched your face with great concern. Shaking your head, you changed the subject. “Nothing, I don’t know. What’s your name?”

“Shotaro.” He beamed at you again, and you spotted the telltale extra cuspids that sirens had. “And my roommate Sungchan is actually waiting up in the car, so it should be nice and toasty for you.”

“I’m Y/N.”

“Can you walk okay, Y/N?” Shotaro asked again.

“I-I think. I can’t really feel my feet though…” You admitted.

“Here.” He offered his arm out to you. “In case you trip.”

You grabbed his forearm with two hands, already feeling more stable. “Thanks.”

The two of you shuffled across the rocky shore, then up the barely-there path marked by thin posts that once had ropes tied between them that had long disintegrated. Finally, you reached the three parking spaces by the road that were technically for people who were coming to the old fishing pier and accompanying stretch of shore. It obviously wasn’t a popular destination. There was only one car there, an SUV that was a few years old, running with its lights on, the driver slumped down in his seat with one foot up on the dashboard as he scrolled on his phone. He must have seen you two approaching the car in the corner of his vision, glancing up before he scrambled to get out.

“Uh, Taro, what—”

“Sungchan, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Sungchan,” Shotaro made quick introductions. “Y/N needs to get the hospital before she freezes to death.”

Sungchan’s eyes went wide, and he rushed back towards the car. “Okay, shit, yeah.”

“Towels—”

“Yep.”

Sungchan fetched a couple towels from the trunk, wrapping one around your shoulders as Shotaro started patting your hair dry with another. You pulled the towel tighter around you, grateful to have something dry to block the wind with.

“Thanks, guys.” You offered them both a shaky smile.

“That’s good enough, let’s get you to the hospital,” Shotaro declared, opening the backseat. He didn’t move for you to climb in, though, instead grabbing another heavy winter overcoat from inside and giving it to you. “Since yours is at the bottom of the ocean now.”

You didn’t even realize that your jackets were nowhere to be found, only your knit sweater and longsleeve under that left up top. In no place to turn down some warmth, you took it, cringing at the feeling of stuffing the damp, cold material on your arms into the dry sleeves. But it was something.

Shotaro opened the front passenger door then, and nodded for you to get in. Sungchan turned the heat all the way up before speeding away from the pier. You held your hands in front of an air vent, slowly getting feeling back in your fingers. Your skin began to tingle painfully, and you pulled away, rubbing at the area.

“Do you not know how to drive?” Your question was directed at Shotaro, who was in the backseat, a t-shirt hanging around his neck as he rooted around the floor for the rest of his clothes.

“What? Why do you think that?” He chuckled, tugging his shirt the rest of the way on.

“You didn’t drive yourself here, but Sungchan was just sitting in the car doing nothing. I figured he didn’t come to enjoy the beach…”

The driver laughed. “Yeah.”

“I can drive,” the siren clarified. “He just tags along because he’s paranoid.”

“No, it’s not paranoia if it’s already happened,” his friend argued.

“They outlawed fishing in this area!”

“Murder is illegal and yet somehow that still happens too! Sorry I don’t want you getting poached, dude!”

Feeling bad that you had apparently touched on a contentious subject for the two of them, you scrambled to think of something to say, but Shotaro spoke before you could.

“I wasn’t paying attention when I was out for a swim one time and ended up getting grazed by a longline being pulled in. I didn’t even see the fishing boat, it was so far away from me,” Shotaro explained to you. “Sungchan comes with just in case now.”

“So you were swimming.”

“Walking down the path when I saw you slip, yeah.”

“Good timing.”

“How did you get out there anyway?” Sungchan asked. “To the pier.”

“I rode my bike. I hid it in some bushes by the parking lot so it didn’t get stolen.” After you finished talking, you covered your mouth with the end of the dry jacket sleeve and blew hot air out against it to warm your lips up.

Shotaro jerked around in his seat to look out the back window. “Dude, isn’t the hospital the other way?”

“They don’t have a human unit at that one,” his friend responded. “Closest human ER is this way.”

“Oh.”

“Good thing I came today, or else he would’ve been driving you in circles,” Sungchan joked to you, making a big show out of sighing and shaking his head.

You chuckled into the jacket sleeve, which turned into you choking up a few more mouthfuls of water into the material. You tried to use the end of the towel around your waist to dab at it and your mouth. “Uck… I’m sorry, Shotaro.”

“It’s fine, Y/N,” the siren reassured you from the backseat. “Sungchan, how close are we?”

“Like a minute away.”

Soon enough, you were pulling up in front of the loop of an emergency room, and Shotaro was helping you out as Sungchan went to park the car. The ER was surprisingly quiet, and you were taken back for triage right after signing in. You still weren’t so steady on your feet, especially now that you were no longer numb and were just shivering cold. The temperature of the hospital wasn’t helping either. You weren’t in your soaking wet clothes anymore, thankfully, but the thin hospital gown you’d been provided was no better. The nurse had given you socks and piled on heated blankets to fend off hypothermia, but it was going to take some time for the shivers to stop, you figured.

You’d told the nurse as she left that Shotaro and Sungchan could come back—if they were still there. You didn’t know them, but it was better than nobody, you figured. And sure enough, one familiar head poked around your curtain, followed by another.

“Hey…” Shotaro smiled, walking up to your cot. “What’d they say?”

“Got me on oxygen for now, took some blood, and we’re waiting to do a chest x-ray to check for fluid in my lungs, just in case,” you reported, tapping the cannula in your nose. “But she said everything sounded pretty good when she listened with just the stethoscope. Also need to warm up a bit.”

Sungchan hovered a hand over the mound of blankets on top of you. “Heated blankets, nice.”

“Your jacket is right there, Shotaro.” You nodded to where the garment had been folded up and set on a stool next to your gurney.

“Sorry, hold on.” Sungchan held up his buzzing phone indicatively, stepping back out of the curtains.

“Do you want to call someone?” Shotaro offered, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Since yours is busted.”

“I would, except I don’t know anybody’s phone numbers…” You sighed. “They were all saved in my contacts.”

“That’s… Actually, I don’t think I know Sungchan’s number now that I think about it.”

You squinted up at Shotaro, at his pink scales and dark eyes that flashed amber in the lights. He tilted his head curiously back at you, and you tried to picture a baseball cap atop his dark brown hair and a matching apron over his clothes.

“Weird question…”

The corner of his lips twitched with amusement. “Go for it.”

“Do you work at a boba tea place?”

His eyebrows lifted as he seemed momentarily surprised before he laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Jasmine & Pearl. You been?”

“A couple times,” you confirmed. Maybe more than a couple times, and maybe you had mentioned the cute siren bobarista with the pink scales at the boba tea place near campus to your roommate enough that she had started pestering you to actually talk to him past putting in your order or thanking him when grabbing your drink, but you were not going to say any of that now. “I couldn’t tell if the déjà vu was real or like brain damage or something from the drowning.”

“Real.” He laughed again. “So what were you even doing out there? Since you obviously weren’t swimming?”

“Taking pictures. As stupid as that seems now.”

“I’m sure they would’ve turned out great.”

You looked at your waterlogged phone that the nurse had set aside for you. “I’m still hoping some rice can save it…”

Sungchan reentered the curtained-off area, brushing away snow that had already begun to melt on his hair and shoulders. “Started snowing while I was out there. Want to go roll around, Taro?”

“Maybe later,” the siren replied humorously, though the joke was lost on you.

“Oh, damn, I forgot to grab you another jacket, Y/N,” he cursed, jabbing his thumb behind him in the direction he had just come from. “Since Taro’s is wet. Do you need one now? You’ll at least need it when we leave. I should grab it now so it’s not cold when you put it on.”

You looked between them uncertainly. “I-I don’t know how long they’re going to keep me. You guys have done plenty, I mean…”

“Your phone is dead, you don’t know anybody’s numbers to call… I understand if you don’t want us to stay because we’re two random guys, but don’t tell me you really plan on walking back to your bike after this?” Shotaro recounted your current predicament incredulously.

“At least let me go get your bike and bring it here for you,” Sungchan offered. “It’s in the bushes by the parking lot, right?”

“I—Well, yeah…” You nodded.

Shotaro kept you company while Sungchan went back to the pier. He didn’t make you talk, which you were grateful for, as your chest still hurt. Instead, he went on about this or that, and you only gave your input every so often.

The nurse came back before Sungchan did, informing you that it was finally your turn for the x-ray machine. She had a wheelchair with her to transport you, which you slowly moved over to, goosebumps flaring up at being out from under the warm blankets.

“Do you want me to come?” Shotaro offered as he moved one of your blankets over to the wheelchair with you.

Right as you had started nodding, the nurse spoke up, “Sorry, we can’t have anybody else in there. It’s the radiation.”

“Right.” He had the same easy-going smile on his face as always. “I’ll wait here, then.”

In the radiology room, the nurse stopped your wheelchair. As she helped you onto two feet and over to the table where the images would be taken, she questioned, “How did this happen again, Y/N?”

“How did I drown?” You asked in confusion, the question punctuated by a weak cough. Catching your breath as she got you a short stepstool to climb onto the table, you then sat down, suddenly feeling awkward under her attentive gaze as she nodded. You repeated the same thing you and Shotaro had told the receptionist, triage nurse, this nurse, and the attending doctor, “I was at the old fishing pier and it was icy and I slipped off into the water. My clothes were too heavy and I couldn’t get back up. Thankfully, Shotaro saw me and pulled me out.”

She made a noncommittal noise, then began instructing you on how to lay for the first set of imaging. After, she took you back to your bed, and you were happy to bury yourself back under the mound of heated blankets.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Shotaro asked, tucking you back in.

“The attending will be back with the results,” the nurse informed the both of you, gaze lingering on where he was helping you with the blankets before she ducked out of the curtains.

“I don’t think she believed me,” you sighed once you were fairly certain she was out of earshot. “About falling off the dock. Which, I know it’s stupid of me, but like, what else could have—”

“You came in with a siren,” Shotaro reminded you, pulling up the stool to sit on.

“Yeah, but I doubt she actually—”

“They asked me for a venom sample while you were getting x-rayed.”

Your jaw dropped. “Well that’s fucked! There’s not even going to be any venom in my blood to compare it to! And that’s if you even gave a sample! You didn’t—”

“I did.” He held his hands up in a gesture for you to calm down. “Just like you said, it’s not going to show anything.”

“Yeah, but they’re practically accusing you of trying to kill me!”

“Which we know is ridiculous, because we were there.” He pointed between you two. “But they don’t. They’re medical professionals who are just looking out for you, their patient.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “When you put it like that…”

“It almost sounds reasonable, huh?” He snickered.

“Yeah, almost.”

“It’s just a little venom, it doesn’t hurt me or anything,” he continued with a shrug. “Just… Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course! You literally saved my life today.”

Shotaro peeked through the curtains at the ER entrance, then snapped them shut, turning back to you with big, imploring eyes. “Don’t tell Sungchan about them testing you for my venom? Or any of that, okay?”

“Uh, okay?” You agreed, though the confusion in your voice made it sound like a question. “Why?”

“You saw how he got with the fishing line thing earlier, remember?”

“He cares about you?”

“He has a hard time letting things go.” He added with a smirk, “He’s a dog with a bone.”

“Gotcha. I’ll hold this grudge for the both of you, then.”

“Not exactly what I meant, but I’ll take it.”

A phone buzzed then, and Shotaro brought his out. “Ah, speaking of…” He answered the call that had lit up his screen. “Hey, man. Oh, sure.” He held it out to you. “It’s for you. Sungchan.”

You put the phone up to your own ear, already hearing the wind on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Y/N, hey. It’s Sungchan,” said the familiar voice on the call. “I’m at the parking lot. Where exactly is your bike? I cannot find it for the goddamn life of me.”

After talking him through finding your bike hiding spot, you finally heard a victorious scream from him, and ripped the phone away from your ear to protect your eardrum. He puffed with exertion—presumably carrying the bike out of the bushes—then groaned, “Anybody who could actually find this fucking thing deserves to keep it. What the fuck, dude?”

“Please don’t keep my bike,” you joked weakly.

“Fine, I think you’ve been through enough today,” he relented, accompanied by the sound of his trunk shutting. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.”

“See you.” And he hung up.

You handed Shotaro’s phone back to him. “He’s on his way back.”

Shotaro pocketed his phone, then after a beat, cocked his head. “Do you know how to drive?”

“What?”

“You rode your bike out to the pier in this weather. And you already asked me, I think it’s only fair I ask you.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I know how to drive, I just… don’t like it. Other cars on the road scare me.”

“And you feel safer on a bicycle around all those other cars?”

“That’s not what I mean.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you tried to think of how to explain it. “I don’t like driving something that big… and knowing that all those other cars have other people in them that could get hurt if there was an accident, or God forbid a pedestrian or something… It freaks me out. I haven’t gotten behind the wheel since I got my license.”

“I think most people forget that other cars have people in them, actually,” he mused. “They’re just… cars.”

You shook your head. “I never… could do that.”

“You would probably be a much better driver than most people on the road.”

“You’d think. I just piss everyone off, which makes me panic even more. I’m fine on the bus. Or walking. Or on my bike.”

“Rollerblades?”

“After what you saw today, you want to strap wheels on my feet?”

He laughed loudly, keeling forward a little as his shoulders shook. “Right, my bad.”

“Thank you for saving me, Shotaro,” you said earnestly, watching as he quickly sobered up. “I don’t think I’ve really said that yet. Thanks, for pulling me out, and taking me here, and waiting around with me and making sure I’m okay.”

“Ah, well…” He smiled down at his lap, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for not dying. Would’ve been pretty awkward for me. Siren pulling a dead girl out of the water…”

“Not a great look, yeah,” you chuckled. “I still think that’s fucked. Thinking that you were trying to drown me just because you’re a siren.”

“You ever watched cop shows? Who’s the first person they check at a murder scene?”

“The husband. The wife. The butler.”

“All true. But I meant the person who found the body.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of holding this grudge.”

“Yeah, I was getting that feeling.”

“What other kind of shows do you like? Besides cop shows?”

“I didn’t say I liked them,” he clarified. “But I need background noise when I do stuff. Formulaic crime procedurals with like a bajillion episodes are perfect.”

You laughed a little at this, covering your mouth when you coughed in the middle. “Fair. So what do you like, then? When you’re actually paying attention, instead of just for background noise.”

He frowned, patting your back and fluffing up your pillows with an intense focus. “Are you alright? That didn’t sound—”

“It sounded just like all my other coughs, I’m fine. You’re avoiding my question,” you declared, grabbing his hands so he couldn’t keep fussing. “Come on, I’ll tell you my embarrassing TV habit.”

Shotaro sighed. “Fine. You first.”

“Nuh-uh. You first.”

“You offered—”

“Uhm, who just almost drowned and died?”

“You’re seriously going to pull the ‘I-just-drowned’ card?”

“Yup.”

“Well, who just saved you from drowning and almost dying?”

“And here I thought that was a selfless act.” You gasped teasingly.

“No, this was actually all an elaborate plot to find out your embarrassing TV habit.”

“Fine, fine.” You gave in with a big, dramatic sigh. “I actually do watch an old detective show that my dad likes. It hasn’t been on in like forty years.”

“What show?”

“Clawumbo.”

Shotaro started forward, “How is that embarrassing at all? You like… a beloved TV show? Gods, Y/N, you’re a freak indeed!”

“Shut up!” You whined, smacking one of his hands that was already in your hold. “I’m baring my soul here, Shotaro! You’re the only person who knows other than my parents and my roommate!”

“Why do you think that’s so weird? It’s a good show, I think, from what I remember, from older people talking about it.”

“Exactly! Nobody our age watches it!”

“How do you know I’m your age?” He grinned. “Besides, I’m sure you could totally bond with a very nice vampire who loved Clawumbo at your age.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Sort of. But I’m also sort of serious. Isn’t that what’s great about living here?”

“Your turn.”

“Alright. I love The Real Sirens franchise. Every iteration, spin-off, I’ve seen them all.”

You knew you were staring. And blinking very fast. But it was taking everything in you to not laugh.

“You can laugh,” he said, eyes on the vitals monitor behind you. “You’re holding your breath trying not to, and I’m watching your O2 sat go down. Laugh before they think you’re dying.”

You finally burst into giggles that hurt your chest, coughing in between breaths. Shotaro patted your back firmly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I’m not laughing at you!” You tried to defend yourself as you wheezed. “I was caught off-guard, okay? I promise!”

“I’ll try not to take it personally.”

Someone entered the curtain then, announcing, “Bike is secure, and—What…?” Sungchan had stopped midsentence, gaze focused on where you were still sandwiching one of Shotaro’s hands between both of yours, and his other was resting on your back.

“She was coughing, dude,” Shotaro immediately said.

You let out a couple more hacking sounds for believability.

Sungchan opted to move on, shaking a coat that was in his hand. “Anyway, grabbed an extra jacket for you.”

“Thanks,” you said, reaching for it.

“Actually, you should take this one.” He unzipped the one he was wearing and started shimmying it off. “It’ll be warmer.”

“I’d offer you mine, but he’s actually warm and fuzzy,” Shotaro added, gesturing to his own hoodie. You had half a mind to comment on the fact that you were pretty sure he only had a t-shirt under it.

“Dude, come on,” his friend groaned, handing you the jacket.

“What…?” You looked between them, slipping your arms into the incredibly warm garment.

Shotaro ended your confusion swiftly. “He’s a werewolf.”

“Oh. Warm and fuzzy, ha,” you snickered softly, pulling either side of the jacket tight around you.

“You don’t have to laugh at his bad jokes, Y/N. Seriously,” Sungchan told you, putting on the extra coat he’d brought.

“Yes you do.” Shotaro zipped the jacket up for you. “If you think it’s funny. And especially if it’s at Sungchan’s expense.”

You giggled at the exasperated but fond eyeroll that Sungchan did.

The attending doctor finally came back to tell you that your x-ray looked fine, and that you’d been in the ER long enough to count as the required amount of time for observation, so she was releasing you. You were given a packet of information telling you if anything else happened to come back to the ER, and a reminder to follow up with your primary care doctor in a few days.

“Are you seriously going to bike home?” Sungchan asked skeptically as the three of you walked out of the hospital. A few inches of snow had fallen while you were inside, covering everything in a white blanket. “All this snow…”

“Could you give me a ride?” You asked sheepishly, tugging at the ends of Sungchan’s jacket arms from where they covered your hands. The hospital had given you your damp clothes in a bag and a spare pair of sweatpants and a longsleeve to wear out. “I don’t think I could get back home from here without my phone maps…”

“Of course.” He started leading the way towards his car, and you grabbed Shotaro’s elbow as you eyed the icy ground. “What’s your address?”

“If you can get us to Jasmine & Pearl, I can direct you from there,” you said, eyes glued to where you were putting your feet. “For some reason, maps apps always get turned around trying to get to my place.”

“Hey, Taro works there,” Sungchan commented, entering the address into his phone with one hand and unlocking his SUV with the other.

“I know. I recognized him. Kinda. Not really.” You tried to play it cool.

“Do you go to the university in town too?” The werewolf asked. “Most of the customers are students since it’s close to campus.”

“Yep—Ah!” You yelped as your feet slid on the ice, but thankfully Shotaro kept you upright. He pulled you to safety, and you let out a sigh of relief when your shoes were on more textured ground. “I almost died. Again.”

“How many times a day does that usually happen to you?” Shotaro questioned.

“This is a new record.”

“Maybe it’s our fault,” Sungchan suggested, getting in the driver’s seat. “We’re like your bad luck charms.”

Shotaro opened the front door for you again, but you shook your head, grabbing the door handle for the backseat and climbing in yourself. He froze outside the car for a second before Sungchan yelled at him.

“Come on man! You’re letting all the heat out!”

The siren obliged, hopping into the passenger seat, and you all buckled in before Sungchan took off.

“Where was your little demon today, again?” Shotaro asked his friend.

“She has a name—”

“Mm, pretty sure she prefers little demon, actually.”

Sungchan laughed and gave in, “You know, probably. Club meeting. They were finishing the calendar for this semester I think.”

“So she and the dryads were chatting shit.”

“When are they not?”

“You’re going to her place tonight, right?”

“Yeah, Taro, unfortunately you won’t have an opportunity to harass my girlfriend—”

“She literally cyberbullies me? And real-life bullies me?”

“First of all, I’m staying out of this. Second, you guys bully each other. Even before we started dating. So yeah, I’m staying out of it.”

“You do not stay out of it, you’ve always taken her side. Even before you started dating.”

Sungchan pretended to scratch his chin as if deep in thought. “Huh. Wow. Wonder if that has anything to do with like… being in love with her?”

“Boo! Lame!” Shotaro shook a thumbs-down in his friend’s face.

Sungchan pushed it away as he snickered. “Dude! You want me to crash? Y/N’s already almost died twice today.”

“Maybe you were onto something earlier,” you interjected. “I think you two are bad luck charms.”

Shotaro took his hand out of Sungchan’s face, letting the driver navigate much easier. Eventually, you were pulling up in front of Jasmine & Pearl.

“So, where to next?” Sungchan asked.

“Thanks for everything, guys,” you said, opening the back door and sliding out onto the curb.

“What?” “What are you doing?”

“I can get home from here,” you informed them. “I mean, you still are two random dudes.”

Walking around to the back of the car, you called out, “Can you pop the trunk?”

Sungchan obliged, and you grabbed your bike handles to start tugging it out. You heard a door open and shut, then Shotaro was there, grabbing the back wheel and helping you.

“Thanks,” you offered him a breathless smile, wheeling the bike up onto the sidewalk.

“No helmet?” The siren asked, looking you up and down.

“I guess Sungchan didn’t find it. I’ll walk,” you promised. “See you, Shotaro.”

“Alright. See you, Y/N.” He patted your shoulder, then hopped back into the car.

Sungchan gave you a final honk of his horn, then pulled away from the shop. You took a second to gain your bearings, then started walking your bike, as promised, in the familiar direction of your apartment. You usually hiked up the stairs with it, but decided to risk getting in trouble with your building management just once and took it on the elevator. Thankfully, you were the only person, and hit the button for the third floor. Your keys also miraculously weren’t at the bottom of the ocean, so you were able to let yourself in, propping your bike up in your entryway.

“Did you get my text? About the bagels?” Your roommate Sooyoung called from the couch, not looking up from her computer. “Also, took you long enough, I was starting to think you got hit by a car or something.”

“Not exactly,” you replied weakly.

She finally snapped her gaze over to you, eyes going wide as she stood up and rushed to your side. “Y/N! Blessed Hecate, what happened to you?!”

“I fell off the pier…” You explained sheepishly. “I got checked out at a hospital. I’m-I’m fine, Sooz. It’s kind of a long story—Can I get changed first? And like, shower…?”

“Fuckin, yeah! Go!” She pushed you towards your room.

“Oh, can you put my phone in some rice or something?” You held the device out to her. “I want to try to save it.”

“I’ve got it,” she promised, still pushing you. “Now go!”

Lying in bed that night, bundled up under your warm blankets, you saw the sea monster on the backs of your eyelids. Your hand rubbed over your arm where it had grabbed you, where you could still feel it. You sighed as you tried to piece together the disjointed glimpses that you got of it as you were sinking closer to unconsciousness. You were so certain there had been something down there, but Shotaro didn’t seem to know what you were talking about. Maybe it heard him coming and swam off before he got to you. The claws that had wrapped around you were pale, but there was some larger, dark form behind it. The rest of its body? A tail of some sort? Some of the pieces that you had were almost eerily human, like the hand that had reached for you, but others were undeniably monstrous, like the razor-sharp teeth.

You kicked off your covers, groaning as your feet took you across your room to your desk. Folding your legs up in the chair with you, you clicked on your desk lamp to illuminate the sketchbook and pencil already sitting there. Half-asleep, you let your mind turn over the sea monster again, sketching out all the disparate parts that swam in your memory until finally, your eyelids were drooping, and your head was far too heavy for your hand to hold up anymore.

It was the first day of classes of Spring Semester, and you only had two classes. On your way back to your apartment after your second class, you made an intentional detour. Jasmine & Pearl didn’t have any other customers, which was sensible, as it definitely was not iced tea or slushy weather outside. When the bell above the door rang to announce your arrival, the slumped-over employee behind the counter shot to attention, pocketing his phone. And you were just in luck, as Shotaro’s familiar pink scales flashed with his jerky movements, and his dark eyes widened with surprise.

“Y/N, hey,” he greeted you brightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Good, the chest pain is all gone, got cleared by my doctor yesterday,” you said. “Thanks again, Shotaro.”

“Oh, you know…” He trailed off with a bashful smile, scratching the back of his head.

You shrugged off one strap of your backpack and opened it, pulling out the jacket that you had inadvertently taken home with you the other day. Holding it out over the counter, you said, “Here’s Sungchan’s jacket, by the way. I washed it.”

He accepted it, folding it over his arm. “Thanks.”

“So, do you have classes today?”

“No, just practice later tonight. My class schedule is stacked on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What about you?”

“I just finished.”

Shotaro glanced at the clock on the wall, then said, “My uh, my shift ends in like, ten minutes. If you want to wait?”

“Oh, sure.” You looked up at the menu board above his head. “Can I get a coconut milk tea while I’m here?”

“Of course.”

You started digging around in your bag for your wallet. “Hold on—”

“On the house.”

“What? But I’m supposed to owe you one, not—”

“I get a free drink every shift. And I want to give you this one.” He turned around to start making the drink.

Defeated, you put your wallet away and zipped up your backpack again. Shotaro plopped the drink in front of you when he was done, and you grabbed a straw.

“Thanks.” You stabbed the straw through the top, meandering around the area in front of the register to stretch your legs. “You don’t get a lot of customers this time of year, do you?”

“Not particularly. Mostly the dedicated regulars and for special events.”

“What’s your major?”

“Fine Art. Dance. What about you?”

You furrowed your brow at this revelation. “Wait, what year are you?”

“Senior.”

“Huh. I’m also a senior. Uh, art. I draw, mostly. I was just thinking it’s kind of weird that I haven’t at least run into you in the Fine Arts building before. I mean, it’s pretty small, you know?”

“Maybe we’ve always just been passing ships in the night.”

You squinted at him. “Was that a… nautical pun on purpose?”

“You loved my joke about Sungchan being warm and fuzzy the other day.” He crossed his arms.

“Loved is a strong word.”

“Speaking of ocean—Were you able to resurrect your phone?”

“Yes, a little rice, a little chanting from my witch roommate and it’s like it never took a swim.” You proudly showed off the fact that you could now turn it on.

“How’d the photos come out?”

You opened your camera roll, swiping through to first one to show him. “Not bad.”

“So is it for a project or something?” He asked, looking up from the screen to you, letting you control the phone.

“I don’t know. I take a lot of pictures of stuff that I think I’ll use as reference. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.” You stopped on one that had the far-off boats and waves crashing against each other nicely. “I think it’d be a good for graphite or charcoal or something. Since it’s practically already black-and-white.”

“It’s really cool.” He added earnestly, “I’d like to see it, if you ever make something with the pictures you took.”

You sipped on your drink, smiling faintly as you pretended to think. “Mm, maybe.”

“So, uhm, did you see that the theater is doing a limited screening of the Clawumbo movie?”

“Wait, really?” You couldn’t help the jump of excitement in your voice. “Like, the original TV movie that became the unofficial pilot?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He took his phone out, typing fervently.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. That’s crazy, it never even got a theatrical release in the first place.”

“Must be a lot more Clawumbo fans around here than you thought,” he said teasingly. “There’s a showing in half an hour, if you want to go?”

“We would be the youngest ones there by decades,” you pointed out.

“So? You can just say you’re a vampire if you’re that embarrassed.”

“My eyes aren’t red.”

“It’ll be dark in the theater, they won’t be able to see.”

You took another sip of your tea. “It would be really cool…”

Shotaro looked at you with his big, round expectant eyes, and you caved.

“Let’s do it.”

After Shotaro’s coworker came in to take over for the next shift, the two of you set off together. As soon as you left the warm confines of the boba shop, you were hit by a cold gust, reminding you exactly what season it was.

“Brr. That wind,” you shivered for emphasis, stuffing your hands in the pockets of your coat.

“Do you need Sungchan’s jacket again?” Shotaro offered the garment out to you.

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” you laughed, the words coming out as white puffs in the air. “Got my own today.”

He surprisingly didn’t put it on himself, keeping it folded over his arm, despite only wearing a t-shirt. Shotaro took a deep breath in before exhaling pleasantly. “I love the smell of winter. It’s my favorite time of year.”

“Wait, really?” You tilted your head curiously. “I thought sirens liked warm temperatures, like dragons.”

“Most do. Tropical and freshwater sirens do.”

“You’re…?”

“An Arctic siren. I love the cold,” he explained happily.

“Ohh…” You nodded slowly, many, many things now clicking into place in your mind. “So does it kinda feel like home?”

“I’ve never been to the Arctic, actually. I was born here. But everything’s still… too warm sometimes.” He said. “I have to take ice baths in the summer on really hot days. It freaks Sungchan out every time, he always thinks I’m going to get hypothermia somehow. At least I didn’t cost us our security deposit because I chewed up the carpet.”

You hadn’t grown up in the most diverse neighborhood, admittedly, most of your childhood friends being either humans or witches (like Sooyoung). But your high school was a bit more integrated, and you always wanted to know more. This was the first time you’d even heard of there being different kinds of sirens.

“Is there anything else different about Arctic sirens?”

“We… look pretty different, since we’re adapted for different conditions than sirens meant for warmer waters,” Shotaro admitted, picking at one of his nails. “When we’re actually more fishy, you know.”

“I’ve seen sirens at the beach before. Their tails were gorgeous, every color of the rainbow,” you recalled with awe.

“You probably saw tropical sirens then.”

Your eyes trailed over his nose, the apples of his cheeks, and even the tips of his ears, where patches of iridescent pink glimmered in the direct sunlight. Since the sun was no longer hiding today, you could map out exactly where the scales were. “Is your tail pink? Like your scales?”

“My scales are pink?” He asked bluntly, reminding you an awful lot of when you were on the beach and you had asked him if he had gone swimming when he clearly did.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you messing with me?”

“No, I—” He faltered, expression softening as his eyes darted around. He seemed to be trying to figure out how to explain something. He settled on, “Arctic sirens are deep sea creatures, so I can see in the dark a lot better, but that means I can’t see as many colors. I don’t even really know what ‘pink’ is…”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” he reassured you with an easygoing smile. “Color is… whatever to me. I never really cared about it.”

“Anyway, yes, your scales are pink. The same pink as…” You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to think of a good comparison for someone who’s never seen pink. “The way the watermelon guava slush at Jasmine & Pearl tastes!”

Shotaro cocked his head and closed one eye as he seemed to turn over your comparison in his mind, then finally chuckled. “Alright, I’ll take it. It’s a good color? You like it?”

“Yep, it’s super cute!” You promised.

“I think you’re super cute too.” He grinned and nudged your elbow.

“That’s not what I—!” Your jaw dropped as you sputtered over the sudden shift in tone of the conversation. “You—!”

“I…?” He echoed teasingly. “What?”

“You do owe me, actually.” You crossed your arms and looked away from him, trying to ignore the tug in your chest to turn and look at his smile.

“Wait, what?” That clearly wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “For what?”

“My jackets that are now on the bottom of the ocean somewhere. That trenchcoat was my favorite, you know.”

“Oh, and saving your life wasn’t enough?”

“My favorite.”

“I see, of course.” He hummed and tapped his chin. “Boba and paying for your ticket won’t be enough, I presume?”

“Nope.”

“And if I buy you popcorn at the theater?”

“Mm…”

“What if… we got dinner after? And I paid?”

“Getting there…” You sighed pensively.

“We could go on another date? When are you free?”

“This is a date?!” You hated the squeak in your voice as you stared at him with wide eyes.

“Could be,” Shotaro said. “Up to you.”

Fidgeting with the straps of your bookbag, you mumbled, “Okay, sure.”

“Your pick for the next one, then. Arcade, picnic, theme park.” He listed off some ideas as the movie theater came into view. “Think on it.”

Sure enough, Shotaro paid for your ticket, during which you couldn’t even make eye contact with the employee in the box office as he requested two tickets for Clawumbo. After, you two stopped off at the snacks to get two small servings of popcorn: butter for you, and a kelp & fish flavor for Shotaro. The theater that would be screening Clawumbo was, unsurprisingly, pretty empty, so you two got your choice of seats. You were never one for the front rows, hating how you had to crane your neck to see everything, so you picked one a little further back to be able to comfortably view the whole screen.

“What does yours taste like?” You asked Shotaro after watching him stuff a whole handful of popcorn in his mouth.

He chewed, swallowed, then answered, “I mean, fishy. If you like salt and vinegar chips, you might like it. You want to try it?”

You looked between him and the popcorn dusted with green flakes skeptically. But your curiosity got the best of you, and you delicately secured one kernel between your pointer finger and thumb. Before doing anything else, you questioned, “Have any of your non-siren friends ever had it?”

“Just try it,” he urged you.

You tossed the piece of popcorn into your mouth without any further fanfare or hesitation. The taste immediately hit you, overwhelmingly salty like you had just gulped down ocean water again, this time followed by a vinegary brine that instinctively made your mouth water in response to try to wash it out. You tried to control your face as much as possible, to not let your features immediately recoil. You knew that your nose was still scrunching a little bit as you chewed and finally forced yourself to swallow it.

Opening your eyes that had screwed shut, you gave Shotaro a sheepish smile and head shake. “Not for me, I think.”

He was already hiding his own giggles behind his hand, holding his popcorn bucket between his knees to pat you on the back with his other hand. “I appreciate you trying, and I’m so sorry. And I’m extra sorry that I kind of want to see you do that again because the face you made was really cute.”

“Oh, you’re a pest,” you huffed, pushing off his arm.

“A pest?!” He echoed through laughter, slumped against his theater seat as he clutched his stomach.

“You heard me.”

“I said I was extra sorry,” he pleaded. “Seriously, I think it’s cool that you wanted to try something new.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alright, alright.”

The lights went down all the way as the previews turned into the opening sequence. You kept your hand in your own popcorn bucket during the movie. It had been a while since you’d seen the pilot of Clawumbo, and you’d never seen it like this either; on a theater screen, in complete darkness, and without your roommate asking questions or making quips. Sooyoung was funny, and you liked poking fun at movies and shows with her, but sometimes it was nice to just be able to experience something without the layer of irony.

You were happy to hear Shotaro snicker and laugh at the jokes when you did, glancing over at him nervously to see if he was really enjoying it. To your relief, he was leaned forward in his seat, eyes fully focused on the screen and tracking the characters as they walked across it. You smiled to yourself and relaxed back, crossing your legs at the knee and tossing another piece of popcorn into your mouth as the gryphon detective went on with his roundabout way of questioning the suspect.

Since it was a TV movie, it was over much sooner than most modern movies. As the credits started rolling and the house lights turned back on, you turned your head back towards Shotaro expectantly. He already had a bright, fond gaze resting on you.

“It was good,” he said without prompting. “I really liked it.”

“They uhm, they change his character a bit between the this and the rest of the show,” you started rambling. “He’s more bumbling and not as aggressive. He kind of annoys people into confessing, but sometimes it’s like, is he doing it on accident or does he know what he’s doing? I think it’s like a bit of both? Like he’s naturally like that, but he knows how to lean into it to sort of play on people’s nerves, but sometimes he does just genuinely get carried away. You know?”

He was still smiling and nodding. “Sounds fun. You can show me the rest of the show sometime.”

You squinted at him. “You really want to watch it?”

“Well, not tonight,” he said, getting to his feet and ushering you up as well. “We’re going to dinner, remember?”

The two of you had been approaching an older human couple at the end of your row then. Before you could start excusing the two of you to shuffle by, the wife exclaimed with surprise, “Oh! We weren’t expecting to see anybody so young here.”

Shotaro grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly down by your sides and behind you two. He was slightly cool to the touch, and you couldn’t even question what he was doing as your entire brain had blanked with panic.

“I am!” He answered them with his usual disarming, cheery smile. “She’s a vampire. Dragged me out here to see her favorite old series.”

You had tried to keep shuffling by them, but they didn’t move, apparently too caught off-guard. The husband blinked and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, your eyes…?”

“Contacts so she doesn’t scare you humans, you know. You can feel how cold she is.” Shotaro offered out your hand that he’d just released from a death grip.

The wife actually did tentatively touch the pad of her middle finger to the back of your index finger, then quickly folded her hands back in her lap. She offered you a sheepish smile. “Oh. Of course.”

“Anyway, we’ve got to go. Dinner!” He pointed at his own neck and took your hand again, opting to just step over their feet instead of waiting for them to move, pulling you behind him. You muttered apologies to them under your breath as you hopped over their legs awkwardly.

As soon as you were in the hallway, you burst into laughter, part-relieved and part-incredulous. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“It worked!” He pointed out victoriously.

“Did you really have to imply that you were my dinner?”

“Freaked them out enough to let us go.”

You touched your own hand like the woman had. You weren’t sure if it was as cold as a vampire, and your usual warmth was already coming back, so you were skeptical as to how well they were fooled. But Shotaro’s final comment was probably enough for them to give up the conversation as a whole anyway.

Grabbing his hand once more, you asked, “Are you cold because you’re a siren? Or because you’re an Arctic siren?”

“I’m cold because it was freezing in that movie theater. Didn’t you notice?” He laughed, and you dropped his hand with an eyeroll.

“Actually, I didn’t, because I had a jacket on,” you retorted, shoving your well-insulated sleeve in his face triumphantly. “Could’ve put Sungchan’s on if you were freezing.”

“I like it! But sirens aren’t that much colder than humans, really. Not like vampires, at least.” He caught your hand once more, lacing your fingers together. “What do you want for dinner?”

You gasped and bounced on your toes as you suggested, “Ooh! There’s a really good pizza place around the corner!”

“I’m sold.”

After dinner, you let Shotaro actually walk you to your apartment this time. The sun had set while you were in the restaurant, and as you passed under streetlights chatting, your breath came out in clouds that caught the beams of light.

There was something that had been nagging at the back of your mind since he first mentioned making this a date, however. “So when did you decide that you wanted to uh—I don’t think me spitting up water after drowning was really my finest moment. Or at least I hope that’s not what gets you off,” you joked awkwardly. “What made you actually interested in me?”

“Okay, so I actually recognized you from the boba shop, but I thought that might’ve been like way too much to tell you right after you had drowned,” Shotaro admitted, pulling on one of his ears he looked down at the sidewalk. “I promise it was a total coincidence that we were both at the pier. I already thought you were cute and stuff before all that.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you teased, digging your elbow into his side. You knew it wouldn’t hurt that much thanks to your thick layers. After a beat, you quietly added, “I thought you were cute, too. Before the pier.”

You had arrived in front of your apartment building, and suddenly stopped and pivoted around. Shotaro had kept walking, meaning he smacked right into you, letting out a ‘woah!’ as he stumbled back. You held your hand out towards him palm-up.

“Can I have your phone?” You asked, then tacked on, “To put my number in. I’ll give it back.”

The siren chuckled, opening up the device to a new contact before setting it in your waiting palm. “Thanks for clarifying. I thought this was the most low-stakes robbery ever.”

“Can I text myself? So I have your number?”

“I’d love it if you did.”

You quickly did so, already feeling the message buzz in your pocket. Handing his phone back to him, you glanced up at your apartment building, then at him. “Guess I have to figure out what we’re doing next, right?”

“That was the arrangement, yeah,” he confirmed.

“Goodnight, Shotaro,” you breathed out, nervously going in to hug him. You nearly melted into the concrete when he hugged you back without hesitation.

“Night, Y/N,” he murmured by your ear. “I had a great time today.”

You had started naturally pulling away at that point, and with nothing else intelligent coming to mind to say as a flustered, smitten smile overtook your mouth, you gave him another fleeting hug and muttered a hurried, “Bye.”

To your credit, you didn’t trip on your way into your building. You actually tripped going into the elevator, which Shotaro thankfully couldn’t see. You knew you were still in a bit of a daze when you entered your apartment, absentmindedly locking the door up after you and toeing your shoes off with the rest of them piled up there.

“Hey! I was about to text you—” Sooyoung came bustling out of her room, adjusting her clothes and accessories. “Are you still coming to sacraments with me tonight?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” you answered without really processing her question.

She stopped next to you in the living room, leaning in closer to sniff the air around you, a thoughtful crease appearing between her brows. “Did you—Did you go back to the pier?”

You grabbed the collar of your own shirt to smell it. “What? I don’t smell anything.”

She sniffed one more time, a knowing smirk coming to her face instead. “Not the pier—How’s that cute siren at the boba place doing?”

“You can smell Shotaro on me?” You asked in disbelief, inhaling even deeper.

“You’re not going to be able to,” she chuckled. “I was being generous when I said you smelled like the pier. More like a fish market.”

“Wow, rude.”

“So you were with him?”

You bit your bottom lip, feeling the dopey grin spread across your lips. “I had to return his roommate’s jacket, and then we went to the movies, and then we got dinner, and he walked me home…”

“…And?” She asked emphatically, gesturing wildly for you to continue.

“And I got his number and we’re going on another date!” You finished in a rush, voice pitching up into a squeal.

“Yes! Finally!” Sooyoung cheered. “God, if I had known all it would take was you mildly drowning, I would’ve done something sooner.”

“You would’ve drowned me to get me to talk to him?”

“Just a little!”

Unfortunately, the beginning of the semester hit you like a freight train, all of your professors wanting to kick off classes with assignment after assignment. You and Shotaro texted every day, but it seemed as though your schedules never overlapped. Either he was free and you were in class, or he was in class and you were free. Even the weekends were unyielding in terms of his work schedule. You did a work-study program yourself, assisting in cleaning up the art studios after hours in exchange for reduced tuition and pocket money.

Closing up the last studio for the night, you flicked the lights off before locking it up behind you. You had been there later than you intended, wanting to work on a piece of your own while you still had access to the studio’s tools before actually cleaning up. The janitors had already come through and turned the hallway lights off, leaving you to navigate by the light of your phone flashlight. There were no bike racks by the fine arts wing, so you had to traverse across the entire building to get to the other entrance where your bike was parked. As you passed by a hall, you noticed a single stream of light coming from a room. You felt obligated to go shut that light off as well, veering off your path over to the room.

When you peeked into the room, hand already reaching for the doorknob, you were surprised to see that somebody was in there. It was a dance practice room, you immediately identified by the wood floors and mirrors that took up an entire wall from floor to ceiling. You could just hear the thumping bass of the music playing through the door. The dancer seemed entirely focused on their performance, their back to you and their face obscured by the baseball hat they were wearing.

You checked the time on your watch, snorting softly to yourself. Must be a vampire. Not that you really had room to talk. Deciding that it ultimately wasn’t up to you to inquire about if they were supposed to be here this late, you turned on your heel, heading on your way once more.

The door opened behind you, and while you were fully intending on pretending you didn’t hear it and speedwalking away a little faster, your name was called. “Y/N!”

Pivoting back around, you still couldn’t make out the figure well, the light behind them entirely casting their front in shadow. Then they spoke again, “Hey, it is you.”

This time, you recognized his voice, all tension leaving your body as you took a couple steps back towards the practice room. “Oh, Shotaro. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in there.”

“It’s me,” he chuckled, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. “What are you doing here?”

“Cleaning up the studios,” you explained. “I didn’t know the practice rooms were open this late.”

“You have to make a reservation ahead of time,” he explained, taking his hat off and running his fingers through his sweaty hair, then putting it back on backwards. “Sorry, you were leaving, weren’t you? I just—I wasn’t sure the next time I’d see you, so…”

“It’s okay.” You smiled down at your feet. “I’ve wanted to see you, too. Our schedules are just…”

“The worst,” he finished.

“Yeah.” You eyed the practice room through the door he was still holding ajar. “You’re in the middle of something; I don’t want to take your practice time…”

“I’ve only got a few minutes left. Do you uhm, want to hang out?” He offered, pointing behind him with a thumb. “So you’re not walking out alone?”

You nodded. “Sure, yeah.”

Shotaro held the door open wider for you, and you slipped in wordlessly. Music was still playing from the speaker in the corner, and the siren gestured to a corner where a bag and other miscellaneous items were.

“You can stay over by my stuff.”

“Thanks.” You leaned against the wall, not in the mood to sit on a used dance practice room floor. “So what are you working on?”

“Choreographing for the midterm show.” He pulled out his phone, tapping it a few times, the music subsequently pausing. “My group’s first practice is tomorrow but something still feels off.”

“Maybe it’ll come to you once you practice it with your team,” you offered brightly.

“Hopefully.”

You were silent as the music started back up, and Shotaro got into his place. As soon as the beat started, you came to appreciate how well they had sound-proofed these rooms, as your ears were met with much more than just the baseline that you had overheard in the hall. As you watched Shotaro, his moves all powerful, smooth, and seemingly effortless, you could suddenly understand all the stories of sailors being lured to their deaths. You couldn’t force your eyes away if you wanted to, gaze raking over his form again and again. His white tank top was practically sheer with sweat, sweatpants which already hung low on his hips shifting with every move he made. In the back of your mind, you were mortifyingly aware of the fact that he could see you watching him like this in the mirror, but that idea still didn’t tear your focus off him.

The song was simultaneously 10 hours and 10 seconds, as he struck what looked like an ending pose, before falling to his knees with a relieved groan. In the next second, he was splayed out on the ground in a star.

“That still sucked,” he bemoaned, pulling himself up to secure his phone and pause the looping song once more. You had no clue what he was talking about, as far as you were concerned, that was all perfect.

“I thought it was good,” you said quietly, clearing your throat as you looked down at your nails.

Shotaro laughed, meandering over to you. “Well thanks. If only you were the one grading me, I’d be done.”

“A-plus from me,” you joked, still picking at your cuticles. After a beat of silence, you looked up at him curiously to find him already watching you, hands on his hips and an amused smile playing across his lips. “What?”

“Nothing, I just like looking at you.” He grinned, leaning against the wall next to you on one shoulder.

“You—” Your face was hot as your gaze dropped to your feet. “Are you done? Practicing?”

“Mhm.” He didn’t budge despite his affirmative response, and you could feel his eyes still on you.

“Then shouldn’t we go or something?”

“Or something?”

“I—” You let out a huff. “I don’t know.”

“Y/N.”

“Hm?”

He softly cupped your chin, gently lifting it until he could look into your eyes. You gulped, the sound horrendously loud in the quiet.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly.

Your breath hitched in your throat. “Okay.”

“Can I?” He questioned. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Yes.” You nodded fervently, stepping closer to him.

The curl of Shotaro’s smile didn’t leave as he kissed you, lips soft and plush against yours. Your blood roared like the ocean in your ears, your heartbeat thudded like a drum inside your head, and a faint buzzing was somewhere in the background like an old lightbulb whose wiring was on the fritz. Honestly, for all of Sooyoung’s comments about sirens smelling like fish markets or other unpleasant things, you were pleasantly surprised that kissing Shotaro reminded you of nothing more than a hint of sea spray.

Sooner than you’d like, it was over, and he was chuckling, his cool breath fanning over your cheek. “Damn, now I know why you survived for long when you fell off the pier. You’ve got lungs like a siren.”

“You’re exaggerating…” You mumbled.

“Only a little.” He reached up to unfurl your fingers from where they were clutching a fistful of his shirt—you didn’t even realize you’d done that, embarrassingly. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.”

After packing up the practice room, the two of you headed out, Shotaro flipping the light off behind you. Your eyes hadn’t adjusted back to the dimness of the building yet, and you let out a small, startled noise as you couldn’t make out your surroundings, skidding to a stop in your tracks.

“I always forget humans don’t do well in the dark,” Shotaro clicked his tongue, hand entwining with yours. “Come on.”

“You can see?”

“This is what I was made for.”

“So, does normal light hurt your eyes?”

“No, we have to come back up to the surface sometimes.”

“I thought you could breathe underwater or something.”

“I can. But there’s no humans down there to lure in,” he said teasingly, nudging your arm with his.

“I doubt there’s enough humans in the Arctic to really make that a staple in your diet,” you snorted lightly.

He laughed again, pushing the door open for you. “Fair point.”

The streetlights scattered around the parking lot provided enough light for you to see, and as you looked over to where your bike was locked up, your stomach dropped upon seeing a completely empty bike rack.

“No no no!” You dropped his hand to run over to the rack, surveying the surrounding area desperately for any trace of your bike. Your lock was on the ground, the mechanism popped open and wire completely intact. “God damn it!”

“Oh shit, did your bike get stolen?” Shotaro caught up to you, also craning his neck around.

You picked up your useless lock. “Yeah.”

“They pick it?” He took the lock from your hands to inspect it.

“No, I just fake lock it. I lost the key a while ago,” you sighed. “My bike is so busted I figured nobody would ever take it.”

“Want a ride home?”

“Please…”

Shotaro’s car was a little older like Sungchan’s, you guessed both were probably their first cars from high school, hand-me-downs or at least purchased used. The siren’s was a sensible sedan, and though you spotted an array of bumper stickers on the rear, it was far too dark for you make out any of the content on them on your quick pass to the passenger seat. Shotaro had to hurriedly toss a textbook, a pair of shoes, and a couple miscellaneous items of clothing into the backseat to make room for you. After starting up the car, he hurriedly cranked up the heat.

“Uh, let me know if you need it warmer,” he said as he continued messing with the knobs and directions of the vents. “Or if it’s too warm. I usually have it off in the winter unless Sungchan or someone else warm-blooded is in here, you know? Or, actually, adjust however you like. Free reign of the temperature, I’m good with whatever.”

You couldn’t help but giggle as he threw his hands up in a motion of relinquishing the controls to you. “Thanks, Shotaro.”

As he reversed out of the parking space and started driving, a thought came to your mind. Chewing on the inside of your cheek for a few moments, trying to decide how to phrase it, you then finally spoke over the music quietly playing from the car speakers.

“I mostly grew up around humans, if you couldn’t tell,” you decided to start with a little preface first. “And some witches.”

He nodded. “I had guessed there at least weren’t many sirens in your neighborhood.”

“So I’m sorry if I’ve been asking some… bad questions.”

“What? You haven’t,” he reassured you, briefly glancing from the empty road ahead over to you, letting you see a glimpse of the concerned knit of his eyebrows. “I appreciate that when you don’t know something, you ask questions and try to understand it—try to understand me—better. And I hope I’ve been making it clear when my answers are generally about sirens or Arctic sirens, and when they’re just specific to me and my experiences.”

“Yeah, you do,” you assured him.

“So, did you just want to tell me that? Or did you think of another question?”

“Well…”

“Come on, it’s fine,” he promised, pushing on your knee lightly.

“Okay, alright,” you sighed. “Seeing you dance, and drive, and stuff… I was wondering if you prefer being on land or in the water? Because like, knee-jerk answer would be that a siren would prefer the water, but you said you didn’t grow up in the Arctic, you’ve never even been there. You grew up here. And you’re even a dance major, clearly you feel comfortable on land, right? You’ve probably spent the majority of your life out of the water, haven’t you?”

Shotaro hummed thoughtfully as he brought the car to a stop at a red light. There were no other cars on the road, but you appreciated him following traffic laws nevertheless. “Yeah… I have been on land for most of my life…” A nostalgic smile played across his lips as his eyes continued watching the light. “My parents were actually so afraid of me having delayed swimming skills that they took me to the beach when I was like a day old to make sure my gills came in okay.”

You chuckled softly, but said nothing else, letting him continue to mull over your question.

“I… don’t think I really have a preference,” he finally answered. “Kind of a chicken-shit response, I know. Sorry. But they’re just different to me. One’s not better than the other. I do different stuff in each, feel different.”

“Apples and oranges.”

“Well, I can tell you that I prefer apples,” he retorted. “But yeah, something like that.”

You snickered as the light turned green, and he accelerated gently. “Noted. Thanks for answering. I don’t think it was a chicken-shit answer. It was honest, and that’s all I want.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t a bad question, either, by the way. I’ve just never been asked. Probably because everyone assumed I liked the water since I’m a siren.” He tapped the cover of the wire-bound book that had been sitting on your lap for the whole ride, switching topics to ask, “What’s this?”

“Oh, my sketchbook.” You flipped to a random page, flashing the doodles of a faceless woman (you had been practicing head and shoulder posing) towards him before just as quickly shutting it. “Just warm-ups and random stuff. My stuff for classes is in my portfolio.”

“Wait, I was turning, I wanted to see.” Shotaro gestured for you to open it back up now that he was on a fairly straight stretch of road.

“Nope, lost the page.”

He waved his hand again, more insistently this time. “Well then show me a different page.”

“Eyes on the road,” you giggled, firmly clutching your sketchbook shut with both your hands.

“So unfair,” he let out a great big sigh, relenting for now.

“A bit.”

Your apartment building was coming into view, and while you didn’t want to leave Shotaro (you didn’t know the next time you’d see him, after all), you were insanely tired.

“Thanks for the ride,” your tone betrayed your melancholy at having to part, one limp hand reluctantly laying on the door handle but not moving to open it.

“Any time.” He picked his phone up from where it had been sticking out of the cupholder in the center console. “When are you free? I’ve still got a date to pay for.”

“Oh, uhm…” You fumbled to open your phone calendar too. “Next… this Saturday? Yeah, yeah, I’m going to morning sacraments with Sooyoung but I’m free all day after that.”

“Saturday it is then. Do you have a back-up bike, or should I pick you up from sacraments?”

“I can’t tell you where it is, sorry.” You flashed him an apologetic smile. “The normal ones are like, open-door, so that would’ve been fine, but this is a super special one so it’s invite-only. This is Sooz’s first year being able to bring someone.”

“I understand.” He nodded.

“But, it’s walking distance to the old pier! You can pick me up there!” You offered enthusiastically.

“Sounds like a date. You’ve got until then to figure out what we’re doing.”

“I’m on it.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Goodnight, Shotaro.” Before you could lose your nerve, you shot forward over the center console to kiss his cheek, then threw open the door and scrambled out with your stuff. “Bye!”

“Goodnight!” He called after you before you shut the door a little harder than you meant to.

You didn’t have whatever magical senses that Sooyoung did, so maybe it was your imagination, but you swore you went to sleep with the smell of an ocean breeze still floating around you. A sensation that persisted into your dreams, as a familiar bitter salt was filling your nose, on your tongue, stinging your eyes. The patchy sunlight that filtered down through the seaweed only afforded you the same glimpses of the sea monster that you knew—sharp claws, eyes that flashed not with their own glow but the reflection of the available light, gaze never moving from you as it circled you, more serrated teeth than you could count or see in the split-second glimpses afforded to you, and at a point unknown to you, its gray skin turned in a massive, dark tail propelling it with a quiet but agile strength. As it wound lazy rings around you, you spun to keep it in your vision, not out of fear, but an insurmountable craving to know. To see. But no matter how many times you went around and around, the kelp never parted to reveal new pieces to you.

It wasn’t as cold today. Or maybe it was just the lack of sea breeze biting at your nose that made it feel warmer. The old pier had shed its icy coating, only the usual bumpy surface of the sunbleached planks stretching out from the shoreline now. You couldn’t help yourself, feet taking you to the end without pause, as if that had been your destination the whole time. You just wanted to look. To see. Shotaro wasn’t here yet, you’d gotten out of sacraments earlier than you’d thought. Kneeling down, you wrapped one arm around the large piling beside you, using your other hand on the edge to balance. You peered into the greenish greyish blackish blue water underneath you, looking for any sign of the sea monster.

The old pier creaked, announcing the presence of someone else. You looked back over your shoulder, immediately spotting Shotaro as he approached you.

“I don’t think I like the look of this,” he gestured to the visage of you at the edge of the dock. “Mind taking three big steps away from the edge for me?”

“It’s not icy today,” you huffed, but obliged nevertheless, standing up and walking over to the siren.

“Water’s still going to be way too cold for you.” He pulled the sides of your beanie further down over your ears. “What were you even doing?”

“Just looking…”

“Mm alright. You ready to go?”

“Yep!” You grabbed his hand, heading back towards the parking lot together.

“So how were sacraments?”

“Really cool! I just wish they weren’t so early.” Your words were punctuated by a yawn. “We had to get up at like five a.m.”

“Well that’s just cruel.”

“I know! I don’t see why the magic couldn’t work just as well at brunchtime or something.”

“Sacraments over mimosas?” Shotaro asked, amused.

“Now that’s an idea I can get behind.”

In his car, you input the location you had in mind into his phone then quickly went to work adjusting the heat settings for yourself.

He looked it over with interest as he started driving. “Natural History Museum?”

“I haven’t been since I was a kid. It sounded fun,” you said, warming up your fingers in front of the air vent.

“It does,” he agreed with a smile.

The museum was even cooler than you remembered as a kid, huge fossils of long-gone creatures of both magical and non-magical varieties, displays of gemstones and rocky formations, and life-size dioramas of habitats thousands of miles and many millennia away. In the oceanic corridor, you found yourself face to face with the fossilized, open jaw of some large sea creature, rows of serrated teeth surrounding you above and below. You craned your neck to look up at the glinting teeth the size of your thumb. You unconsciously leaned forward against the railing separating the patrons from the exhibits, gaze tracing every razor-sharp notch.

“Y/N.” Shotaro startled you, his quiet voice suddenly beside you as his hand gently touched your upper arm. He had been looking at the display behind you last you were aware, but now he was observing you with a tilted head and furrowed brow. “Hey, careful.”

You didn’t even realize you had gone onto your tippy-toes to get a better look, and dropped back onto flat feet, straightening up so you were no longer keeling over the railing. “Right. Sorry.”

“Is everything alright?” He still had an air of concern about him.

“Yeah, uhm, I was just looking.” Your skin heated up as you realized how much of a weirdo you must’ve looked, practically sticking your head right into the fossil’s mouth. “What time is it?”

He checked his phone. “11:45.”

“We should head over to the planetarium for the show.”

“Yeah, we should,” he agreed, and took your hand in his. “And this time I’m not letting you ‘just look’ and end up breaking a telescope or something.”

“I haven’t broken anything,” you huffed, but made no moves to shake off his hand, all too happy to be holding it anyway.

“You drowned, Y/N.”

“Only a little bit.”

The planetarium show was a stunning array of stars, galaxies, and supernovas. And in the darkened theater, as the presenter explained something about oceans forming millions of years ago, you looked away from the domed screen above you, to Shotaro beside you. He must have sensed your eyes on him, as he turned his head towards you as well, quirking a brow up inquisitively. You nudged your chin forward, stopping just short of closing the gap entirely. The siren didn’t leave you waiting, immediately pressing his lips to yours.

“Hey, Taro,” you beamed as you opened your front door for your boyfriend that particular evening, already in your pajamas. “How was practice?”

He leaned in to kiss your cheek first, murmuring his answer against your skin. “Mm, hi, bubs. It was fine.”

“I’ll take your stuff if you want to shower or something?” You offered before your nose caught up to your words. He smelled perfectly fresh, actually. “Wait, you already showered?”

“Yeah, I stopped by the fitness center after we wrapped.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Didn’t want to show up to see my beautiful girlfriend all gross and sweaty.”

“I’ve seen you after practice before,” you chuckled, walking further into your apartment. “But thanks. Pizza got here a couple minutes before you did, so it’s nice and hot.”

“Sounds awesome, thank you.”

After eating your separate pizza flavors in the kitchen you returned to your room, where the siren had dropped his bags off earlier. Without prompting, he dropped onto your bed with a soft groan, the mattress springs squeaking. He rolled all the way over against the wall, throwing his right arm over his eyes.

“Tired?” you surmised, sitting next to him cross-legged.

“Just a little,” he agreed, feeling for you blindly with his other arm. You put your hand down in his path so he could hold it contentedly. “Don’t want to go to sleep yet, though.”

“Why not?”

“I just got here.”

“You’re going to be here all weekend. You can sleep now.”

“I think I can make it through one Clawumbo episode, pinky promise.” He stuck his right pinky up without uncovering his eyes.

“Clawumbo can wait until tomorrow,” you laughed.

Then, a knock came at your already cracked door, and you reached over to open it for your roommate.

“Hey, Shotaro,” Sooyoung offered the siren a casual greeting as she went to lean in your doorway.

He waved his right hand. “Hey, Sooz.”

Your friend turned her attention to you, clasping her hands together and begging, “Y/N, please give me the motivation to go to midnight sacraments.”

“That cute witch from your Magical Botany Club might be there. Didn’t they say they were going to try to make it to the next one?”

She immediately perked up. “You’re so right, thank you!”

“Try asking them to get lunch or something this time,” you suggested.

“I'm not taking dating advice from the girl who didn’t actually talk to the siren at the boba shop who she thought was cute until she drowned,” she snorted.

“You—” You swung a pillow at her and she didn’t even bother moving, laughing as you smacked her crossed arms. Shotaro snickered too, squeezing your hand affectionately but staying quiet otherwise.

“Speaking of the incident—Did she ever tell you about her sea monster?” Sooz aimed her question at Shotaro, amusement evident in her tone.

“Huh?” He made a noise of confusion.

“I regret telling you, actually,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at Sooyoung.

She held her hands up defensively. “Hey, I’m not making fun of you for thinking you saw a sea monster.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m making fun of you for wanting to fuck the sea monster.”

Shotaro’s arm finally dropped from his face. “What?”

“First of all, as my friend, you should be supportive,” you said sarcastically. “Second, don’t you have sacraments to go to right now?”

“Mm, fine, fine.” Sooyoung waggled her brows, stepping back out of your room and closing your door behind her. She shouted her farewell, “Bye!”

“What’s going on?” Your boyfriend questioned, obviously having no clue what the two of you were talking about. You got up, grabbing your sketchbook off your desk. You knew you’d have to talk to him about it eventually, the thing that your mind always wandered to—when it didn’t wander to him, of course.

“When I fell off the pier… I saw something underwater,” you started hesitantly, sitting down again.

Shotaro shifted, pushing himself up into a sitting position behind you, looking over your shoulder with interest. Opening to the first page of sketches that you did of the sea monster, you continued, “Before you got to me. Actually, I don’t remember seeing you at all. Just… this.”

He was quiet, though you could still hear his breaths beside your ear.

“Sooz jokes about me being obsessed because… well…” You continued flipping through the journal, through pages and pages of drawings of the sea monster. Your sketchbook had filled up embarrassingly quick with vignettes from your memory.

“You… saw this?” Shotaro finally spoke, finger hovering hesitantly over a more detailed charcoal of its claws and teeth.

“Not-Not all of it. I still don’t know what it was,” you admitted, your skin prickling with discomfort at finally having told somebody else. On one hand, you were convinced that you saw something—that you saw this—but on the other, you felt crazy admitting it. Turning to the siren, you asked him hopefully, “Do you know what it is?” You then tacked on a guarded, “Is it… real?”

Shotaro almost looked pained, his brows furrowed as he rubbed his face with a grimace. “I didn’t think… Yeah, it’s real, Y/N. The path was so far from the pier when I saw you slip, and between the waves and how heavy your clothes were, you were already so far down by the time I got there, I had to… It was me.”

Setting your sketchbook aside, you tilted your head thoughtfully. “When you said Arctic sirens look a little different…?”

“Yeah. That’s what I—Woah!” He nearly fell backwards from you throwing your arms around his neck, barely catching himself with one arm behind him. The other hand tentatively rested on your hip. “Hey?”

You pulled back enough to hold his face between your hands, scanning his uncertain features earnestly. “Can I see?”

“Wait, really?” He blinked up at you with his big dark eyes.

“If you’re comfortable with it,” you reassured him. “I just… think you’re kind of beautiful.”

A bashful smile overtook his face, and he looked down, away from your gaze. “Gods, when you put it like that, bubs—Okay. Let’s go.”

“Go?”

“Mhm. Your tub is a little small.”

You tried to hide your anticipation as Shotaro drove you out to the old pier. But your legs took turns bouncing, you shifted around in your seat, and you kept looking out the window to gauge how close you were.

“You’re making me even more nervous,” Shotaro teased, putting a hand on your bouncing leg.

“Sorry, sorry,” you muttered, forcing yourself to sit back against the seat and keep your legs still. Placing your hand over his, you smiled when he turned his hand over and slotted your fingers together. “You’re okay with this, right Taro?” You asked softly, searching his profile as he watched the road.

“Of course.” He let out a breathy laugh. “I’m just surprised by it all. Everyone has this image of sirens in their heads, you know? Tropical sirens. This whole time I’ve been trying to figure out how I was going to explain what I look like, and it turns out you’ve already seen me.”

You could still see the tension in his shoulders, though. “Then why are you nervous?”

“Seeing a couple blurry bits and pieces is different than… everything.”

Promising any specific reaction right now would’ve felt hollow and insincere, so instead you squeezed his hand tightly.

The old pier was even more treacherous than usual at night, with only the moonlight and Shotaro’s superior night vision to guide you across the ancient planks. The half moon reflected on the water, distorted by ripples of the passing waves. At the end of the pier, Shotaro made you sit cross-legged a full step from the edge, claiming he wasn’t taking any risks this time by leaving you on your own two feet unattended.

You shook your head, but had absolutely no leverage to argue, accepting his phone and keys as they were handed to you. Next, he stepped out of his shoes, and it dawned on you what was about to happen. You met Shotaro in a pair of swim trunks.

He did provide some explanation after shucking his shirt off and hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats. “The clothes come back after, but not dry. It’s just easier…”

“Right…” You nodded, pretending like you weren’t openly ogling your attractive boyfriend who was now down to just his boxers in the moonlight. For half a second, you forgot about the entire reason you came out here, this was a perfectly successful night in your books, a win—then he dove headfirst off the pier into the ocean. The dark water entirely swallowed him up, leaving behind no clue, no indication that he had just passed through. Clutching his keys tighter in your grip, the odd angles and points of the keys and keychains digging into your skin, you leaned forward as far as you could without moving from your seat. The waves lapped at the pilings of the dock, and far, far in the distance, a foghorn sounded.

“Bubs?” Shotaro’s voice broke the stillness of the night, and made you jump out of your skin.

“God! Are you under the pier?” You asked, pinpointing his voice as coming from somewhere below you.

“Sorry, yeah,” he laughed. “Okay, here I go.”

He moved through the water in absolute silence, your ears unable to track him until the top of his head suddenly appeared above the end of the dock. The back of his head was to you, and you couldn’t immediately spot any differences from what little you could see. In one fluid movement, he’d turned and pulled himself up onto the pier. Your eyes had adjusted to the nighttime, and now darted around, finally putting together all the disparate pieces that had been swimming in your mind for so long. His tail was dark and lacked any colorful scales like you’d seen on sirens before—instead it looked rough like shark skin. The coloring changed at the juncture of his hip, where it met his more human-like upper half. The usual golden hue of his skin was replaced by a light grayish tone, which became mottled with a dark green along his sides, the green covering the entire back side of his upper body. He didn’t have the normal frilly fins decorating his forearms and back of other sirens—his were rigid, sharp angles. His fingers were in fact the same claws that you remembered grabbing you, and you hardly gave pause to the five gill slits on either side of his neck. His face had changed, gaunter and sharper and more angled in some places, his ears now as angular as the rest of him, and razor-sharp teeth glinting whenever he parted his mouth. He was still recognizably your Shotaro—even as colorless, pale eyes met yours then looked away nervously.

“Not just kind of…” You let out a dreamy sigh, “Shotaro… you’re beautiful.”

You realized you’d been staring for probably too long when he rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous laugh, “You’re looking at me like you’re the one that’s going to eat me alive, you know?”

“Sorry, I—Can I…?” You reached a hand out toward him indicatively.

Shotaro nodded, scooting along the edge of the dock to be closer to you. Your hand immediately reached for his cheek—his skin was cool and damp—and you pulled him nearer, resting your forehead against his.

“I didn’t think you’d be mean or anything,” Shotaro whispered. “But I didn’t think you’d… like it.”

You kissed a droplet of water off the edge of his bottom lip, the salt spreading across your tongue. “I love you.”

A smitten smile that was all sharp teeth overtook his face, and he pecked the corner of your mouth. “I love you, too.”

You kissed him again, more deliberate this time, running your fingers through his wet locks. He wrapped a hand around your upper arm, and you immediately sighed into his mouth, digging your nails into his scalp. Shotaro dipped his head, his lips tracing a chilly path down your neck to a spot at the base of your throat. You let out a soft groan of his name when his teeth gently grazed your skin, goosebumps following as his tongue laved over the same place.

“Gods—” He muttered into your burning skin. “Black cherry…”

The unrelated utterance caught your attention, and you made a curious noise in response. “Mm? Taro, what was that?”

He sat up, blinking quickly as if shaken from a trance. “Sorry, bubs. Uhm, humans smell different to sirens when they’re… in a situation like this. I can taste it so much better like this, too…” He lifted the end of his tail up and down once indicatively.

“Yeah, okay,” you replied, nodding probably too many times. “We’re going back right now.”

“I’m s—”

“I don’t want to get splinters,” you explained, pulling him in for one more rushed, dizzying kiss. “Got it?”

You watched his eyes widen as his gaze turned from one of confusion to understanding to excitement. Shotaro blinked, and in an instant, his eyes were back to their deep brown color. “Got it.”

Scrambling to your feet, you ran back to the car hand-in-hand, laughing and giggling every time you stumbled over the uneven planks of the pier and into Shotaro, who never failed to steady you. He had a towel in his backseat that he wrapped around his waist, and despite the fact that the sedan reeked of desperation, he never once pushed it past the speed limit or failed to check both ways before turning on the empty roads. Even as you fell into your bed later that night, hungry mouths seeking out more tastes of saltwater and black cherry, your nose bumping into his forehead in your haste, he took just a moment to press an apologetic kiss there. And you said it back in the way that you leaned into him wholeheartedly when you lost your footing, and traced the lines of his palm with your fingertip absentmindedly as he drove, and your hand pushed some of his hair out of his eyes so you could see them, see your adoration reflected right back at you.

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[hanniescookie]

i wish.

• pairing: jeonghan x f!reader

• genre/warnings: non idol au, major angst, fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, mom's friend's son trope (idk what to call it ¿), minor age gap (jeonghan is two years older than reader) one sided love, slowburn, lots of crying, kissing, skinship, use of petnames, mild suggestive themes, mentions of being sick, minor slut shaming, some scenes inspired by first frost and one dialogue inspired by yjhd (sorry) jeonghan is a heartbreaker (but also a healer bcs i said so) uhm yeah that's it

• summary: falling in love at eighteen was never in your bucket list, but when your mom's childhood friend lands in your country with her son, all it takes is two months for you to feel emotions that excite you before scarring you.

• wc: 11k

read you wish here

author's note: oh my beloved i wish is finally here! i spent nearly a year writing this, and big big biiiig love to @kissbyoon without whom i totally would've dumped this. this fic is especially close to my heart because well it's inspired by my own experience at first love, except i gave these babies the happy ending i never got :) so i hope all of you who read this love it as much as i do!!! 🤍

One flight. 

Two months. 

And a few words. 

That's all it took for your world to fall apart six years ago. For your heart to sink into an endless blackhole. For Yoon Jeonghan to make you fall brutally in love with him, then leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

You had not seen the face of an airport in the last five years, yet on one cold October night, you stood before the arrivals gate, your gaze fixed on the large screen displaying the status of incoming flights.

San Francisco → Seoul (Landed 09:45)

Seungkwan buzzed in excitement beside you, jumping every other second. He had expressed his impatience a dozen times since you reached, and you felt bad that you couldn't reciprocate his enthusiasm. You were trying, every second, to not drown into your anxiety. 

Air seemed to not fully reach your lungs when your eyes spotted him many meters away, pushing the trolley of his luggage past the arrival gate. 

A shaky breath left your mouth, and your nails dug in your palms as his warm eyes found yours from afar. Then he smiled — the soft, knowing smile that made you forget everything all those years ago. The smile that still made him feel like the only person in a sea of people.

In that moment, you decided that you were not ready for Jeonghan’s presence in your life again. 

***

Six years ago

Summer 

The night felt endless. You tossed and turned, unable to find sleep, all thanks to your late night studying and a messed-up sleep schedule. At least tomorrow was Sunday, and you had a chance to sleep in.

Just as sleep finally started to claim you, your bedroom door flew open. Your mom's loud voice cut through the quiet. "Y/N, wake up! The flight has landed!"

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as your mom tugged at your blanket. You wanted to shout, maybe even cry, but you held back. Slowly, you opened your eyes, immediately squinting at the bright light.

"It's one in the morning, Mom. What are you talking about?" You asked, trying not to sound annoyed but failing.

Your mom's eyes widened dramatically. "Hyesuk's flight! Didn't you remember we were going to pick her up?"

Your brain finally caught up, reminding you of what you had completely forgotten. It didn't make you any less frustrated. You loved Aunt Hyesuk, but she would understand if you didn't come because you weren't feeling well.

"Mom," you sat up slowly, rubbing your eye. "Can't you go alone? Take Kwannie. I don't feel good."

A light smack landed on your back, and your mom's voice rose, making your head pound more. "Is that how much you love your aunt?! She kept asking for you, and you're making excuses!"

You winced, trying your best to stay calm. You wanted to scream and cry.

"Seungkwan is ready! Get up, we're waiting."

"Mom!" You tried to keep your voice down, but it rose anyway. "My head hurts, and I haven't slept enough! I'll see her when she comes home!"

Silence fell. Your mom looked at you quietly before turning off the light. "Fine. Do what you want."

You groaned in frustration as your door clicked shut. Your eyes burned, and your head spun, but you knew sleep wouldn't touch you anymore.

After staring into the darkness for a while, you decided you could handle a few hours of headache for your mom and her best friend. Ten minutes later, you were in the car, wearing a simple white sweater over black sweatpants. You hadn't even bothered to brush your hair. You probably looked terrible, but no one seemed to care at this hour.

Except for your annoying little brother.

"You could have tried to look a little nice," he whispered in your ear. You glared at him, again trying not to yell, because if you two started fighting, your mom would likely kick you both out.

"How old is her daughter?" he asked again, nudging you. You sighed, rubbing your aching head, keeping your voice low. "She's your age, but please don't fall in love with her, Kwan. You're both kids."

"Seventeen is not a kid."

"Pretty much is."

"You talk like you're twenty-eight. You're only a year older. Don't act so old."

You chose to ignore him because his voice had gotten louder and definitely reached your mom's ears. You didn't want to start a fight and make her angry. All you wanted was to meet Aunt Hyesuk, bring her home, and go back to sleep.

Your headache got worse when you reached the airport. At the arrivals area, many of your mom's friends were waiting with their kids for Aunt Hyesuk. You hadn't expected such a big gathering, but it made sense since all the childhood friends were there to welcome their only friend returning from overseas after twelve years.

Aunt Hyesuk had moved to the US after getting married and had only visited twice in all those years. Once before you were born and once when you were six. You vaguely remembered playing with her kids, but as you grew up, you had secretly started to dislike them. There were many rumors about her son — that he was supposedly rebellious, left home young because of a girl, was very proud, and definitely hated Korea.

You didn't care much about him or his sister. You just wanted to meet your sweet Aunt Hyesuk and get it over with. It was a little annoying that her kids would obviously be staying at your place with her during their vacation, but you had accepted it.

You really didn't like the crowd of people because a lot of noise was the last thing you wanted to hear. Seungkwan kept bothering you with questions, and your mom made you greet many of her judgmental friends.

It was chaotic when Aunt Hyesuk finally arrived, but it also made you a little teary-eyed. Your mom started crying, and Aunt Hyesuk had tears in her eyes too. The whole group of friends was meeting her after so many years, so it was bound to be emotional.

You hugged Aunt Hyesuk, and she commented on how much you had grown. You told her how much you missed her and that she should have called more often. You also met Soobin, her daughter, who looked a little unfriendly because she quickly looked away from you. You didn't notice her son until Seungkwan whispered in your ear, "I heard he wasn't good looking, but wow he's so handsome."

That's when your eyes went to the guy standing a few feet away, leaning against his luggage as he chatted with your mom with a kind smile. Yoon Jeonghan.

He wore a simple black t-shirt, and the watch on his wrist looked too expensive to be ordinary.

He seemed harmless and rather nice. All the things you had heard about him felt like lies, and your heart might have fluttered a little, but you didn't pay attention to the feeling. 

You didn't care about this guy. Not in the slightest. 

All you cared about was your precious sleep that had been stolen from your tired eyes. But your mom had other plans. An hour later, you were all sitting in your mom's friend's restaurant, enjoying late-night drinks and snacks.

How Aunt Hyesuk and her children didn't have jet lag was beyond you, and you couldn't understand how energetic everyone was at this hour. You were also starting to get a little annoyed that this guy hadn't greeted you or even looked your way.

Sure, he was surrounded by all the women – even the young girls who were obviously flirting – but he could have at least been polite enough to say hello. You were dealing with this terrible headache for him and his welcome. It only made sense that he acknowledged you.

The women properly started introducing everyone to him so he could remember names since it was his first time back after growing up. You sat back, hoping your turn would come and the rude jerk would finally greet you.

But it didn't happen. Before you could be introduced, something else caught everyone's attention, and they all forgot about introductions.

Well, you weren't going to let yourself get upset. You already felt awful, and a burning sensation graced your chest. You tried your best to ignore it until you got home.

Aunt Hyesuk didn't come home with you, saying she had booked a hotel and they would stay there. Your mom let her go for the night, but you were sure they would be at your house within a few days.

It was around six in the morning when you finally collapsed into bed. Your stomach rumbled with hunger, but you didn't have the energy to eat. The burning in your chest felt stronger in the quiet now, but you closed your eyes, trying to ignore it.

Your phone buzzed, and you realized you hadn't brought it with you. Unlocking it to check notifications, you saw a message from your friend about your favorite celebrity couple breaking up.

The news was recent, only published a few hours ago. It may have seemed silly, but you couldn't stop the tears that instantly welled up in your eyes. All the emotions you had been holding back all night came crashing down, and you couldn't help but sob into your pillow.

***

"Y/N!" Your head shot up from your textbook at Seungkwan's voice as he walked into your room without knocking. "Get ready, we're going to hang out with everyone."

You raised an eyebrow at him and then looked back at your unfinished studies. "I'm studying."

"Yeah, but Mom said we should go. Auntie wouldn't like it if we don't entertain her kids, at least. They don't know anyone here."

You rolled your eyes, sighing as you closed your book. "Is that my problem? I saw how friendly her son was with everyone at the airport. They both definitely didn't look like they wanted to hang out with us. I'm sure they can manage."

"Don't be a party pooper, Y/N! I want to be friends with them! You know Mom is going to force you to go anyway. Just get up already."

You buried your face in your desk, trying to hide your anger. It had been a few days since they arrived, and they hadn't visited your house once, like your mom wanted. Why couldn't she see that maybe they just didn't want to be around you guys? That's what you guessed, and it made sense.

"What's the plan?" you asked, watching Seungkwan's eyes light up. "I don't know! I just heard Mom say they're at Chaeyoung's place, and we should join them for a sleepover!"

"Chaeyoung? Why is she having a sleepover? She didn't even tell me?!"

Chaeyoung and you went to the same middle school and had been friends for a long time. She lived nearby, and her mom was part of your mom's friend group, so you often hung out at her place.

"Well, I don't know. Just get up, please. You can ask her when you get there!"

An hour later, as the sun was almost setting, you found yourself at Chaeyoung's house. What you didn't expect was about a dozen other people who were apparently going to stay the night.

Chaeyoung just told you that her mom insisted she take care of the “US Kids,” and she had no choice but to host this little party.

There were people you already knew and some you didn't – all kids of your mom's friends. You had seen some around since childhood, like Seungcheol and Joshua. You also knew Sua and Heeso as really nice girls, but tonight, they seemed overly eager to impress.

The movie was playing on the television, and you carefully sat down next to Chaeyoung.

I've already seen this movie was the excuse you gave yourself for your wandering eyes that kept watching Jeonghan. He sat at the right end of the couch next to Seungkwan, who seemed to really like the older guy.

His smile looked really nice, and he spoke every now and then, commenting on the scenes in the movie. You couldn't help but notice how he seemed to already know everyone in the room. Well, except you.

You somehow got through the movie and were now in the kitchen with Chaeyoung as she prepared snacks for everyone. The moms were on the rooftop, having a good time.

"I've been holding this for you to take for the last five minutes, Y/N," Chaeyoung said, and you immediately looked at her. You sheepishly took the water bottle from her hand as she stood up, closing the last cabinet. "Sorry. I was lost in thought."

"Exactly. What were you thinking about?"

"I'm just hating this whole thing, you know? Mom knows I'm preparing for college entrance exams, and she's still dragging me out to entertain these prideful siblings," you said, sounding annoyed.

Chaeyoung chuckled, pouring some chips into a bowl. "A little fun won't hurt you, sweetie. Just relax and enjoy yourself like everyone else if you're here anyway."

You groaned, not bothering to explain yourself. You were just glad you had Chaeyoung to talk to. Soon, you were both back in the living room, putting the snacks on the coffee table that everyone was sitting around.

You heard Heeso introducing herself in a voice that sounded too fake. She was talking about her hobbies, and the guys were making fun of her without her realizing. It made you feel bad as you sat down next to Seungkwan. One person away from Jeonghan, not that it mattered.

"What's happening?" you whispered to Seungkwan, who laughed before whispering back. "Jeonghan said he wants to know everyone here, so everyone's introducing themselves one by one."

You rolled your eyes, annoyed at who knows what. Maybe just this guy's presence was enough to irritate you. You heard everyone's introductions, only missing Joshua's because you were in the kitchen back then. The jokes did make you laugh, and after a while, you felt a little more comfortable than you thought you would.

"Your turn, Y/N." Seungcheol looked at you after Chaeyoung finished introducing herself on your left, and you blinked a little. Suddenly, all eyes were on you, and even though the attention made you a little nervous, it also made you finally feel noticed.

Without thinking, your eyes went to Jeonghan to see if he was looking, and you almost choked because he was.

You didn't know what to do with that information.

"I'm Y/N, eighteen years old, starting college in two months," you said, unsure what anyone was expecting.

"Have you decided on your major?"

Your breath caught in your throat when you looked at the person who spoke, and you blinked. For a second, you were confused. Was he really talking to you?

"Uh, yeah. Psychology."

Jeonghan's mouth opened slightly, and then he clapped once. "That's really great! I was waiting for someone to talk about something intellectual. You seem intelligent, Y/N."

Your first reaction was to laugh awkwardly and then look away. You weren't always good at taking compliments, especially not such direct and bold ones. Your face felt warm as you tried to process his words.

You knew Jeonghan was studying engineering – he was already two years into college. Maybe he had high standards, but the way he was getting along with everyone made him seem like a people-pleaser too.

You couldn't answer, and you were glad when Seungcheol spoke up. "Are you saying none of us are intelligent?!"

"Well," he leaned back against the couch with a lazy smile. "Maybe, but I believe no one is more intelligent than me."

Oh. So he was self-centered too? 

His response started another discussion among everyone, and as much as you wanted to join in, you were too flustered by the interaction.

You were laughing with everyone now, surprisingly starting to enjoy this sleepover that you initially dreaded being a part of.

***

You had always held onto a romantic ideal of love. 

No matter how many breakups, betrayals, and divorces you saw around, it never changed your idea of how beautiful love could be.

So, naturally, you had a picture of your future partner in mind – a checklist of desirable traits, each one a step on an imaginary ladder. 

But that was always for the distant future. Definitely not two months before you started college.

Aunt Hyesuk planned a beach day for everyone on the weekend. You were glad you didn't have any studying to do that day because you really wanted to go to the beach. Especially now that you started to really enjoy everyone's company.

Soobin also became more open, and you realized she wasn't the mean girl you thought she was. She was just shy, and it was sad that quiet people were often seen that way. But you liked her – she often didn't make jokes but laughed the loudest at everyone else's.

Your eyes secretly followed Jeonghan everywhere he went, wearing a maroon shirt and shorts. Even in such simple clothes, he easily stood out among all the boys. 

The time at the beach became a very happy memory – everyone's laughter mixed with the sound of the waves. By the time you all went to a restaurant for lunch, it was late afternoon. All the kids sat around one table, talking and teasing, while Jeonghan and Soobin were treated like the most important people.

You quickly learned that Jeonghan was playful, a tease, and very annoying too. He had ways of getting on the nerves of those who slightly offended him, and he got away with it too easily. He was good at witty comebacks, and he loved to praise himself.

You felt annoyed whenever he took time to praise himself during group conversations, but you didn't say anything. You didn't talk much, and it wasn't a bad annoyance anyway – you strangely felt little flutters in your stomach every time he spoke, even though you also wanted to strangle him.

It happened when you were all taking a group picture. Jisoo had asked a random man to take a photo of you all right outside the restaurant while the moms were still eating.

One second you were squeezed between Sua and Chaeyoung, smiling for the picture, and the next you were blinking at what was happening in front of you.

Jeonghan was being held back by Seungcheol while he cursed at a group of boys who were now running away.

"Let me go! How dare they— freaking hell!"

"Don't make a scene, man! It's okay, they're gone anyway. Relax," Seungcheol said, rubbing his shoulder, trying to calm his anger.

You felt a little scared at the sudden change in mood. "What happened?" you whispered to Chaeyoung beside you, who bit her lip before answering. "There was a group of boys who said something about us. The girls. So he got angry."

You felt a small weight settle on your chest as your eyes went back to Jeonghan. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and then quickly chuckled at something Seungkwan said. Heeso and Sua were all around him, gushing about how attractive that was.

He didn't directly protect you. He protected all the women he was with, and you knew it was the least any man should do. But you couldn't help your heart.

Yoon Jeonghan had just climbed the first step of your imaginary ladder.

***

Jeonghan slipped down that step when you were stuffed with Seungkwan sitting between you both in the backseat of Seungcheol’s car. 

It was a ride back from a usual hangout — a day to show the US kids around the city. Soobin had fallen under the weather so she didn't come along. It left you, Seungkwan, Seungcheol and Joshua. 

Jeonghan specifically asked for Heeso and Sua to not be welcomed without his name being mentioned. He said he didn't want to hurt them, but they weren't an easy presence. 

You understood that much, and it made you wonder how he perceived your presence. 

You were subtly a part of whatever conversation was going on, until it shifted to Jeonghan’s love life and you became quiet. Involuntarily so. 

Seungkwan kept prodding him, asking if he ever dated, or if he was currently. One thing you learnt about Jeonghan was that he never answered properly. He was always twisting words, saying too less or dragging too much. 

That's what he was doing again. 

“I have four girlfriends back in the states.” 

Seungcheol nearly hit the brakes too hard. Joshua laughed at him. “You cannot believe that bullshit and get us in an accident.” 

“He believed that?!” Seungkwan laughed harder, and you didn't know why, but you interjected. “It's the west. You never know if he's telling the truth.” 

Jeonghan’s gaze found yours as he tilted his head, and you regretted saying anything instantly but didn't let it show. He smirked slightly, chuckling. “You're innocent, Y/N.” 

You cocked a brow, somehow feeling bold even if your ears were burning. “I can't tell if that's a compliment or an insult.” 

Jeonghan did a double take, and laughed. “Woah, relax. You look like you'll bite me.” 

Your insides felt giddy at having a plain conversation with him directly like this, but you were sure to not let anybody know. At least you thought so. You rolled your eyes. “You're really annoying.” 

“Hey!” Seungkwan held Jeonghan’s arm protectively. “Don't call my brother annoying. Just because he dates four girls at a time doesn't mean he isn't nice.” 

“Oh that makes him very immoral.” Seungcheol remarked between a laughter. 

“You should try scoring at least one girl before calling me immoral.” Jeonghan seethed, his smirk annoying you. 

You couldn't help but speak again. “You're not talking about a sport, Jeonghan. Maybe have some respect?” 

There was a beat of silence before his head tilted towards you again, something indecipherable passing his eyes. He smiled. “My bad.” 

You felt even more annoyed now because was that all he had to say? The guys busied themselves in a conversation again as you looked out of the window, rolling your eyes at yourself. 

Yoon Jeonghan wasn't going to climb up your ladder.

***

You were terribly wrong. 

Jeonghan jumped two steps at a time. 

It was a friday, and you weren't about to waste it by playing cards with everyone. But you did. 

It was finally a weekend when aunt Hyesuk decided to stay at your place with the kids. So when everyone was asleep after a good game night, you found yourself taking a breath of fresh air in your garden. 

That was where Jeonghan found you. 

It gave you a jolt when he suddenly showed up next to you, sitting on the steps to your front gate.

“You scared me,” you sighed, a hand clutching your heart. He grinned, looking at you with his beautiful eyes softer than usual. Your heart throbbed. 

“My bad,” he muttered, looking up at the sky sprayed with sprinkles of stars. “Why are you not sleeping?” 

“Why are you not sleeping?” You shot back. 

He let out a sigh. “New place. New bed. It's a little hard.” 

“Would it have been easier to stay at a hotel?” You asked, recalling all the times you'd heard aunt Hyesuk say that he complained about staying anywhere but a hotel. 

He nodded, then shrugged his shoulders. “But I'm glad it turned out this way. I like all of you. If we stayed at a hotel, I wouldn't have gotten to spend as much time with you guys. It's fun.” 

You smiled, forgetting anything that had pissed you about him. The flutter of your heart was becoming a living thing that made you look away from his face. 

“You know,” he said after a while of silence. “I don't actually have four girlfriends.” 

You turned your head to look at him again, only to find his eyes already trained on you. A brief eye contact that held many keys to your heart, and he chuckled, looking away. “You really think I'm some player?” 

You cleared your throat, trying to steer away the emotions that clouded your brain. “You made yourself sound so.” 

He shook his head, scratching his temple and looking at you again. His gaze amplified a dull ache in your heart. “I'm not someone like that. I may joke around to look cool and stuff, but I'm really pathetic.” 

You furrowed your brows. “Why would you think that way? Nobody's pathetic. Humans and their emotions are not—” 

“Oh, are you going to start your psychology lesson?” He interrupted, his voice gentle and playful as he smirked at you. You suddenly wanted to smack him across his attractive face. Your open mouth closed on it's own, and you looked ahead, shutting yourself up. 

“I was kidding,” he smiled. “You're cool when you talk about psychology. I just didn't want to know that my emotions aren't pathetic.” 

Your heart did a little somersault, and the dull ache increased a notch. “Why?” 

“Well because,” he paused, meeting your eyes for a second before looking down at his slippers. “People are not accepted for feeling too much. For romanticising the scent of coffee and rain. For smiling at the clouds and talking to the leaves. For loving too much and wanting it back as desperately.” 

You stared at him with your heart squeezed tight, and registered his words with a blinding uncertainty. Somebody was speaking the thoughts only your journal was inked with. 

“So sometimes, I tell myself that these things are pathetic. Coping mechanism, you'd call it, right?” He looked at you with a smile at the end of his sentence, and you blinked at the sudden attention. You were far too tuned out to quickly look away and respond. Your heart was going to kill you. 

“Yeah.” You let out. “Coping mechanism, it is.” 

He hummed, and a comfortable silence fell in. In a while, you decided to break it, your thoughts sorted after being all over the place. “It's the first time I've heard someone talk exacty like me.” 

Jeonghan's head turned to look at you, and he chuckled. “Really? Are you saying you're pathetic like me?” 

You didn't dare meet his beautiful eyes again, and continued to stare up at the sky. Your face burned, and your heart contracted a little too tight. “No. I'm saying that we're alike. But not pathetic, though. It may be a curse to feel deeply, but it's also a blessing.” You paused to take a breath, feeling uneven at the weight of hie gaze. “I think that people like us are beautiful, even if rare.”

He smiled, his eyes softening ever so slightly. He looked down at his enclasped hands, biting his lip to deal with the conversation. A hum vibrated through him. “I think the same. I could never say it out loud because I never found someone who thought the same.” 

You could practically feel the drumming of your heart in your ears. Jeonghan looked at you again, chuckling. “You are something, Y/N.” 

You met his eyes hesitantly, but your voice came out strong. “What do you mean, something? You are something. People who feel a lot don't date four girls at a time.” 

The laugh that left Jeonghan's mouth made you struggle to hide your smile. 

“They do if the four girls are hot and gorgeous.” He said, with a smirk touching his lips. 

Yeah, you were going to smack his beautiful, beautiful face. 

***

Another thing you learnt about Jeonghan was that he was secretive. Not in the subtle way, but in the I will drop hints and you will spend your whole life second guessing everything way. 

He liked to keep people on edge, never telling all but never keeping all either. You realized you were a victim to his game, because you often found yourself infuriated by his teasing. 

You sat on the floor of Chaeyoung’s living room once again, having just finished a dumb game of charades when Jeonghan brought it up. 

“Someone confessed to me,” he said out of the blue, causing everyone to gape at him in shock. You realized he had a way of making heads in a room turn his way. 

Excluding you, everyone was now pestering him to tell who it was. Popular guesses were either Sua or Heeso, and Seungcheol even had the audacity to say Chaeyoung. She laughed and slapped his shoulder in offense. “Have you looked at him? He's not my type at all.” 

And it was true. Jeonghan was not Chaeyoung’s type at all. She was already pining after Joshua hopelessly for a few years. Jeonghan, however, was your type but you'd never admit it. Not even to yourself. 

Your spiraling thoughts made you lay back a little with your head on the edge of the couch Jeonghan sat on. You stared into nothingness, trying to not think about how insignificant you were in the moment. 

Your phone buzzed in your hand. Distracted, you tapped on the lockscreen to check your notifications. 

[08:43] Yoon Jeonghan 🙄: stop laying down all sad

[08:43] Yoon Jeonghan 🙄: i’ll tell you who it is eventually 

You tilted your head to look back and watched him pocket his phone with his gaze trained on you. You could clearly see a small smirk on his face as he shrugged his shoulders before quickly looking at Seungkwan and answering him. 

Slowly, you turned to look ahead, straightening your posture as your heart nearly throbbed out of your ribcage. It didn't have to count as anything. Just because he chose to promise telling you something in a room full of people who were already bugging him for the information did not mean he had to climb up your ladder. 

He did, anyway. 

***

You liked to pride in your ability to feel things deeply. 

People always told you things like sensitive people get nowhere but you always disagreed. You knew that it was a blessing in disguise for you to feel everything with bone crushing depth, for it wouldn't have made you you if you weren't so calamitous. 

However, you hated your trait that Saturday night. 

It was a usual hang out at Seungcheol's place. The floor was occupied with all the kids sitting in front of the TV, having put on a karaoke video. It was noisy because of how loud everyone was singing, especially Seungkwan and you got there late because of studies. 

You could have dumped the hang out, but you liked these now. You liked being in everyone's presence, and playing silly little games while Jeonghan singlehandedly swiped out anyone's chances of victory. You always suspected that he was a cheat, but he never left concrete proof. 

“Where's Jeonghan?” You whispered in Chaeyoung's ear, stopping her off-key highnote. Ever since you got here, you hadn't seen him even once. 

Chaeyoung sighed deeply, looking at you before pointing towards the terrace. “Fought with his mom.” 

Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked between the terrace and her. You never thought he could have differences with his mom, not after you had gotten to know that he stayed with her during the divorce of his parents. 

“About?” 

“Well, she wants him to go meet his dad. He doesn't want to. That broke out an argument between them earlier.” 

You blinked slowly at her, before your eyes drifted to the terrace again. You couldn't really see him anywhere, but you would if you went…

No. 

You wouldn't go. You didn't need to go. You didn't have to care if Jeonghan was upset. It didn't have to matter to you. 

But it did. You cared, and you told yourself that you'd have cared if it was anyone else too — which was true but would your heart also hurt? That was a question you were terrified of answering. 

***

Unfortunately, you did not get to see Jeonghan for the next two days. Your head was clouded with thoughts you were too scared to voice out, so you stayed locked up in your room with the excuse of studying. 

(You were not studying at all)

All you did was gape out of your window all day, or stare at the ceiling where you could see Jeonghan's presumed sad face. It was beginning to itch you, and you desperately wanted to know if he was even alright. 

You did not ask Chaeyoung again because you'd have looked suspicious for caring too much when everyone was going on just fine with their lives. Why had yours stopped then? Why were you holed up in your room, doing nothing but hoping Jeonghan felt better? 

Your isolation had to end one way or the other, though. You heard Seungkwan screaming at your door right when you were starting to focus on studying. 

“Jeonghan and Soobin just got here! Come out, we're going to go get ice cream!” 

A few weeks ago, you'd have groaned and dropped your head in your textbook, not wanting to go. That part remained the same — not wanting to go — but this time, it wasn't because you needed to study, or your social battery was running out. It was solely because you were terrified of the way your heart started beating louder at the mere mention of Jeonghan. 

In a while, you found yourself standing in your doorway, clad in a pink skirt that you only ever wore on special occasions. You tried to not be anxious, or still think about Jeonghan's mood but your hands shook on their own. 

“Okay Y/N is already waiting! Let's go!” Seungkwan yelled as he messily put on his shoes, and you watched Soobin follow him right behind. You told yourself you were not waiting for Jeonghan to appear, but he walked right behind Soobin with an alluring smile on his face, and that was the closest you came to your heart exploding. 

He looked at you, then did a double take as if noticing you, and his smile broadened a tad bit. Or maybe you were seeing things. 

“You good?” The words left your mouth before you knew, as if it was a breath you were holding and you couldn't wait to release it once you were sure he wasn't sad anymore. 

The door creaked, indicating Seungkwan had opened it and stepped out, but your eyes remained glued to Jeonghan's smile. He looked so beautiful, and you realized you'd like him to smile more. 

He nodded once, closing his eyes for a split second as he tightened the edges of his lips. It was as if he knew you were worried, and he reassured you. 

You sighed in relief, watching him give you one last look before he walked ahead while saying something to Seungkwan. You stood at the doorway, staring blankly at the empty spot where he stood a second ago. 

You tested breathing a few times, and then your hand involuntarily went to your chest, pressing at your heart that suddenly felt too big. It rhymed with a beat, and you came to the devastating admission that it was Jeonghan's name. 

You were in love, and you couldn't deny it anymore. 

***

You wanted to tell someone. At least, Chaeyoung. You felt like your feelings were becoming a burden on your chest — one you wanted to carry but were failing to. And you also failed to tell anyone, especially Chaeyoung. 

You would've actually found the words to spell out your emotions in front of her if she didn't come bawling to you about Joshua’s girlfriend. It broke your heart, and you tried your best to comfort her. It didn't help that you wondered how you would feel if your heart was broken too, and you cursed your emotions for being all over the place. 

Perhaps, love only looked good in fiction, and when practical, it failed to live up to the expectations you'd built around it. You wanted to feel like you were floating in the air in love, but all that you registered was the fear of an impending calamity that would leave you hanging on the edge of this beautiful cliff. 

You sighed out loud, tired of waiting in your living room. Seungkwan was the only one beside you, holding his gaming console and screaming at the screen while you were drowned in your thoughts. 

It had been a little over half an hour since you were both waiting for Jeonghan and Soobin to get here. They did inform they'd run a bit late, but you hadn't thought it'd be this late. You were not interested in this game night anyway. The only reason you left your room was Jeonghan. 

How stupid. 

You stood up and tied your hair quickly, grabbing Seungkwan’s attention. He spared you a brief glance. “Where are you going? They might get here any second.” 

You rolled your eyes, walking past him. “Yeah like they have for the past hour. I don't have that much time.” 

“What do you even have to do?” Seungkwan asked, his eyes still glued to the game in front of him. You preferred to not answer, instead locking your room and opening your books to study. You really had much important stuff to do than waiting for someone you were in love with. 

It was maybe a total of ten minutes that had passed when your phone buzzed with a notification that made you stop breathing momentarily. 

Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: hey psych come out 

Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: i just got here 

You realized you were far too pathetic to ignore his texts. 

***

After a lame game night that Jeonghan won by gaslighting everyone, you were walking side by side with him to the nearest convenience store. It wasn't your plan to be alone with him, but Soobin had knocked out mid-game while Seungkwan excused himself to sleep right when Jeonghan suggested getting ice cream. 

You didn't have the heart to say no to him when he looked at you with a sad pout, so it resulted in this poor assault on your heart as his shoulder brushed against yours in the lone street.

“So who confessed to you?” You asked, desperate to strike a conversation because Jeonghan looked way too comfortable in the silence. You cursed yourself for talking about that out of everything because the look Jeonghan gave you made you realize that you probably looked really desperate. 

Desperate for what, exactly? You weren't sure. You heard him chuckle, his hands in his pockets as he briefly glanced at you. “Did I promise to tell you?” 

You rolled your eyes. You really hadn't met someone as infuriating as him. He bumped your shoulder intentionally, and pointed his chin towards the convenience store in front of you. “I'm gonna go buy ice cream. Which flavour do you want?” 

“Chocolate,” you answered, beginning to dig in your purse for money when he held your wrist, stopping you. The touch sent a jolt up your spine, and you met his droopy eyes. “My treat. Chocolate is so basic, Y/N. What are you? A kid?” 

You blinked slowly at him as his hand went back in his pocket and he spoke, “I'll get you mint chocolate.”

“No!” You protested almost instantly, recovering from the momentary shock of his touch. “I hate mint chocolate, Jeonghan. Don't.” 

But he was already walking away with a wicked grin on his face. “It's my treat~ I decide the flavour~” 

“Just take my money, for God's sake!” You stomped your feet, waiting for him with a frown on your face that quickly dissolved into a sheepish smile when he walked back with two chocolate flavored ice creams in his hands. He handed one to you with the same grin painted on his face and you couldn't help rolling your eyes. How insufferable of him.

“So,” Jeonghan began, taking a lick of his ice cream once you both started strolling again. “Have you ever been confessed to?” 

You nearly dropped your beloved ice cream. 

Your eyes shot open, head tilting in his direction at the sudden question. He smirked, relishing in the fact that he caught you off guard. “Come on, don't tell me you've always just been a nerd.” 

You cleared your throat, looking ahead. “I have not.” 

“What?” He quirked a brow. “Been confessed to or been a nerd?” 

You sighed in borderline annoyance. “You'll be surprised to know that a fair share of boys have indeed liked me and confessed to me.” 

He made a sound of excitement, turning so he could face you and walk backwards. “And let me guess. You ran away everytime, didn't you?” 

You scoffed. “You’ll also be surprised to know that I'm very brave. I do not chicken out.” 

“Well,” he pursed his lips. “I do chicken out. So we have a difference there. I was starting to think we were the same soul in different bodies.” 

You chuckled, looking ahead at the street lights illuminating your way. “What makes us so alike?” 

“Our love for love, first of all.” He said, making your heart skip a beat as you met his eyes again. “You're observant and I'm observant. I can tell we're both sensitive, trying really hard to win in life, people pleasers. I could go on and on.” 

You licked your lips, faintly tasting the ice cream that was melting in your hands. You couldn't look away from his face for a few seconds, and it dawned on you just then. He was right. You really hadn't met someone as similar to you. 

“For someone who's so cocky,” you looked away, taking a long lick of your ice cream. “You sure have observed me a lot.” 

“Of course!” He stressed, licking his stick clean and tossing it in the nearby trash can before walking with you. “You're the only real friend I've made here. Others seem to be very fake.” 

Once again, you found yourself staring at Jeonghan in awe, his words echoing in your mind like a repeating alarm you couldn't turn off. Were you special to him? Were you not? You couldn't tell. 

“You still want to please the same fake people all the time,” you muttered, diverting your gaze from him. You could remember all the times he'd invited people he didn't want to hang out with just because he feared upsetting them. He stopped in front of you, folding his arms and looking at you as if he was observing you. “Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't do the same.” 

You couldn't help the small smile that bloomed on your face, and you sighed. “Yeah, you win.” 

“I always do,” he said with a smirk, watching you throw your ice cream stick in the trash can outside your house. Before you fully turned to look at him, he spoke again. “It was Sua.” 

You raised your eyebrows, confused. He just stood there without saying another word, his arms folded like he was waiting for you to register his words. And that you did. 

It took a few seconds before your face pictured surprise, mouth hanging open and eyes widening. “Sua likes you?!” 

He nodded once, and shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. “Yeah she said she did, but it was just a crush, said she moved on and stuff. I don't know, it was kind of weird. How do you like someone for a day and then move on quickly?”

You fell silent, eyes scanning his beautiful, beautiful face. Your heart hammered against your chest, and you clenched your fists to try and keep your emotions in check. Your head shook on its own as if you were in a daze. “You don't. It's impossible.” 

Jeonghan took a step closer to you, head bending to look in your eyes closely like he had just caught everything. “You sound an awful lot like someone who's secretly got a crush.” 

You blinked, unable to breathe with him in your space like that. Thankfully, before you could swat him off, he moved away, laughing at the absurdity of your reaction. 

You gritted your teeth, annoyed at his laughter, and how beautiful he looked in the moment even if he was laughing at you. 

“Come on,” he shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “You can tell me. I'm good at keeping secrets. Who's got your heart?” 

You. 

You bit your tongue to not scream in his face — to not grab him by the collar and kiss your love into him. Tears pricked at your eyes like thorns, and you quickly chuckled, looking away from his playful gaze. 

“Why should I tell you?” 

“Oh,” Jeonghan's voice lowered an octave, as if a realization hit him. He squinted his eyes, cocking his head to a side to try and catch a glimpse of your face. “So you do like someone.”

“Of course, I do!” You said, albeit it sounded more intense than you intended. Shutting your eyes, you breathed through your nose. “Ugh, you're so annoying.” 

Before he could answer, you walked past him and into your house, watching your mom look at you from the doorway. You blinked at her easy smile, and rolled your eyes before walking in. 

“I like the idea of whatever is going on, you know,” your mom teased, walking beside you till you reached your room. You held the door knob, turning to face her. “What do you think is going on? Nothing is going on. We just went to get some ice cream!” 

“Well,” your mom grinned. “You both would make a lovely couple. But, I’d still like you to focus on your studies right now.” 

“I am,” you answered instantly, “I am focusing, mom. Don't worry, nothing will side track me.” 

Your mom nodded with a smile. “I do trust you.” 

You sighed. “Goodnight, mom,” and before you heard it back, you went inside your room, flopping on the bed. 

All night, you saw Jeonghan's face on the ceiling above you, heard his voice in your ears, and felt your heartache bleed through your tears. 

***

Jeonghans departure dates were nearing, and everything was becoming a tad bit overwhelming for you. You were almost everywhere he went, stayed with the friend group for any stupid games they played or places they went. 

You visited museums and parks and cafés as well as every single night market in all of Seoul. Boring game nights were suddenly starting to entertain you, and everytime the excitement got a little too much to your head, you had to physically sit down and study your brain through it. 

In a week, Jeonghan will be gone, and your life will go back to the usual studies pyramid. Nostalgia hit you even before the moments had truly ended, and it resulted in you beading bracelets for everyone as a memory of these times. 

Sure you didn't speak your sentiment out to anyone, but Jeonghan sat beside you on the stairs of your porch the same night, staring at the bracelet around his wrist. “Nostalgia, huh?” 

You blinked up at him slowly, eyes divering from your own bracelet before you registered your quickening heart beat. “You got me.” 

He chuckled, his eyes raking over your wrist before going back to his own. “I like your first ever gift for me. It's really pretty.” 

You felt your ears burning as you kept staring straight ahead at the garden visible from your porch. “You are the one who came from the states. You should've brought something for me.”

He clicked his tongue. “I didn't even know about your existence until I got here. If I knew, surely I would've brought a hundred thousand gifts for you.” 

Your heart stopped and restarted, your eyes briefly scanning the side of his face. You could feel your cheeks warming at his words, before you felt his eyes on you. “Or,” he said, his voice dropping. “Maybe you don't even need my gifts. I'm sure this dude you like buys you many.” 

You bit your lip, diverting your eyes to meet his for a split second. It was enough to see the glint of mischief in there, and you swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “What gifts? He doesn't even know I like him.”

“Oh,” he let out, scratching the ground beneath his shoe. “That's bad. Do you plan on telling him?” 

You paused, turning your face to look at him. He raised his gaze just in time to meet yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe. 

“Maybe,” you whispered, observing how his face reflected the dim light of your porch. “Should I tell him?” 

Jeonghan sputtered a little, looking away and chuckling briefly. “I don't know. Do you think you can trust him with the information? Boys these days are dogs.” 

“I trust him,” you muttered, eyes still fixed on his face. For a split second, you wondered if he knew you were talking about him, but the thought flew out of the window as soon as his eyes met yours again. He smiled softly, making you want to smack his beautiful face yet again. “You can tell him then. But make sure it's your own decision.” 

You quickly looked away, afraid of your own transparent face. You didn't trust yourself to keep looking at him without kissing him, so you just hummed softly, confirming that you understood what he said. 

***

You wiped a bead of sweat off your forehead after finally placing a plate of alfredo on the kitchen counter. Jeonghan sat on the stool across from you, eyeing the food almost suspiciously. 

“What?” 

“I'm just wondering if this tastes like wet garbage.” 

Your face morphed into disgust at his statement, “I cook well! Ask Seungkwan!” 

“I would if he was home,” Jeonghan said, grabbing the fork and digging it into the penne pasta. “It's highly suspicious that you're cooking for me while there's no one at your place. You could be poisoning me.” 

You rolled your eyes, snatching the fork from him and taking a bite yourself. “Look, I ate first. Are you now assured that I don't plan on killing you?” 

He chuckled, tugging at your heartstrings even while you were annoyed by him. His fingers brushed against yours when he took the fork from you, and dug in. 

“Hm this is really good,” he hummed with a mouthful, and despite your best resistance, your lips twitched up in a smile. 

“Well,” you shrugged, taking off your apron and walking to hang it beside the refrigerator. “One cooks well when it's their love language.” 

“Is cooking your love language?” 

You hummed in response, and the apron dropped from your hands at his next question. 

“Are you saying you love me, then?” 

The ground beneath your feet rattled. You thought your skin was burning, and you could feel Jeonghan's heavy stare on you even when you were facing away. Fuck, had you been obvious? How could he just ask you that? How would you ever look him in the eye again? Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You had two options. 

A) Freeze for many more minutes and confirm his speculation. 

B) Face him head first.

You decided the latter was better. You spun on your heels, your eyes squinted at him while your heart drummed against your ribcage. “What?” 

The look on Jeonghan’s face told you he saw right through you. It was as if he'd known you forever, or better yet he'd learnt you well in a short amount of time. Either way, you wanted to run away. 

“Well,” he glanced back down at the pasta, before smiling up at you briefly, “since you, you know, cooked for me.” 

Your response was curt and quick. “Do you also think you're a bit too self centered or is it just me?” 

Jeonghan shrugged, not smiling or smirking like you'd expect from him in such a situation. He was unreadable, and that scared you. “Who's it then? The one you want to cook for?” 

You felt your throat run dry, and you chugged down a large gulp of water before standing across him at the counter. “I think I told you enough about him.” 

“Do you think,” he paused, playing with the pasta in his plate, “your mom would approve of him?” 

The moment he looked up, you knew you were in trouble. You realized that he knew. He knew it was him you liked. But a tiny voice in your head convinced you to keep up your act. He might not know too. You might just be overthinking.

“Why does that matter?” You shrugged, fidgeting with your fingers absentmindedly. “Besides, I think she would. He's really…” you trailed off, continuing to look in his beautiful eyes, “...nice.” 

A chuckle that almost sounded bitter left his lips, and you noticed that he wasn't really eating anymore. “You’re too positive. People are not as nice as you think they are.” 

“But he is.” You muttered almost immediately. Jeonghan looked at you again, his eyes holding questions you couldn't read. Licking your lips, you continued. “He’s the first person who makes me feel like I can also be loved.” 

Jeonghan continued to look at you for a few seconds in complete silence, before he nodded with a small smile. “Well then, why haven't you told him yet?” 

“I'm scared.” 

Jeonghan pushed the plate of pasta towards you, his smile wider now. “I'm full, you can have this.” 

You bit your lip, watching him get off the stool. What was this mess you'd landed yourself in? 

“Hey,” you heard Jeonghan say close to you, and you jumped slightly to find him right beside you. He smiled, ruffling your hair softly. “It's better to let it out than bottle it up. Good luck!” 

He gave you a victory salute with a click of his tongue, and walked off, leaving you stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

But this time, you knew what you had to do. 

***

Jeonghan was leaving. 

He had a flight back home in less than 24 hours, and you wanted to cry. As a matter of fact, you knew he didn't like you back. You didn't want to expect it and live in a bubble of delusion. But a tiny part of you still hoped for a chance. 

You had decided you'd tell him. Ironically, he'd also been the reason why you decided to tell him. He was right. It's always better to let it out than bottle it up. If you didn't tell him, you knew you'd spend your whole life pining after someone who couldn't be yours. And if you do tell him, you'll know his answer. You won't be hanging by a thread somewhere in between. It'll be death or life. 

Your house was packed with everyone who'd come to say goodbye to him and his family, so you couldn't really talk to him. All day, you'd only stared at him from afar, memorizing his features and the lines on his face. You didn't know when you'd see him again, or if you'd see him again the same way. You wanted to bask in your love till you could, till he snatched it from you in the form of a rejection. 

Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: on a scale of 1-10, how sad are you about me leaving 

You saw his text when you were by the kitchen counter, and you lifted your head up to find him directly looking at you from the living room’s couch. He had a lazy smirk on his face, and you hated the way your face warmed. 

You had to do this. 

You had no way out. Whether he accepted you or rejected you, you had to tell him for your own sake. You didn't want to die in between heaven and hell. 

Psych YN: meet me at the rooftop 

Yoon Jeonghan 🙄[🤍]: shady 

Psych YN: in five minutes 

—

You barely heard his footsteps over the loud beating of your heart, turned the other way as you stared at the star filled night sky. The hum of conversation drifted from downstairs, reaching your deaf ears faintly while you prepared your speech in your head. 

The hopeful, delusional, lovergirl part of your heart kept giving you scenarios to daydream about — a long distance relationship, surprise meetings, a kiss as you confessed and what not. 

A hand at your shoulder startled you. You turned with a sharp breath leaving your mouth, finding Jeonghan right in front of you. He had his brows pinched in concern. “Are you okay? I called for you quite a few times.” 

You felt your throat run dry, wishing you had enough space behind you to run away. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just lost in thought.” 

Jeonghan hummed, not pressing or teasing you otherwise. “You wanted to see me.” 

You realized it would've been better if he was in his usual element. Him teasing you was better than whatever this was. You couldn't look him in the eye while he looked at you like this. Like he liked you. Like the tiny part of your heart was right. 

“Jeonghan.” You began, licking your lips and finally mustering enough courage to meet his eyes. “I'm gonna say it.” 

He exhaled, shoulders slumping back in defeat. His eyes stayed glued to yours, turning droopier every second as he waited for you to speak what he'd known since forever. 

“It's you.” You muttered, your voice so small you were afraid he missed it. “The person I like.” 

As the words left your mouth, you felt the world spinning a little faster. The night sky was suddenly more quiet than before, and the only sound you heard in a second was Jeonghan's exhale. 

“You probably figured it out,” you continued, your voice trembling at the edges. Your head ducked down, unable to continue looking in his eyes that looked tired. “I just needed to get this off my chest. I know you don't like me, and that's okay. I just hope you know that I really like you for who you are, and you made me want to believe in love.” 

Your eyes drifted back to meet his unreadable ones, and you gulped. All you wanted to do was shut off, so that's what you did. You turned the other way, looking up at the night sky with a burning heart. “That's all.” 

There was a beat of silence in the air before you heard a rustle. Jeonghan slipped his hands out from his pockets, and took a step closer to you. 

You felt his touch on your wrist, featherlight and careful as he tugged you behind until you crashed into his sturdy chest. The world tilted on its axis. You forgot what breathing felt like, as his arms wrapped around you from behind, holding you softly. 

“You're right,” he said in a while, his voice more soft than you'd ever heard it be. “I figured it out, and I'm…” he trailed off, and your eyes shut tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

You couldn't believe you were wrapped up in Yoon Jeonghan's embrace, and hearing his rejection. 

“I can't like you currently for a reason,” he said, and the words lodged themselves in your heart like an axe. “But it's not because of you. You're wonderful, I promise. You're genuinely the best person I've met in Seoul. You're intelligent, funny, and you make such a good friend. I don't even deserve you.” 

You wanted him to shut up, tears pricking at your eyes. But he continued, his soft voice echoing in your ears. “It’s hard for me to say this too. Turning you down isn't the easiest thing I've ever done, but I'm really sorry.” 

You clenched your jaw hard to not cry. The least you wanted was to fall any weaker in front of him, and with his arms around you, you weren't sure if it was possible. 

Shifting a little, you took a sharp breath in, and turned to look at him. Jeonghan took a step back to create enough space between you, his eyes holding something you couldn't really read.

You thought you'd cry if you looked at him, but strangely, you heard a weak chuckle leave your mouth. “You look like you practiced this speech.” 

Jeonghan didn't laugh, didn't even smile. He just tilted his head to the side, silently asking you to not put up a show in front of him. Your smile faltered, and you looked down at your feet. You had expected this, so why did it hurt more than you thought it would? 

“Can I at least ask why?” You muttered, eyes still darting between his feet and yours. You did not want to look at his beautiful face anymore. It wasn't yours to stare at. 

There was a long silence that seemed to stretch forever. You wanted to look up and see if he was still looking at you, if he was conflicted, if he was smiling and teasing you. For a split second, you wondered what if he said it was a prank and he actually liked you?

That made you look up, but Jeonghan was not smiling. He did look conflicted, and panicked, and there was a fear in his eyes you couldn't comprehend.

He blew some air from his mouth, running a hand through his hair. “I…I just—” 

You heard a loud thud. 

Both you and Jeonghan turned to see Chaeyoung standing at the door of the rooftop, the door shut behind her. A weird fear of how much she'd seen clawed your chest, or heard. This wasn't how you wanted her to find out. 

“Sorry, I thought no one was here,” she said, and instantly turned to open the door. Then she stopped, turning to look back at the both of you. “Jeonghan, your mom was looking for you. Seemed pretty urgent.” 

Before Jeonghan could respond, she was scurrying away. He turned to look at you, lips flattening in a tight lipped smile. “Let's talk about this later, yeah?” 

You wanted to yell no. You did not want to talk about it later, or again. Your chest ached with the weight of everything, and you watched as he jogged away, leaving you stranded on your rooftop. 

Despite the open space, you felt suffocated. Your fist reached up to hammer your chest as a sob ripped out of you, raw and painful. Your knees buckled, and all you could see was your own tears as you collapsed on the cold, hard ground. 

You lost your first chance at love, and you desperately wished the subject of your affection saw you. Worse, he did see you, just not in the way you wished for. And that crushed your heart like nothing else.

***

The late afternoon wrapped around you in a soft breeze, doing very little to dull the ache in your heart. The scent of the airport suffocated you as you trailed behind Jeonghan, watching him drag his suitcase along. 

Soobin seemed sad as she walked beside him, and so did Aunt Hyesuk. You knew it was going to be a tearful goodbye paired with promises of coming back, but you couldn't wait for it all to be over. You couldn’t wait to not see Jeonghan anymore, for that seemed to be the only way you'd stop hurting. 

Seungkwan strangely kept sticking close to you until Jeonghan stole you away to the airport cafeteria. You were reluctant to go with him, but the way he looked at you with his eyes softer than usual, you couldn't help but surrender. 

He bought a regular glass of watermelon juice and extended it towards you. God knows how he knew it was your favourite. You took it just because you wished to avoid speaking to him, but he had other plans. 

“Y/N.” He called out on your way out, making you hum around the straw. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

You blinked, and shook your head quickly. “No. No. Why would I be mad?” 

You heard him sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. “Everything seems to have changed between us.” 

You didn't respond, opting to continue walking beside him slowly. You didn't know what to say to that, and you didn't know what he expected from you either. 

“Look,” he stopped walking, looking at you softly. “I know how you must feel. I understand. So you can take your time processing it and I—” 

“You didn't answer me.” You cut him off, something ugly bubbling up your throat. Jeonghan raised his brows in confusion. 

“I asked you why you can't like me. I think I deserve to know that much.” 

For a second, Jeonghan just stared at you in silence. You hated not being able to read him, and somehow you felt humiliated in this position. 

He bit his lip, looking down at the ground before meeting your eyes. This time, he didn't look conflicted. “I like someone else.” 

You wished you didn't have ears. 

The moment his words registered in your brain, you wanted to wail and collapse and die. As if it was even possible, the ache in your heart grew tenfold, and you couldn't stop the tears that glistened in your eyes. 

“That's why I do want you to move on,” he continued, his voice somehow even more small than before. “Because as incredible as you are, I already find someone else that.” 

In your head, you could picture yourself fallen on your knees, covering your ears and sobbing like a five year old. But in reality, you just stood stunned in front of Jeonghan, staring at him with watery eyes and a broken heart. 

“I'm really sorry,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze as he said so. Somewhere afar, the voice of the announcer bounced off the walls, calling for boarding. 

You saw Soobin run towards Jeonghan, waving at him and saying something you couldn't hear. Following her was Seungkwan, and you saw Jeonghan turn to you. He had such a pained look on his face that it hammered your heart. He pulled you in a short hug, his hand resting at the back of your head as he whispered. “Take care of yourself, and keep in touch with me.” 

Soobin followed right after, hugging you and saying her goodbye. Aunt Hyesuk hugged you the longest, promising she'd come back soon to see you become a successful psychologist. 

And just like that, it all ended. 

Jeonghan turned to look at you one last time before he entered the departure gates, and as your final act of love, you smiled at him. It earned you the exact, beautiful smile you'd fallen in love with, before Yoon Jeonghan disappeared from your life and you collapsed on your knees, hot tears running down your cheeks.

footnotes: yes, i know there's been a lot of angst, i'm sorry 😔 part 2 will be out as soon as tumblr stops acting like a bitch <3

taglist: @hui-ranghae @4kwp @strawbabyz @cynthbee @eunbi4eva @himewonu @woncheecks @n0tvi @ateez-atiny380 @wonwooslefttiddie @woo-wonwoo @prettypeachprincesz @neotannies

[coupsalchemy]

Jungle

Tags: street fighter!Seungcheol x f.reader, badboy x shy girl, there’s more to the main I just don’t wanna giveaway.

Warnings: nothing for this teaser but SO MANY for the main fic

A's Note - this fic has consumed me whole. jungle coups videos changed something in me that I cooped up in a corner and kept on writing this. It’s currently at 30k mark and it’s still not done. All in all I am enjoying writing him and the reader, they are just so adorable. This is tip of the iceberg and there’s more to come 🤭.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” You wring your hands in anxiety, following Mina, your roommate, into a dim lit and awful smelling gym arena. 

“Jeez, chill.” Mina drags you by your hand, past the old dirty gym equipment, men pause their workout, staring at the two young girls, an odd sight in the dingy gym, and you quickly avert your eyes away when a man starts smirking at you. 

“This isn’t safe, Mina,” you press her hand, wanting to go back to your apartment, and just bathe away this irksome feeling of being watched, and sleazy glances sticking to your body. “Let’s go back, please.” 

“Nope.” Mina opens a door, revealing a boxing ring, “hey!” She waves at a boy who is sitting over the ring’s ropes. 

He nudges his chin up in greeting, patting the man away who he has been conversing till now. Mina lets go of your hand, running up to the boy, and kissing his lips. 

Your eyes widen as his hand squeezes her ass, you quickly look away feeling your cheeks warm and blinking away the gross vision. How could they be indecent in public? 

A man walks by wearing nothing but shorts, you take a step back, this place is what you think is called hell. You can’t stay here for few more seconds, fuck being rebellious, maybe Joshua is right, you don’t belong to the places like these. 

Mina calls your name, reading your apprehension she quickly appears by your side, holding your hand. “This gym is the safest.” She reassures you, but you feel eyes on you, “trust me. Being in a new place is causing you anxiety, but, fear not, if anything remotely bad is about to happen, Vernon and his friends will take care of it.” 

Vernon, her friend (she mentioned she hates labelling relationships), waves at you. Mina rolls her eyes, “maybe not Vernon considering he doesn’t have any muscle,” he marches towards her fast, grabbing her face and biting her lips. 

You shield your eyes, turning away, once this horrible night is done, you are never ever going to trust Mina’s words. This is simply just not you. 

“Let’s go. I’ll show you the man who will actually protect us.” Mina tugs on your arm, hooking hers around yours. 

Vernon scoffs, “you do know that I can take a man down.” 

“Never have I seen that, so, no, I don’t know.” Mina shrugs him off, taking you to the locker room which clearly reads Men. 

“Uhm,” you try to stop outside but Mina drags you by force, “this is a men‘s locker room.”

“Of course. Why would men change clothes at women’s? Stop being silly.” 

“Silly? We can’t go into men’s! That’s the whole point of having different rooms, so they can have their privacy.” 

Mina doesn’t heed one word of yours, searching the corners for the man. The locker room is empty, thank god, you aren’t ready to see anyone naked. This day has already brought enough rebelliousness, all you want to do is go…

“Ah, there he is. Cheol, here!” 

A shirtless man, toweling his wet hair, turns around. You are slow to catch his face, still stuck on his broad back, broader than any man you have seen till now, given its less number. But, this man, with his dependable back, can shield the entire world if one stands behind him. 

“The fuck, you are doing here.” His deep  tone has you flinching, you glance away from his firm chest to his face. “Get the fuck out.” 

He throws his wet towel at Mina which misses and hits your head instead. Mina laughs, leaning against Vernon’s chest, teasing Cheol about his aim. 

You straighten your hair, a habit your mother instilled since childhood, to look prim and proper at all times, not one loose strand out of its place. It is drilled into you for years that you can’t stand anything out of normal. Like the place you are at. 

Cheol tilts his head, looking at you. You swallow, pressing your sweaty palms to your jeans, he walks slowly, picking up a shirt from the bench, his eyes sliding up from your white shoes to your jeans, pausing at the tiny flowers stitched near your left thigh, to your crop top, you swear he was looking at the sliver of skin peeking out when you shifted your weight to the other leg, and then he stops before you, towering, he pulls his shirt over his head, “did it hurt you?” 

Mina snorts beside you, letting your hand go. Vernon groans, saying something along, worst pick up line.

Cheol slides his arm into the sleeve, still staring down at you, his dark eyes flitting down when you pat your hair for stray strands, nervously. 

“She’s new.” Mina shoves him away from you, her hand on his chest, fingers touching bare skin. You track the moment, and look at him, searching for his reaction, he grins, backing away, watching you still. “Stop, seriously. Back away.”

Cheol steps back, pulls his shirt completely down, concealing his chest from the world. You pick up the towel from the floor, dusting it off, disappointed at how you couldn’t see his chest anymore and, also, at you for thinking that. 

“Did the fight end?” Mina asks. “I wanted to show her the fight. Here goes my plan of spoiling her.” 

“Just from bringing her to a game?” Vernon circles around her as she exits the locker room. 

You fiddle with the wet towel and apprehensively glance at Mina leaving you alone in the men's locker room. Cheol extends his hand, bruises and red knuckles, you gingerly place the towel on it and dash towards the door. He chuckles behind you, and you don’t have the courage to look back at him. 

“Did Cheol win or lose?” Mina has her hands on her waist. 

You catch up to her, staying close. Footsteps echo behind you, you know whose it is, you wring your fingers, putting your weight mostly on your toes, feeling a presence standing just behind you, the smell of his citrus soap, and that shampoo, churning your stomach. 

“Of course, I won.” His breath hits your cheek, you take a step forward, maintaining breathable space between you and him. 

“Should I remind you that you lost the last one, and had been brutally beaten to death?” Mina arches her eyebrow at him. 

You suck in a breath, turning around to check on him. His attention flits to you, the small smile on his lips, before he glares at your friend. “That’s three months ago.” 

“Exactly.”

“Hospitalised for three months?” Your voice is meek, more to yourself, but he catches it. 

“Recovery, training.” He answers, somehow, sounding a lot closer. What happened to breathable space? 

“Oh.” 

He tilts his head, his hair still wet at the ends, they are longer, almost covering his eyes, when dried his hair must be silky, smooth, contrary to his entire build, rugged, huge, rough. You want to ask him about the products he uses, and maybe, give him the ointments for his red bruised knuckles. 

“I won.” He flexes his hands under your gaze, “these are my battle scars, and also defines my success.” 

“Yeah, against a rookie,” Vernon deadpans. 

Cheol throws the same fist at Vernon, who dodges it swiftly, like it’s a step they rehearsed over and over. You laugh at their childish antics, Mina joins you, Cheol pauses chasing his friend, eyes wide as he looks at you, and your smile, transfixed. 

You turn away, biting your lip, your cheeks on fire. Cheol lets go of the idea of chasing Vernon, steps in line with you, now, looking ahead instead of you. You study his jawline, sharp, and crisp, manlier just like his everything else. He clears his throat, watching you from the corner of his eyes. You startle, catching yourself, what’s wrong with you? Why are you so adamant on embarrassing yourself today? 

“Came for the game. Since we missed it, sadly,” you hear the mockery in Mina’s tone, “we will get going.” 

You quickly wave at the two guys, following Mina to the exit. 

“And, Cheol, wipe your drool.”

[callisrecords]

MATCH POINT PT.1

pairing: boo seungkwan x f!reader

genre: badminton player!bsk, f2l, fluff, mild angst

description: a part of the 17 Seconds 2 Score collab! When a burst pipe leaves national athlete Boo Seungkwan temporarily homeless, the universe decides to have a laugh and send him to the one person he’s been too busy to see—his best friend. What should’ve been an easy, familiar arrangement turns strangely complicated; between his chaotic training schedule and the small ways you keep circling each other, nothing feels as simple as it used to. Living together blurs lines you’ve never questioned before. There's a net neither of you have crossed, but maybe it's time to break the match point.

warnings: strong language, alcohol, physical exhaustion, they're truly idiots, pls do let me know if i missed something

w/c: 17k

a/n: eeek its here!! it's been a long time coming, so first and foremost i would like to thank jay ( @ppyopulii ) and hershey ( @junplusone ) you two are my cohosts but also my best friends on here, and doing this with you has been the best part of everything!!! i love you both so much. and to all the amazing writers in the collab, thank you for joining us <3 it's been so fun seeing you guys come up with your ideas and work through them and i am so excited to read each and every one of your fics. unbeta-d we ball ✌️

Seungkwan shows up at your door with a duffle bag on one shoulder, his badminton kit on the other, and the unmistakable air of someone who hasn’t slept in three days.

There’s a line of grip tape hanging out from one of the compartments he’s hastily zipped up, and his hair looks more damaged than the last time you saw him. His bloodshot eyes look at you sheepishly just as the movers walk, arms busy with huge boxes, into the corridor behind him.

“Before you say anything,” Seungkwan starts, shifting the duffle higher on his shoulder, “I bring gifts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is it a medal?”

“Swiss chocolates.” He offers, “And a medal, of course. But you’re not getting that.”

Opening the door wider to let him and the movers in, you scoff. “Wow. The generosity.”

He walks past with a muttered thanks, brushing against you close enough to smell the pain-relief spray on him, overpowering the clean scent of aftershave. Behind him, the movers trudge in, hauling boxes that look far too heavy for the kind of temporary stay this was supposed to be.

You glance at the labels scrawled across them in black marker: “training gear,” “kitchen (emergency ramen) + clothes,” “misc,” and—because of course he would—“sentimental stuff, don’t touch.”

“How long did your landlord say this repair would take again?” you ask, watching the boxes stack higher and higher.

“Two weeks. Maybe three.” He drops the bags by your couch and exhales like he’s deflating. “Burst pipe in the ceiling while I was gone. The whole apartment flooded. Walls, floor, everything. They’re tearing it all out and redoing the wiring too. I brought what I could salvage.”

“That sounds awful,” you say, though the sympathy in your voice is half-swallowed by amusement.

“It is awful,” he insists, collapsing onto your couch without asking. “You have no idea what kind of hell I’ve been through this week.”

You lean against the arm of the couch. “I’m guessing you’ll tell me anyway.”

He sighs dramatically, one arm draped over his forehead like a tragic hero. “You ever land after a fourteen-hour flight thinking you’ll finally get a real shower and actual sleep?”

“Can’t say I’ve had that privilege.”

“Picture this: you land in Seoul, still riding that post-win high, right? You’re thinking you’ll get home, toss your medal on the counter, think you’ll take a nap. And then you open the door to an indoor pond.”

“An indoor pond,” you repeat, fighting the smile that’s already threatening your face. While he grumbles, you push off the couch and head towards the door, bidding the movers goodbye as they leave. 

“I wish I was exaggerating,” Seungkwan complains once you return, letting his hand fall from his forehead. His eyes are closed. “The building management said I could either stay and risk electrocution or move out while they fix it.” He gestures loosely to his boxes. “Guess which one I chose.”

You hum, pretending to think. “You, voluntarily making a responsible decision? That’s new.”

“Hey.” He points an offended finger at you, though there’s no real energy behind it. “Desperation makes a man reasonable. I called my mom the second I got outside. She said I should come home to Jeju for a few weeks while they fix everything.”

“That would’ve been nice. You haven’t been home in a while, no?”

“Nice,” he echoes, “but also completely impractical. I’ve got another training block starting the day after, then the Asia Championship in China in three weeks. Flights back and forth would eat up the whole break. So I told her no. And then, because she’s her, she said she’d ‘find me somewhere.’”

“You could’ve called me first,” you roll your eyes, sauntering into the kitchen. “I told you my roommate moved out a few months ago.”

Seungkwan snorts, opening his eyes and sitting up to face you. “Bold of you to assume you’re always on my mind.”

“I could kick you out right now,” you warn, waving the fork in your hand at him before you stuff a piece of cantaloupe into your mouth. 

“You wouldn’t. Not after all I’ve suffered.”

“I would,” you hum.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, and then—because sometimes he’s always been a bit of an airhead—he stumbles to his feet and slides his way toward you, socks slipping against the polished floor. “Wait, wait, don’t kick me out yet,” he pleads, arms already opening like that’s going to save him.

“Seungkwan—”

But he’s faster, wrapping himself around you before you can step away. You let out an undignified sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he squeezes you tight, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Thank you for saving a homeless national athlete,” Seungkwan mumbles solemnly.

“You’re not homeless,” you grumble, trying to pry him off. “You’re just highly inconvenienced.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, finally pulling back with a grin that’s too pleased. “Anyway, chocolates. Front pocket of the duffel. Treat yourself before I eat them all.”

You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway. “You can unpack later. The guest room’s ready with fresh sheets. I even vacuumed, and the shower’s free if you want to wash off all that tragic energy.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “You cleaned for me? Wow. You really do love me.”

You aim the fork at him again. “Don’t make me reconsider.”

He laughs, softer this time, the kind of laugh that makes the room feel suddenly smaller. “Fine, fine. I’ll shower, then nap. Can you wake me up for lunch?”

“Yeah,” you say, already turning back to the counter. “Go before you fall asleep standing there.”

Seungkwan grins, slow and lazily, the exhaustion catching up to him again. “You’re the best,” he says simply, leaning down to press a quick, grateful kiss to your cheek before heading toward the hallway.

You stay where you are, fork halfway to your mouth, and try to forget the reason you haven’t seen your “best friend” in over two months.

It’s not the first time he’s shown up like this. Not exactly. It just used to look a little different.

You must’ve been ten, maybe eleven, when Seungkwan first started ringing your doorbell like it owed him money. The summer heat had been unbearable, the kind that made you drink and eat your weight’s worth in lemonade and ice cream, the kind that left the asphalt steaming on the roads. 

You’d been half-asleep on the couch when your mother called out that Seungkwan’s here again, and before you could even groan, he was already at your door.

He had two rackets that day and a grin too wide for the weather.

“Come play with me,” he’d said, like it wasn’t burning outside.

“No,” you’d answered immediately.

“Come on, just one match.”

“You’ll win anyway.”

“I’ll go easy.” He grovelled.

You’d stared at him for a long second, debating, but then he’d held up the bribe—his wallet, or whatever pouch kids had those days. “I’ll buy you those orange popsicles.”

You’d narrowed your eyes. “Two.” “Deal.”

The indoor court was only a few blocks away, tucked behind a convenience store and a stationery shop, a place that always smelled faintly of plastic shuttlecocks and strongly of sweat. It wasn’t glamorous—the lights flickered every now and then, and the floor had skid marks on the varnish from a dozen kids before you—but to him, it might as well have been the national arena.

Seungkwan played like a professional then too. You, on the other hand, held the racket like a broom.

“Ready?” he’d asked, tossing the shuttle high. “No,” you said, but he served anyway.

He won the first point, then the second, then every point after that, all while offering very helpful commentary. “Good try!” when you missed by a mile. “You almost had it!” when the shuttle didn’t even reach the net. “Okay, maybe this one’s my bad,” when he accidentally sent it straight into your face.

It was out of character, for the Seungkwan you knew would have rather rubbed salt in your wounds for fun, but you supposed he was doing it so that you would still play with him. 

By the time you gave up, sitting down on the edge of the court and declaring your early retirement, he was grinning from ear to ear, sweat darkening his shirt. “That was fun,” he’d said, like you hadn’t just been humiliated for twenty minutes straight.

“Don’t call me again,” you’d muttered, unwrapping the orange popsicle he’d bought you from the vending machine.

He’d just laughed, picking up another shuttle and turning toward the wall, hitting it again and again while you sat there with your popsicle, watching. You’d rolled your eyes then, but secretly, you’d thought it was kind of impressive how he never stopped.

When he finally joined you by the court, he’d flopped down dramatically, face still red from the heat. “Next time,” he said, “you’re going to beat me.”

You’d snorted. “Sure.”

“It’s boring here,” Seungkwan complained. “I can’t even practice in the summers because all the people that do go for summer camp are beginners.”

“As if I’m not.” You pointed out.

He only shrugged, tossing the shuttle up and catching it again. “That’s fine. I won’t bother you once the normal classes start again. It’s better than playing with kids.”

Scoffing, you tried to throw the wooden stick at him. “Look at you, acting all high and mighty. Someone needs to pull you down to earth.” 

“It’s not my fault I’m too good for most of the people that go here.” Seungkwan frowned, spinning the racket between his palms like he was already bored again.

“Yeah, yeah, future Olympian, whatever,” you muttered. “Maybe work on your humility next.”

He gave you a look, then grinned. “You sound jealous.”

“Of what?”

“My talent.”

You’d laughed, sharp and unconvinced, but he’d only smirked wider—like he knew something you didn’t.

You blink out of the memory, half-disoriented, as if you’ve just surfaced from a place too far away. It takes a second to remember where you are—the kitchen counter, the afternoon light hitting the tiles, the open window carrying in the faint buzz of the neighborhood.

You reach for your water bottle and take a slow sip, hoping the coolness will steady you. It doesn’t. You can still see him as he was back then. Sunburnt, stubborn, with that same spark in his eyes that never really went away. 

The sound of the showerhead stopping makes you look up. A minute later, he steps out, hair dripping, towel slung around his shoulders, the neck of his shirt damp with water droplets. 

You sniff the air twice before narrowing your eyes at him, hands on your hips. “Did you use my shampoo?” 

“And your conditioner!” He shoots a salute at you as he turns to walk to the guest bedroom. “It smells great by the way.”

You scoff before pushing off the counter. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re already reaching for the pan.

There’s no point pretending you haven’t done this before. You know how he gets after long tournaments—too tired to cook, too stubborn to order anything remotely nutritious, and too proud to admit that he just wants something warm and familiar. So you start pulling out the things he’ll eat without complaint: eggs, rice, sesame oil, the tub of kimchi that you’d bought on instinct last week and hadn’t even opened yet.

Fully expecting him to knock out in his room, you get started with lunch, the kitchen filling with the soft crack of eggshells and the sizzle of oil. But soon enough, he walks out, hair still damp and sticking to his forehead, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

You glance over your shoulder. “I thought you were going to sleep.”

“I feel bad,” Seungkwan sighs, trudging over to you. “Do you need any help?”

You scoff lightly without turning around. “You can barely keep your eyes open. The last thing I need is you setting my kitchen on fire.”

He whines behind you. “I’m not that bad.”

“You aren’t terrible,” you offer, “but that’s when you’re well rested and feeling good. Other days, not so much. Just sit down.”

He hovers near you instead, jutting his chin over your shoulder to peek at the stove. You flinch, which makes him stare at you incredulously before he turns back to the pan. “That smells good.”

You shrug, swallowing hard. “It’s just fried rice.”

“It’s your fried rice,” he corrects, tone teasing but soft. “There’s a difference.”

You roll your eyes, focusing on the pan. “Flattery won’t get you extra.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” he starts, but stops when you glance at him. His smile falters for a beat, eyes flicking away. “Okay, maybe I was.”

You bite back a laugh, shaking your head as you stir the rice, though your pulse is doing something ridiculous. He opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of chopsticks, and plucks out a bit of kimchi from the tub.

“This is new?” he asks, chewing.

“Yeah, haven’t even tried it yet.”

“Mm. You should.”

Before you can reach for your own chopsticks, he’s already holding out a piece for you. “Here,” he says simply, not even looking at you, his eyes honing in on the ingredients list on the back of the tub.

You hesitate, but he looks so unbothered that you can’t even come up with an excuse. You lean in, and he hums happily before putting the chopsticks down.

“It’s good, right?” he asks, oblivious or pretending to be.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. Pretty good.” You turn off the stove too quickly, grab for plates to cover it up. “So, um, how was the Swiss Open?”

He looks at you like you’ve just insulted him. “Wait. Did you not watch me?”

Your lips twitch. “Sorry, some of us have jobs.”

Seungkwan’s face falls, barely, but enough. “You’re lying, right? You always watch the finals.”

You glance up at him then, and the way he tries to mask his hurt expression makes your stomach twist. You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I’m joking, relax. I watched. Even the semis.”

His mouth softens into a grin almost immediately. “You did?”

“Of course I did.” You slide the bowl towards him, pretending not to notice the way his expression brightens like that matters more than it should. “Not going to lie though, the way you lost that first set, I almost thought you’d get out in the semis.”

Seungkwan scoffs, “You don’t understand. Sometimes I need to keep the spectators in mind and make the game more interesting as well. Keep them on the edge of their seats, y’know…” he trails off into a mumble, shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth. 

You throw an exasperated glance at him, making him chew sheepishly. 

“Okay, it was a hard match.” He admits, rolling his eyes at you. “He caught me off guard.” 

“That’s what you said last time too.” You can’t help smiling as you sit across from him, setting your own bowl down. “And the time before that. What’s next—‘he used black magic’?”

He narrows his eyes at you but the corner of his mouth is already twitching. “You’re awfully bold for someone who’s never played at that level.”

“Please,” you say, scoffing. “You act like I haven’t seen you play since we were kids. I could tell exactly when you started panicking.”

“I did not panic,” he insists, pointing his spoon at you.

You lift your brows, unbothered. “Sure. You just... dramatically misjudged every drop shot in the first half of the second set.”

Seungkwan groans, dropping the spoon into his bowl. “You know, you’re supposed to say nice things. Supportive things. Not tear me apart over lunch.”

“Hey,” you retort, “I’m feeding you. That’s support.”

He leans back in his chair, grinning now. “You really did watch,” 

You don’t answer right away. You just busy yourself with another bite, eyes fixed on the food because looking at him feels dangerous. “Yeah,” you say finally, voice lighter than you mean it to be. “Would’ve been weird not to.”

He hums, a small, satisfied sound, and reaches over with his spoon, stealing a larger chunk of scrambled egg from your plate. You make a sound of protest, swatting at his hand, but he’s already laughing, full and unguarded.

Glaring at him, you grumble under your breath before going back to your bowl. You wouldn’t let anyone else touch your food, yet somehow, he’s always been the exception. He’s just being himself, you tell yourself. Friendly. Familiar. Nothing new. But the problem is, you aren’t the same anymore.

Because suddenly, two or three weeks feels like an awfully long time to have him here. To hear his voice around your house, to find his towel on your chair, to smell your shampoo on his hair.

You stab at your rice, pretending you aren’t already thinking about how impossible it’s going to be living with your oldest friend. Especially when you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.

You shuffle out of your room still half-asleep, blinking at the faint sound of audio commentary playing through the TV. Your first thought is that you left the TV on last night, but then you catch sight of Seungkwan sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your sofa, hair sticking up every which way, eyes glued to slow-motion footage of a rally. His laptop’s open beside him, notebook scattered with messy scribbles and timestamps.

It takes you a second to process that he’s up. Not just up but also alert, and apparently functional.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you mumble, voice still rough. “What time is it?”

He glances up at you in surprise, eyes crinkling. “Morning. It’s like… seven?” he says, stretching his neck. “There’s coffee in the fridge, by the way. The way you like it. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You pause in the hallway, brain still buffering. “Wait… you made coffee?”

“Yeah,” he says, already turning back to the screen. “With milk, less sugar, and extra froth. It’s chilling now.”

You blink a few times, trying to catch up. “You’ve been up since when?”

He shrugs, pen tapping against his knee. “Four? I crashed hard yesterday, so I just woke up early. Figured I might as well get some work done.”

You rub your face with both hands, still not fully believing what you’re seeing. “And unpack, apparently.”

He glances toward the corner where a few open boxes sit stacked neatly, everything inside folded and arranged like he’s been here a week instead of a night. “Just the stuff I actually need. The rest can stay like that until I move back.”

Right. You nod, although he can’t see you, and pad into the kitchen. You open the fridge, and there it is: a tall glass of coffee sitting right in the front, froth still holding its shape on top.

Making a mental note to drink it before you leave for work, you close the fridge door and slink back into the living room, slumping onto the couch behind Seungkwan. 

“What are you even doing?”

“Watching clips from my last two matches,” he says, jotting something down in his notebook. “And some of the guys I might face next month.”

Your eyes skim the screen. The footage is paused mid-rally, his opponent—a Danish rookie that’s been making the headlines recently—lunging forward, racket barely angled under the shuttle. “You do this for fun or for torture?”

He laughs under his breath. “It’s not that bad. Helps me figure out what I did right, what I didn’t. You’d be surprised how much you miss when you’re actually playing.”

You hum, still half-asleep, watching as he rewinds and plays the same sequence again. 

“Do you ever get tired of it?” you ask softly.

“Of what?”

“Seeing yourself play. Thinking about the same match over and over.”

He pauses, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I get tired of losing. That’s about it.”

“That was so corny, it definitely woke me up.” You gag before lying down with a groan. “I’m so sleepy.”

Seungkwan laughs, the sound bright and cheerful. “Then go back to sleep,” he says, throwing his head back and nudging your knees. “I’ll keep the volume low.”

“No.” You mumble into a cushion. “I have to go to work.”

He hums, and you both fall into a comfortable silence. He jots down notes and goes over clips multiple times, while you watch the screen distractedly, giving you way too much time to think about things you don’t need to think about. Like how strangely domestic it is, that image of him padding around your kitchen while you were asleep, frothing milk like he lives here. Which, technically, he does for now. 

You groan again just to cover the thought.

“Get up,” Seungkwan drawls, “you’ll be late.”

“You know, if you think about it, you’re kinda insane,” you mumble. “Normal people don’t wake up and watch themselves lose at dawn.”

“I didn’t lose this one,” he protests, twisting around to lightly smack you in the arm. “I haven’t lost a match in a while, you know?”

When you nod, clearly only to pacify him, Seungkwan grumbles under his breath. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not built for greatness.”

You stifle a yawn. “I’m built for eight hours of sleep.”

“Couldn’t be me.”

“Clearly,” you murmur, reaching for the cushion he’s leaning on and tugging it out from behind his back. “Go touch some grass, Seungkwan.”

He laughs, swatting at your leg. “Later. I’ll go outside when you leave.”

You grunt, sitting up with visible effort, hair sticking to your cheek. “Speaking of which, I should probably start getting ready.”

He nods and waves you off absently. 

When you come out again about an hour later, he’s moved to the kitchen. The TV’s off now, replaced by the quiet sound of toast popping up and plates clinking. 

You stumble towards him, trying to pull your socks on before you give up and sit down on one of the chairs at the kitchen island. He smacks his lips in disappointment before humming the tune of a song to himself. 

“There’s been a cat coming by lately,” you start, rubbing your eyes. “She usually sits on the porch around noon. Give her some milk if she asks for it. Don’t leave the dishes in the sink, and if you use the oven, please—”

He groans. “You’re giving me a lecture before I’ve even had breakfast?”

“—please don’t burn my kitchen down,” you finish, ignoring him. “And if you’re doing laundry, there’s detergent in the cabinet above the machine. Don’t mix colors and whites. And—”

“Wow,” he cuts in, smothering butter and jam over a slice of toast. “You’ve really thought this through. You know that I live alone right?”

“I’m trying to make sure I don’t come home to chaos,” you say, reaching for your bag on the counter. “Oh, and—”

He slides the plate aside, grabs the toast, and walks around the counter toward you. “Let me guess. Feed myself. Be responsible. Don’t die.”

“Exactly.”

Before you can keep going, he shoves the slice toward your mouth. “Here,” he says, unbothered. “Breakfast. Goodbye.”

You swat his hand away, mouth full of slightly burnt toast, and try to mumble around it. 

“What? What are you saying? What would you do without me…?” He leans in, pretending to listen. “Go to work starving, yeah.”

You glare at him, pointing accusingly before you pull the toast away, taking a moment to chew before you continue. “I mean it, Seungkwan. Don’t leave the stove on. Or the tap.”

You’re halfway through slipping your shoes on now, muttering as you go. “If you go out, lock the door. Don’t forget your keys. They’re in the bowl on the shoe cupboard. And—”

“Text you when I leave the house?” he guesses, trailing after you to the doorway, his plate in hand.

You snort. “No, when you come back. I don’t need a play-by-play.”

“Got it,” he says, nodding solemnly like he’s taking notes. “So, text you when I leave, when I come back, when I feed the cat, when I eat breakfast…”

“Seungkwan.”

He shrugs, smirking a little as he grabs another slice of toast. “You’re so worried about me, it’s cute. Alright, alright. I’ll be good. Promise.”

You shoot him a look that only makes him grin wider. “I’m worried about my house, not you.”

“Sure,” he says lightly, taking a bite. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You groan again, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I’m leaving.”

He nods toward the door. “Text me when you get there.”

You huff loudly, shoving your middle finger up over your shoulder. 

“Have a good day!” he calls out, still cheerful, waving his toast like a flag.

You don’t look back when you leave, but Seungkwan stays where he is for a while, watching the door, and still smiling a little to himself. Then he shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he sets the plate in the sink.

The air inside the institute smells like new polish and sweat.

Seungkwan’s only been gone for a week or two, but coming back always feels like home— the same echoing thwack of shuttlecocks in the courts, the same squeak of non-marking soles pivoting on the wood, the same half-shouted instructions from the younger coaches that still don’t quite carry over the sound of it all. Somewhere behind him, a metal water bottle clatters to the floor. He doesn’t flinch. It’s easy to fall back into rhythm here.

He passes a row of stacked chairs, the plastic kind used for casual meetings or idle waiting, and walks past the U-19 training courts to Court 7. Coach Baek is already there, leaning against the net post, clipboard tucked under his arm, the faintest smile appearing when he sees him.

“Morning,” the coach says. “Recovered?”

“As much as I’ll ever be,” Seungkwan answers, setting his bag down. “That’s good enough.” Baek glances at his watch. “Light session today. Just movement and control.”

It always starts the same way—warm-up jogs, sidesteps, lunges. He rolls his shoulders, wrists, and ankles. Feels the stiffness start to melt off his joints. The hall hums around him; juniors laughing in one corner, a smash drill echoing from another. He pushes his bangs back and adjusts the headband he’s started wearing. By the time he moves into shadow footwork, the rest of the world has thinned into a blur. 

Split step, push, recover. Split, lunge, twist. He doesn’t have to think. His body remembers. 

Sweat starts to pool along his hairline, trickling down his neck and ears. Seungkwan’s lungs protest sooner than he expects, a reminder that travel, interviews, and one day of sleep isn’t the same as rest.

“Don’t rush the cross-step,” Baek calls out, voice cutting through the air like a string pulled tight. “Stay low.”

He adjusts, shifting his weight before starting again. His shoes squeak loudly against the floor and his quads burn. There’s something oddly comforting about the ache, something familiar in how it never really changes.

When he finishes the sequence, coach hands him his racket. “Racket work.”

He takes it automatically, fingers wrapping around the worn-out grip. It’s different with a racket in hand. His movements tighten. Every step, every flick of his wrist starts to fall back into sync.

They begin with multishuttle drives, fast and repetitive with no pause to think. Coach Baek feeds clean and steady shots across the net, forcing him to move early, to reach, to reset. His body protests, but it’s a quiet kind of pain, the kind that means things are working again.

“Keep your base,” Coach says evenly. “You’re leaning forward.” “I’ve got it,” Seungkwan mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

He adjusts, stance widening just slightly to center his weight. The next feed comes quicker, almost punishingly so, but the rhythm clicks in by now. One drive, two, three—his arm remembers the snap, the lift, the drop. He starts hearing only the sound of impact: the crisp twang! that fills the hall.

The burn in his lungs comes next when Coach’s shots start varying in their distance. It’s a deep, clawing kind that starts at the ribs and spreads until breathing feels like it takes too much energy. It’s the kind of ache he used to hate, but now it’s just part of the process—proof that he’s still chasing something.

Baek feeds wider this time, making him stretch into the forehand corner. He reaches, pivots, drives back, and the return skims clean over the tape.

“Good,” Baek says, a rare note of approval in his voice.

Seungkwan exhales slowly, dragging the back of his palm across his forehead before silently falling into position at the centre of the court. 

By the time Coach Baek finally lets him go, Seungkwan’s shirt is soaked through with sweat, body warm and buzzing despite the exhaustion settling in. He drops to the ground, letting his racket fall beside him before trudging up again towards one of the windows. The breeze outside is cool, and the sky is beginning to darken slowly.

Baek walks past, jotting something onto a clipboard. “Oh, by the way, tomorrow you’ll be training with Kim Jungwoo.”

Seungkwan drops to his knees to tie his shoelaces. “Jungwoo?”

Baek nods, still scribbling. “He’s been back since last week, but the injury’s taken a bit out of him. He needs someone to drive him back into form, and you’re at your best right now.”

There’s a faint hum of acknowledgement from Seungkwan, but he doesn’t say more. The hall has gone quiet except for the dull thud of Baek’s shoes and the faint rattle of shuttles being collected at the far end.

He stands after a moment, stretching until his shoulders pull and his spine cracks faintly. His bag feels heavier than it should when he slings it over his shoulder. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker once, dimming the court in a way that makes the silence feel heavier.

He doesn’t bother with the locker room shower and just changes into a clean shirt, towel draped around his neck, before heading out into the evening air. The moment he steps outside, the city noise replaces the echo of shuttle impacts—cars, footsteps, distant chatter. It’s grounding in a strange way.

He raises a hand to flag down a taxi, slipping into the back seat when one pulls over. The driver asks for his destination, and Seungkwan answers automatically, voice quieter than usual.

The ride is quiet, just the sound of the tires over asphalt and the faint hum of the radio tuned low. Seungkwan leans his head against the glass, eyes half-lidded, watching streetlights bend and blur past. By the time the driver turns into your apartment’s street, he feels slightly more spent, like his energy has been wrung out and left to dry somewhere between the courts and the cab.

The apartment lights are low when he unlocks the door. He toes off his shoes quietly, half expecting the place to be empty, but the sound of typing pulls his attention toward the living room.

You’re on the couch, curled up with your laptop, a half-empty mug sitting on the table beside you. You look up when the door clicks shut.

“Hey,” you say softly, as if matching the quiet of the hour. “How was training?”

He nods once in greeting, waving his arm as if to say, the same as always, and drops his kit near the entryway before sinking into the far end of the couch. The cushions dip under his weight, and for a moment, he just sits there, elbows on his knees, eyes tracing the muted glow of the lamp beside you.

He’s too tired to speak, too wired to sleep. The court still feels like it’s beneath his feet—footwork drills repeating somewhere in the back of his mind. But this, the low hum of your keyboard clacking, the sound of your breathing is the kind of stillness he can settle into. Seungkwan distantly thinks that it’s nice to come home to someone, rather than the cold, perfect emptiness of his apartment.

You glance at him after a few minutes, fingers pausing over the keyboard. He hasn’t moved, except to lean back and let his head rest against the couch cushion. His hair’s still damp with sweat, his shirt clinging in places where it hasn’t dried, but his expression is calmer now. 

“Don’t fall asleep there,” you say lightly, stretching your leg out to nudge him. “You stink.”

That gets a faint huff out of him. “Wow. You stink, you mean woman.”

“You’re the one who smells like a locker room,” you shoot back, wrinkling your nose.

He turns his head toward you, eyes barely open. “You’ve known me for how long now? Shouldn’t you be immune to it?”

You snort. “I’m not, and I don’t plan on building immunity either.”

He groans, tipping forward and pushing himself up with obvious reluctance. “You’re cruel.”

“Go shower before I call your mum and tell her you’re living like a teenage boy again.”

He nods like he’ll go, but doesn’t. The lamplights soften everything in the room into golden warmth—even the edges of his exhaustion—and you don’t have it in your heart to push him again, so you let him be.

“The cat came around, by the way.” He informs you after a few seconds, sighing slowly. “I fed her.”

You huff out a small laugh. “Great.”

“Mm. Also did your laundry.”

That makes you blink. “What?”

He gestures lazily toward the hallway. “The machine was free. I was home anyway. Figured you wouldn’t get to it till the weekend.”

You stare at him for a second, caught somewhere between guilt and gratitude. “You didn’t have to—”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “I know.”

You glance at him again—hair still damp, lashes dark against his cheek, exhaustion written into every slow breath. You don’t say thank you because it feels a bit unnecessary between you two. But you do reach for the remote, lowering the brightness of the lamp until the room dips into a gentler kind of light.

Seungkwan breathes in deeply, shutting his eyes tighter and the living room disappears.

He’s fifteen again, sitting on the floor of his unlit childhood bedroom, his ankle wrapped and throbbing under a pack of melting ice. The air is heavy with that sharp, chemical smell of ointment and sweat, the windows fogged from the late summer rain outside. His racket lies somewhere near the door—he’d thrown it when he came in, not hard enough to break, but careless enough to scratch the painting on its frame.

The match had gone wrong somewhere halfway through. The sharp twist, the sound, the rush of pain he’d tried to pretend wasn’t real. By the time he’d realized he couldn’t keep playing, it was already too late. But worse than the pain was the humiliation: the way he’d tried to keep going until his coach had to call him off the court, the way the crowd had clapped politely as he limped off.

He’d yelled when he got home. Not at anyone in particular, just at the walls, the air, himself. About how stupid it was, how unfair, how he’d worked too hard for it to end like this. His voice had gone raw before he ran out of words, before the only thing left was the sound of his heavy breathing and the faint drip of water from the ice pack.

People had come in and out of the room. His mom with painkillers, his coach with a quiet “rest up,” someone from the team who didn’t really know what to say. But eventually, they’d all left, murmuring things like get some sleep or you’ll bounce back.

Except you.

You’d hovered by the doorway for a while, holding the racket he’d thrown earlier, unsure if he even wanted you there. He’d barked something at you then—something bitter and sharp that he didn’t really mean—but you didn’t move. You just walked in, placed the racket neatly into his bag, threw away the used towels and sweat bands into the laundry basket, and sat down on the floor beside him.

He didn’t talk after that. Didn’t look at you either. Just sat there, jaw tight, shoulders shaking slightly every time he shifted and pain flared up his leg. You didn’t tell him to shower, though he knew he smelled like sweat and failure, and you didn’t tell him it would be fine, even though that’s what everyone else had said. You just stayed, knees drawn up, quiet in the dark.

At some point, the rain got heavier, and the room filled with the sound of it against the roof. He remembers that clearly—the way it drowned out everything else. He’d kept the ice pressed to his ankle until it stopped being cold, until his anger had nothing left to burn through, until his body gave up before his thoughts did.

When he’d finally slumped sideways, head brushing against your shoulder, you hadn’t pushed him away. You’d only shifted slightly to make room, pulling your jacket from your lap and draping it over his chest. He’d fallen asleep like that, the ache in his leg fading into the steady rhythm of rain and the warmth of you sitting next to him.

It hadn’t fixed anything, not the loss or the pain or the fear that maybe he’d never be good enough, but you’d made it bearable.

When Seungkwan mentioned asking the group chat if they wanted to meet up for dinner, you’d fully expected most of them to decline, citing busy work schedules or just being lazy (read: Lee Chan) But somehow, miraculously, everyone agreed. Which is how you find yourself now at a crowded barbecue place, the table already covered in side dishes and empty bottles, Jiwon halfway through a story no one remembers the beginning of.

Across from you, Seungkwan’s grinning like he hasn’t had a proper social interaction in months. Which, to be fair, might actually be true—between his matches, training, travel, and whatever this temporary living arrangement with you counts as, it’s the first time he’s been still long enough for people to notice he’s back.

You poke at the last few pieces of pork belly, deciding they’re cooked enough to eat.

“I’m just saying,” she insists, “if they’re going to call it a recreational office trip, they should at least let people relax. Not make us do, like, trust falls and a scavenger hunt in the rain.” Vernon looks up. “Scavenger hunt?” “Yeah. With teams. Mine was stuck with the intern who thinks he’s a motivational speaker.” Chan snorts. “That’s brutal.” “Oh, it gets worse. The prize was a box of protein bars. And they made us share it with the other team because of ‘team spirit.’” Seungkwan winces. “I’d rather quit.” “Same,” you say, reaching for your drink. “Rain, interns, and protein bars. That’s basically hell.”

Jiwon points her chopsticks at you like she’s awarding points. “Exactly. You get it. Meanwhile, my boss was like, ‘Didn’t this help you bond with your coworkers?’ No, ma’am. It helped me hate them more efficiently.”

That gets a round of laughter, loud enough that the table next to yours turns to look.

“Anyway,” Jiwon says, pointing her chopsticks vaguely at the group, “if we ever do a trip like that, I’m in charge of the itinerary.”

“That’s the fastest way to make sure no one shows up,” Vernon mutters.

“I’d go,” Seungkwan offers with a flourish of his arms, making her clasp her palms in gratitude.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’d go? You don’t even leave your apartment unless it’s for training or food.”

“That’s slander,” he says, gesturing with his glass. “Sometimes I go to physio.”

“Speaking of,” Chan perks up, leaning forward as he pokes at the grill, “what’s up with your apartment? The pipe thing get fixed yet?”

You sigh internally. You already know what’s coming.

Seungkwan sets his chopsticks down with the weight of a man wronged. “No, and I’m starting to think the building manager just blocked my number.”

“The ceiling looks like it’s been through war. I told the landlord to fix it on Monday, and he said—get this—‘we’ll send someone tomorrow.’ It’s Friday, Chan. Friday.” He continues.

Jiwon winces. “That’s rough.”

“Oh, it gets better. The plumber showed up once, poked at the wall like he was checking if it was alive, and then said he needed to ‘source parts.’ I literally haven’t seen him since.”

You’re already fighting a smile. “He’s been like this all week,” you tell the table. “Every day, new rant. Same story.”

“It’s justified ranting,” Seungkwan argues, turning his whole body towards you. “You’re living in a nice, perfectly fine apartment. You’ll understand only when your space goes through what mine has.”

“Hey, be careful what you wish for.” You frown, narrowing your eyes at him. “You’re living there…”

“Oh yeah!” Vernon exclaims, “how is that situation going?”

You glance at Seungkwan at the same time he glances at you. There’s a pause—half a second of quiet where everyone’s watching—then you both shrug, perfectly in sync.

“It’s not bad,” you say together.

Chan claps once, delighted. “You guys rehearsed that?”

You shake your head, pouring yourself another drink. “Nope. He’s surprisingly alright.”

“That’s glowing praise,” Jiwon points out.

“I’ll take it,” Seungkwan says, reaching for the bottle in your hand. “Coming from her, that’s basically a love letter.”

You scoff, flustered. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“See?” He turns to the others, grinning. “She says stuff like that, but yesterday she was the one that threw a blanket on me when I fell asleep on the couch.”

“That’s called being polite,” you argue, but your voice gets lost under the hooting. You huff and amount it to them already being tipsy.

“Sure,” Vernon drawls. “Polite. That’s what they’re calling domestic these days.”

“Alright,” Chan says, holding up his glass like a referee, “enough. New rule: no couple talk unless you’re actually dating.”

“We’re not—” you start, but Seungkwan cuts in at the same time with a playful, “Cheers to that.”

Your glare only makes him grin wider.

And somehow the conversation drifts on from there. Someone brings up bad movies, someone else insists on ordering another round, and soon the air feels thick with smoke and laughter. The food’s almost gone, the drinks aren’t, and Seungkwan’s shoulders are shaking with laughter at something Vernon said that wasn’t even funny.

It’s easy, too easy. The kind of night where everything’s loud enough that you forget why you were tired in the first place. 

By the time the bill comes around, the table’s a graveyard of soju bottles. Someone’s started playing music off their phone, Vernon’s drumming along with his chopsticks, and Jiwon’s leaning her head on Chan’s shoulder, mumbling something about “one more round.”

You’ve both long passed the point of pacing yourselves. Seungkwan’s cheeks are pink, his grin permanent, and you’re pretty sure the world’s been gently tilting for the last fifteen minutes.

“Alright, that’s it,” Chan announces, standing up and nearly tripping over the bench. “You two are done.”

“What do you mean done?” you protest, pointing an unsteady finger at him. “We’re thriving.”

“You’re slurring,” Vernon says helpfully, though he’s swaying a little too. “C’mon, let’s get you home before Seungkwan decides to start karaoke.”

“I am karaoke,” Seungkwan says solemnly, gripping your shoulder for balance.

And that’s how the four of you end up outside the restaurant, the air colder than you remember, your hair smelling faintly of smoke and grilled meat. Vernon’s waving down a cab while Chan tries, and fails to get Seungkwan to stand up straight.

But Seungkwan has other plans.

He’s got an arm thrown over your shoulders, leaning on you like you’re the last stable thing on Earth. “Did you know,” he starts, voice way too loud for midnight, “that I’ve known her since we were four?”

Jiwon groans. “Oh, no. Not this again.”

“I’m telling the story!” he insists, wobbling slightly as he points at the others like he’s on stage. “Our moms introduced us on a beach in Jeju. The sun was shining, the ocean was—what’s the word—glittering, and she…” He pauses dramatically, looking at you with way too much affection for someone holding and pulling you down for balance. “She dumped an entire bucket of sand on my head.”

Chan starts giggling immediately, also half gone. “You what?”

“She made me cry,” Seungkwan continues proudly, as if it’s a badge of honor. “Snot, tears, the whole deal. And now look at us.” He gestures vaguely at the two of you, almost toppling over in the process. “Full circle! Sand to roommate. Destiny, man.”

Vernon finally gets the cab door open, shaking his head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m grateful,” Seungkwan corrects him, clinging tighter to you as you both stumble toward the car. “If she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have learned resilience. Character development.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, trying not to trip on the curb. “You’re welcome for your emotional growth.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “See? She cares.”

“Into the car,” Vernon orders, shoving the both of you in before Seungkwan can wax poetic again.

The door shuts behind you, the cab pulling away as Jiwon and Chan’s laughter fades into the distance. You slump against the window, the city lights streaking by in blurs of yellow, and Seungkwan’s head drops onto your shoulder with a soft thunk.

He exhales, content. “You know,” he mumbles, eyes half-closed, “you still kinda have sand energy.”

You squint at him. “What does that even mean?”

“Messy,” he says sleepily. “Everywhere. But I like it.”

You stare at him, gaping before he knocks out on your shoulder.

By the time you reach the apartment, your head’s spinning just enough that unlocking the door feels like defusing a bomb. The hallway light spills in weakly when you finally manage to open the lock, the faint hum of the refrigerator greeting you like an old friend.

The two of you half-stumble, half-laugh your way inside, shoes still on. You bend to tug at the strap of your heels, nearly losing balance as the world tilts.

“Whoa, whoa,” Seungkwan mumbles, steadying you by the elbow. “We made it home, don’t die now.”

“I’m fine,” you say, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just need to—ugh—get these off.”

He squints at your shoes like they’ve personally offended him. “Why do you wear these? These are instruments of suffering.”

“They look nice,” you protest weakly, slumping against the wall near the shoe bench by the entryway. The small step there suddenly feels like a mountain.

“Yeah, for like five minutes,” he mutters, already crouching down. “Sit.”

“What?”

“Sit down,” he repeats, voice firm in that tipsy, half-scolding way he gets when he’s convinced he’s saving your life. “You’re gonna fall and crack your skull, and then I’ll have to tell your mom I let you die because you wanted to look cute for dinner.”

You scoff, but obey, sinking onto the low seat by the door. The overhead light reflects off his hair as he kneels, muttering something about ‘unreasonable fashion choices’ while trying to undo the buckle.

The motion is clumsy, his fingers fumbling a little, but he’s always gentle. He finally gets the strap loose, easing the heel off your foot.

“See? Freedom,” he says, tossing it lightly aside before going for the other one. “You should give up on these. Go barefoot forever.”

“Idiot.” You push his shoulder making him scowl at you.

He wobbles a little when he straightens, mumbling under his breath, “Ungrateful. I’m literally saving your feet.”

You bite back a laugh, pushing yourself up from the bench. “You’re drunk,” you tell him, voice softer than you mean for it to be.

“So are you,” he says, pointing at you accusingly, except his hand misses and lands somewhere near your chin. “But you’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes and move past him toward the living room, but he lingers by the doorway, rubbing his neck and glancing back at the pair of heels now neatly lined up beside the cabinet. “They do look pretty though,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Seungkwan is four when he meets you for the first time. So naturally, he doesn’t remember much about that summer—just the feeling of the glaring sunlight bouncing off his skin, his hands sticky from the traffic light-coloured popsicles, and the smell of seaweed drying in the air. But he remembers you. 

His mom had dragged him to the beach for a “playdate” with some family friends she hadn’t seen in years. He’d been promised ice cream, which was the only reason he’d agreed. You’d been introduced about five minutes in—someone’s daughter, in a sunhat too big for your head, holding a plastic shovel like you meant business.

“Say hello,” his mom had urged.

“Hello,” he’d echoed dutifully.

You’d looked up at him, blinked once, and then, instead of saying hello back, you squatted down beside your sand bucket and said, “Don’t come over here. I’m making soup.”

That threw him off. “Soup?”

“Yeah.” You jabbed your shovel into the sand like you were stirring something. “For the mermaids.”

He frowned. “Mermaids don’t eat soup.”

“They do if I say so.”

It was said with such confidence that he couldn’t even argue, so he just stood there for a second, watching you mix sand, seawater, and what looked like crushed seashells with a seriousness that could rival his mother’s when he broke her favourite bowl last week. 

He decided you were weird. Not in the fun way, either—the kind of weird that adults thought was “creative” but kids knew just meant trouble.

So, he did what any sensible four-year-old would do: ignored you and went back to his side of the beach. His mom had packed him a bright blue bucket and a matching shovel, and he was going to build the biggest sandcastle in Jeju.

For a while, it was peaceful. He had his moat, his towers, his little seashells lined up like soldiers. The sun was warm on his back, and his mom kept calling, “Good job, Kwan-ah!” from her mat. Life was fine.

Until he heard you humming.

He glanced up just in time to see you crawling closer, dragging your bucket behind you like a pet. You stopped right in front of his castle and peered down at it with the authority of someone twice your size.

“What is this?” you asked.

“A castle,” he said proudly.

“It’s ugly,” you said immediately.

His mouth fell open. “It’s not!”

“Is too.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “You don’t even know castles!”

“I know mermaids,” you shot back. “They said it’s ugly.”

“They did not!”

“Uh-huh,” you said, scooping up a handful of wet sand. “They said, ‘eww, it’s not shiny.’”

He scrambled to protect the tallest tower, throwing his arms around it. “Don’t touch it!”

You tilted your head. “It needs soup.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

And before he could move, you dumped the handful right over his head.

For a second, there was silence. Just the sound of the waves dragging over sand and the faint caw of a gull somewhere overhead. Then Seungkwan froze, feeling the cold weight of wet sand sliding down the back of his neck, sticking to his hair and collar.

He didn’t move. Not yet. He just blinked up at you, dazed, his lower lip already trembling. A single grain of sand fell from his eyelashes, and he looked like he might cry—but mostly, he just looked betrayed.

You, on the other hand, looked very proud of yourself. Your plastic shovel was still raised like a weapon, your cheeks puffed from the effort, and there was a defiant glint in your eyes that said you knew exactly what you’d done.

When he finally sputtered back to life, it wasn’t words that came out first but instead a squeal, high-pitched and indignant, somewhere between horror and outrage. He swiped at his hair with both hands, flinging more sand everywhere, which only made it worse.

“Mom!” he wailed finally, voice cracking under the weight of sheer injustice. “She—she threw sand at me!”

That was all it took. Two heads immediately turned from their picnic mats. His mom dropped the tangerine she’d been peeling, yours shaded her eyes from the sun, and within seconds, they were both making their way across the sand like seasoned referees to a fight they’d already expected to break out.

By the time they got there, Seungkwan was still mid-crisis—sitting in a small crater of wet sand, tears threatening but not quite falling, and hair clumped. You stood beside him, shovel in hand, expression caught somewhere between guilt and stubborn pride.

“Sweetheart,” your mom sighed, crouching down beside you. “What happened here?”

“She was being mean!” Seungkwan cut in before you could answer, pointing at you like a witness on the stand. “And she said my castle was ugly, and then she threw sand on my head!”

“He started it!” you snapped, the words tumbling out so fast your hat nearly slipped off. “He said they don’t eat soup!”

The moms exchanged an amused, yet exasperated look before his crouched down to wipe his face with the corner of a towel.

“Seungkwan-ah, you’re fine. It’s just a little sand,” she said, brushing at his hair. 

“But it’s in my ears!” he cried, scrunching his shoulders up to his cheeks like that might help shake it out. “And it’s cold!”

His mom sighed, the way only mothers could, lifting his chin to inspect him for any actual injury. “You’ll survive. You’re tougher than this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, just sniffled pitifully while keeping one wary eye on you, like you might launch another sand attack any second.

Meanwhile, your mom had gently tugged you closer by the wrist. “We don’t throw things at people, sweetheart,” she said softly, though you could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Say sorry.”

You frowned down at the sand, digging the toe of your sandal into it. “But he said mermaids don’t eat soup.”

“That’s not a reason to dump sand on someone’s head.”

“Yes, it is,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a gentle look.

After a few long seconds of silence, you sighed dramatically, then muttered, “Sorry.”

It came out so small and insincere that Seungkwan nearly missed it, but his mom elbowed him lightly. “And what do we say?”

He sniffled again, his voice thick. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, not really, but saying so felt like winning somehow.

Both moms stood, satisfied enough to leave you to your own devices again. For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there, shovel clutched at your side, and he sat in the sand like a small, soggy statue.

Then, quietly, you crouched beside him again. “You can have the mermaid soup if you want,” you offered, nudging your bucket toward him.

He peered into it—muddy water, shells, bits of seaweed—and made a face. “That’s gross.”

“Fine,” you huffed, reaching for your shovel. “I was gonna let you have some, but whatever.”

He hesitated, then mumbled, “You can help with my castle.”

You looked up. “Even though it’s ugly?”

His lips wobbled. “Only a little.”

Seungkwan wakes up from his nap, twenty-three years later, with the sight of your blotchy cheeks behind his eyelids and the sound of your vacuuming in his ears. 

He blinks against the light seeping through the curtains, the room coming back into focus in slow, blurry pieces—the couch he’s half-slumped on, the throw blanket tangled around his legs, and the low hum of the vacuum trailing from the next room. For a moment, he’s too dazed to move. His neck aches faintly from sleeping funny, his mouth feels dry, and there’s a ghost of a dream still clinging to him—sand in his hair, salty tears on his lips, and the sound of someone laughing.

When he turns his head, he sees you.

You’re barefoot, hair tied up in that messy way that means you’ve been cleaning for a while, sleeves rolled to your elbows. The vacuum cord snakes around the coffee table as you push it back and forth across the rug, pausing occasionally to pick up a stray sock or empty glass from the floor. It’s an ordinary sight, painfully so, but it takes him off guard in a way he doesn’t expect.

You’re not that kid on the beach anymore, small and defiant, clutching a plastic shovel like it was a sword. And he’s not the boy crying over sand in his hair. Somewhere between all the years that followed—between scraped knees, assignments, shuttlecocks and the long silences that came with growing up—you both turned into this.

He isn’t sure when it happened. When the air between you stopped feeling like a habit and started feeling like gravity.

You tug the vacuum cord toward the corner, humming under your breath to whatever song’s leaking from your headphones. The hem of your shirt rides up just slightly as you reach for something on the floor, and his chest pulls tight with a feeling that’s as unfamiliar as it is inevitable.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks. He’s known you his whole life. He’s seen you in every kind of light—sunburnt on summer courts, furious under rain, quiet in the back seat on drives home after losses. He’s heard you laugh until you couldn’t breathe and cry over things you swore you’d forgotten the next day. You’ve seen him at his worst, raw and unfiltered, and at his best, when everything seemed to work out just the way he planned. You’ve been there through it all. And yet here he is—watching you clean a living room you technically share—and it’s the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.

Maybe it’s because he can see traces of who you used to be in every small thing you do. The same concentration, the same impatience, the same quiet stubbornness in the curve of your mouth. Only now, it comes with a kind of ease you never had before. You’ve grown into yourself, and he’s sitting here, realizing he doesn’t quite know how to look at you without remembering every version that came before.

The vacuum clicks off, breaking the silence. You look up and notice him watching.

“Oh, you’re up,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice is a little too casual, like you don’t want him to know he’s been staring. “You hungry or something?”

He shakes his head, still slow from sleep. “No. Just… watching.”

You blink. “Creepy.”

He huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth, but the words get stuck somewhere on the way out. Instead, he just shrugs, helpless. “You’re really serious about cleaning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Someone has to be.”

He smiles faintly and starts to sit up straighter, the remnants of sleep falling off him. “What time is it?”

“Almost five-thirty.”

“Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, realizing how much he’s overslept. “Coach texted. There’s a Yonex thing tonight.”

“Yonex thing?”

“Yeah, some sponsor event. Dinner-slash-press thing for the new racket line.” He grimaces. “I have to go, apparently. Show face, answer questions, smile for the cameras. It’s all really thrilling stuff.”

You bite back a smile. “Sounds glamorous.”

“Oh yeah. My dream night.” He pushes himself off the couch with a groan and looks down at his clothes—creased t-shirt, joggers, the picture of unpreparedness. “I don’t even know what to wear.”

“I should probably wear something decent. I just… don’t know what fits the ‘professional athlete but approachable brand representative’ vibe.”

You snort. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’ve been to too many of these things.” He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “I packed options, but they all look too… formal? Or not enough? I don’t know. I hate this stuff.”

You roll your eyes and get up, brushing off your hands. “Alright, come on then.”

“What?”

“You clearly need adult supervision.” You motion for him to follow. “Let’s make sure you don’t show up looking like you wandered in from the gym.”

He groans but follows you down the hall anyway, dragging his feet like a sulky teenager.

“Hey! Dressing up is fun,” you grumble, pushing his door open. “Come on. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He crouches by his half-open suitcase, rummaging through it like he’s defusing a bomb. “Okay, option one—this white button-up. Classic, boring, and it doesn’t offend anyone.”

“Safe,” you agree, taking it from him. “Boring’s fine if you accessorize. Got a blazer?”

He fishes one out from the bottom of the suitcase, wrinkled beyond saving.

You hold it up, unimpressed. “This looks like it’s been to war.”

“I folded it!” he protests.

“You crumpled it.” You toss it on the bed. “Next.”

He exhales loudly but obeys, pulling out a navy polo. “This one’s supposed to be Yonex's official merch. They said it was ‘refined leisurewear.’”

You stare at it. “That’s just a shirt with a logo.”

He grins. “So, no?”

“Not unless you’re planning to hand out flyers,” you deadpan. “Try the white shirt first.”

He shrugs and changes without hesitation, turning his back to you as he pulls off his T-shirt. It shouldn’t faze you—he’s done this in locker rooms, hotel rooms, random hallways before—but here, in your guest room, it feels different. You glance away, pretending to check the sleeves of another shirt, but your pulse betrays you.

When he turns back, tucking the hem in loosely, he looks... infuriatingly good. The collar’s a little rumpled, sleeves rolled just once, veins standing out faintly under his wrist. He looks a little silly from the waist down, still in his joggers. But it’s manageable.

You cross your arms, trying for neutral. “Not bad.”

“Just not bad?” he says, mock-offended. 

“It’s giving ‘wedding guest who didn’t RSVP,’” you counter.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, next.”

The next one is pale blue. Then grey. Then some horrifying patterned thing that you veto so fast he doesn’t even bother arguing. Each time, he looks good—too good—and it’s starting to feel like a personal attack.

You’re trying to stay practical, telling him what looks too formal, too casual, too “retired man at a golf club.” But somewhere between shirt three and four, you realize your throat’s gone dry.

“You’re quiet,” he says, catching your expression in the mirror.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How much better you’d look if you learned how to iron.”

He grins, but you can tell he’s preening a little under your attention. He changes again, shirt half-undone, sleeves dragging as he pulls the next one on. You’re helping without thinking now, straightening his collar, brushing a wrinkle from his shoulder, fixing a button he missed. It’s all innocent, except it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

“Okay,” you say, a little too quickly, stepping back. “Try the black one.”

He pauses mid-motion. “The black one?”

You nod, reaching for it yourself. “Yeah. It's dinner, right? That’ll look best under low light.”

He takes it, and when he slips it on, you forget how to breathe for half a second. It fits perfectly. Smooth, sharp, dark against his skin in a way that makes your stomach twist. He buttons it up slowly, and with each button, the room gets smaller.

He looks up at you, unsure. “Too much?”

You swallow.

“No,” you say after a beat. “That’s… that’s good.”

“Good?” he repeats, teasing now. “That’s it?”

You blink, realizing how long you’ve been staring. “You look fine, Seungkwan.”

“Fine,” he echoes, incredulous. “I look fine?”

You drag a hand down your face. “You look—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You look really good, okay? Now stop fishing for compliments.”

Seungkwan freezes, a slow smile creeping up like he’s hearing something he’s not supposed to. “Really good, huh?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not! I’m just confirming,” he says, grin widening. “For my confidence.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, turning toward the door. “Shut up, idiot.”

By the time he comes out of the shower, you’ve already laid out the steamed shirt on his bed. He’s rubbing a towel through his hair, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, muttering something that sounds halfway between polite and panicked.

“Yeah, I’ll be there by seven,” he says, pacing, dripping water on the floor. “No, I didn’t forget—yes, I’ll wear something presentable. I have clothes, hyung, relax.”

You glance up just as he ends the call and drops the phone onto the bed with a sigh. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently off the bed. “Out, before I scar you for life.”

“Please,” you say, laughing, but you let him herd you toward the door anyway. “You’re going to be late, by the way.”

He grumbles to himself, already shutting the door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you stop. It’s not a conscious decision, but you just remember, all at once, that there’s no way he owns a hair dryer. And his hair was dripping wet. He won’t be able to dry it before he leaves.

You sigh, doubling back to your room. A minute later, you’re knocking on his door again, dryer in hand.

“What now?” he calls out, muffled.

“You don’t have one of these, do you?”

There’s a pause before the lock clicks open. “...A what?”

You roll your eyes and push the door open. He’s standing by the mirror when you walk in, shirt tucked and buttoned up, but his sleeves are still unfurled. His hair’s a damp mess, dark strands dripping down the side of his face, collar clinging slightly to his neck. He looks up at you like you’ve just caught him mid-crime.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shutting the door behind you. “You were really about to go out like that?”

Seungkwan blinks, glancing down at himself. “What, like this?”

“Yes, like that.” You hold up the dryer. “Your hair’s soaked. You’ll look like you showered in the parking lot.”

“I’ll towel it off more,” he says, reaching for the towel on the bed, but you’ve already crossed the room, plugging in the dryer near the dresser.

“Move,” you say, nudging him back a step. “I’ll do it.”

He looks mildly startled. “You don’t have to.”

“Seungkwan.” You flick the switch on, the warm hum filling the room before he can finish. “Put your cufflinks on.”

He hesitates, but only for a second. Then, with a quiet sigh, he slips his watch onto his wrist, eyes flicking between your reflection and his in the mirror.

Seungkwan is taller than you expect up close. You have to tilt your chin slightly to reach, his breath brushing the top of your forehead whenever he exhales.

He stands obediently at first, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. But the longer it goes on, the quieter it gets. You can smell the faint trace of his shampoo under the heat, clean and soft, and the cologne he’d probably dabbed on without thinking.

You try to focus on the motion—part his hair, dry but not long enough to burn him—but it’s getting harder by the second. Your fingers graze the back of his neck as you guide the dryer, and his shoulders shift almost imperceptibly under your touch. The sound hums between you like static.

You shouldn’t notice this much—how warm his skin feels, how the chain at his collarbone catches the light when he moves, how the space feels smaller than it should. You shouldn’t, but you do.

You angle the dryer away, pretending to check the mirror. “You shouldn’t gel your hair. It looks better this way,” you mumble, mostly to fill the silence.

He hums, low and distracted, eyes flicking toward you in the glass. You don’t realize you’ve stopped moving until his voice breaks through, soft and quiet:

“You’re good at this.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

He turns his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You do this for everyone?”

Your hand stills, fingers tangled in his hair. The question lands heavier than it should.

You scoff, trying to recover. “Yeah, my endless line of pro-athlete roommates.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound low enough that you feel it more than hear it. 

When you step back, turning the dryer off, you notice the uneven folding of his collar and straighten it instinctively, fingers brushing the side of his neck. His pulse jumps under your fingertips, and yours matches it instantly.

For a split second, neither of you move. The only sound is the faint whir winding down from the dryer, the soft drag of his breath, the scent of his cologne caught in the air between you.

Then, like something snaps, you both pull away.

“Right,” you say too quickly, setting the dryer down on the dresser like it burned you. “That’s done.” “Yeah,” he echoes, voice rougher than before. “Thanks.”

He reaches for the nearest thing within arm’s reach—his watch, maybe, or the cufflinks—and busies himself with it, fumbling slightly before pretending he meant to do that. You take the cue, retreating toward the doorway under the pretense of giving him space, even though your heart’s still beating unevenly.

“I’ll just… uh, get out of your way,” you mumble, backing up. “Yeah, sure,” he says, not looking up. “Almost done anyway.”

You nod, but neither of you moves for another beat. Finally, you turn first, crossing the hall and collapsing onto the couch, half-expecting the room to steady once you’re away from him. It doesn’t.

From down the hall, you hear drawers opening, the quiet shuffle of clothes, the soft thud of something falling and him muttering under his breath. Normal sounds. Familiar ones. It shouldn’t feel like your pulse is trying to escape your skin.

When he reappears, he’s fully put together: shirt tucked, hair dry, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. He’s fiddling with his socks like they’re the only thing in the world requiring his full attention.

Seungkwan slips his shoes on and grabs his keys.

You watch him from the couch, trying to look casual, one leg bent under you. He lingers by the doorway longer than necessary, checking his phone, then the mirror, then his phone again.

When he finally looks your way, you tilt your head. “What?”

He hesitates, thumb still brushing against his phone screen. You’re sitting there in the low light of the living room, still barefoot from earlier, hair loose, a faint crease on your cheek from where you’d rested your hand.

For a moment, he wants to say it. That you’ve grown. That you’re beautiful. That sometimes, when he looks at you like this, he doesn’t know what to do with himself or where to put his hands.

But he swallows it down and slips into something easier instead. “Don’t wait up. I have a chauffeur.”

You smile faintly, tucking your legs under his blanket that he’s left on the couch. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He gives a small nod, opens the door, and then he’s gone. 

You scramble up from your seat and run into your room, hoping that the scent of him won’t follow you in there too.

The elevator takes forever. Seungkwan catches his reflection in the metal doors—hair slightly uneven where you’d missed a strand, collar straight where you fixed it.

For a stupid second, he thinks about turning back. Just to say thank you, or something equally useless. But then the doors open, and he steps in, shaking his head. What?

It’s strange how quickly the apartment stops feeling like both of you are living there. 

It isn’t empty, not exactly. Seungkwan’s things are still everywhere. Shoes he forgets to line up properly or put into the cupboard, the towels he forgets to put in the dryer, used mugs that he’ll bring to the kitchen only a day after. Tiny notes that he leaves, about missing groceries, or the electricity bill. There’s proof of him in every corner, but it’s like living in an echo now.

You don’t realize how much he filled the space until he stops being around to fill it.

It happens gradually.

The first few days, you barely notice—he’s out early, back late, muttering something about conditioning blocks and trial matches when you ask how training’s going. You joke about how you’ll start charging rent by the hour he’s home, and he laughs, tired but fond, promising to make it up to you with takeout. But then takeout turns into a rain check, rain checks turn into “don’t wait up,” and suddenly it’s been four days since you’ve even had a meal together.

Seungkwan is usually gone before you’re up, with an apologetic :,) scribbled onto the notepad on your fridge, and is almost always home by the time you’re winding down for bed. You still see him, technically. You catch glimpses—his bed hair when he opens your door by a crack at dawn before leaving. Sometimes, when you wake up in the middle of the night, you’ll hear the quiet shuffle of him moving through the kitchen, his voice low on the phone, maybe to his coach, maybe to no one. But by the time you blink yourself awake, he’s gone again.

You try not to mind.

He’s working. He’s chasing something he’s built his whole life around. You’ve always known what that means. Sacrifice, focus, long stretches of silence that aren’t about you but still find a way to hurt anyway.

You tell yourself this is just how it’s supposed to be. Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t been texting you, or trying to keep up with your life in his breaks. 

The messages come at odd hours, timestamps scattered between practice blocks and recovery sessions: —Eat something real today. —Coach added another round, kill me. —The cat came by. Missed you. It’s enough to keep you tethered. Just barely.

You fall into your own rhythm too. You go to work, you run errands, you come home to the same quiet apartment that still smells faintly like him—pain-relief spray and laundry detergent. Sometimes you’ll find his socks drying over the back of a chair, or his charger plugged into the outlet by your nightstand. You think about moving them, but you don’t.

Sometimes, you think it’s worse now than before he moved in. When you used to go weeks without seeing him, you didn’t have to miss the small things. But now, he’s close enough to touch, and still always just out of reach.

You catch yourself listening for him even when you know he isn’t there. The soft thud of the door, the drop of his bag by the couch, the sound of him humming out of habit. But the apartment stays still. You scroll through your phone, half-expecting another message, half-hoping he’ll walk through the door instead.

Nothing.

So when your phone finally buzzes, you almost drop it.

Boo You home?

You Yeah why?

Boo Can you do me a favour pleaseee 😭🙏

You depends… what is it

Boo I left a folder on the table this morning. Need it at the centre Baek’s going to kill me pls it’s for registrations

Youwhen do you need it

Boo now-ish? pls 🥺

Usually, you’d groan, stare at your phone for another five minutes, and weigh the pros and cons of moving from the couch. But tonight, you don’t even think twice.

Your fingers are already typing back before your brain can catch up.

You fine. you owe me.

Boo i always do 😇

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth pull up anyway. You toss your blanket aside and stand, trying to tell yourself that this isn’t a big deal, that it’s just a folder, just a favor, just Seungkwan.

Except you can already feel that faint, embarrassing flutter in your chest as you slip on your jacket.

The apartment feels even quieter once you’re moving through it. His door’s half-open, like it always is, and sure enough, the folder’s sitting right on the table, a bright blue rectangle against the mess of notes and spare grip tape. You grab it, your thumb brushing over the neat black label that reads Asia Championships–Entry Docs.

When you reach, the training center is quieter than you expected. Most of the younger players have already gone home, leaving behind only a few courts still lit and echoing with the sharp rhythm of rackets and shoes on wood. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, bright against the evening that’s settled outside.

You spot Seungkwan almost immediately. He’s in the middle of an intense rally, shirt clinging to his back, movements precise and practiced. His coach stands near the net with a basket of shuttles, calling out corrections every few seconds. It’s a clean, relentless rhythm, one that leaves no room to breathe.

You wait by the entrance until Coach Baek notices you. He smiles, waving and walking over when he does. “Ah, you came. I was wondering if he’d remembered to text you.”

You hold up the folder. “He did. Sounded like a crisis.”

Baek shakes his head, half amused, half resigned. “He’s been in a state all day. You’re doing both of us a favor.”

That makes you laugh softly. “No worries.”

He chuckles, already turning back to the court. “You can leave it there, and stay to watch if you want.”

“I’ll wait,” you say. “I can drive him back.”

Baek nods, approving. “Good idea. He’s useless when he’s tired.”

When Seungkwan finally catches sight of you, he misses his next shot completely. The shuttle bounces off the floor, and his partner groans. Baek sighs. “Focus, Kwan-ah!”

Seungkwan mumbles something under his breath and jogs toward you. His face is flushed, hair damp, breath coming quick. “You came all the way here?” he asks, still catching his breath. “Could’ve sent it by delivery or something. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you shrug, looking away. “I came home a little early and had nothing to do anyway.”

He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, still a little breathless, racket dangling loosely from one hand. “You could’ve at least let me know. I would’ve met you outside.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He laughs quietly. “You already did.”

“Coach didn’t seem too mad about it,” you say, nodding toward Baek, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop as he talks to another player.

“Only because you brought what I forgot,” Seungkwan mutters, flipping the racket in his grip. “If you hadn’t, he’d have me running laps until sunrise.”

You throw a worried glance at him, but he only shakes his head, lips stretching into a small smile. “I’ll be done, maybe in half an hour. You’ll wait?” 

You nod before you even think about it. “Yeah, of course.”

The answer comes too easily, too fast, and you try to play it off by glancing toward the court. “I can just sit here. Watch for a bit.”

Something in his expression softens, the exhaustion easing just slightly from his shoulders. “Alright,” he says quietly, and the word lands with more warmth than you expect. “I’ll be quick.”

You hum in acknowledgment, but he’s still looking at you, a faint crease between his brows like he wants to say something else. Then Baek calls his name, sharp and clipped, and the moment passes.

“Guess that’s my cue.” He grins at you, small but real, and jogs back to the court, turning once at the net to send you a quick half-wave before he resets into position.

You can’t help the smile that slips out, shaking your head as you sink onto one of the benches along the wall. The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the space, and you cross your arms, settling in to watch.

He’s already back in rhythm by the time you focus again. Every movement of his body is precise, each swing clean and deliberate. The coaches feed him shuttles at a brutal pace, barely giving him room to breathe, and yet he doesn’t break focus. You find yourself leaning forward unconsciously, eyes following the motion of his feet, the shift of his weight, the easy control of it all.

He’s always been like this—sharp edges, quiet intensity, that impossible drive to do better, even when there’s nothing left to prove. You remember the little boy on the court behind the stationery shop, promising you he’d be the best someday. You’d rolled your eyes then. Now, you’re watching him live it.

Half an hour stretches longer than you expect. You can feel the heat of the court even from where you’re sitting, can see the way his breath starts to hitch between shots, the sheen of sweat glinting at the edge of his jaw. When Baek finally signals the end of the drill, Seungkwan stays in place for a few seconds, shoulders rising and falling, hands braced on his knees.

He turns his head slightly, scanning the hall until his eyes find you. The tired grin that pulls at his mouth is instant, boyish, and warm enough that something in your chest gives way.

You lift a hand in a lazy little wave. “You done?” you call out.

“Yeah,” he says, still catching his breath. “Didn’t think you’d actually wait.”

“I said I would.”

He walks over slowly, dragging his towel across the back of his neck, the faintest flush still on his face. “Yeah, but I figured you’d get bored and leave.”

You roll your eyes, picking up your phone and shoving it into your pocket. “You underestimate my patience. I’ll wait in the car.”

By the time he slides into the passenger seat, he’s showered and changed, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. The faint smell of his soap lingers, clean, sharp,and a little citrusy. He exhales as he buckles in, the sound soft, tired, but strangely content.

You pull out of the parking lot, the low hum of the car filling the silence between you. For a while, it’s quiet—just the occasional turn signal and the faint buzz of traffic outside. Then, halfway through the next block, he shifts in his seat and says, “I’m skipping the Sudirman Cup.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Really? Why?”

He runs a thumb along the edge of his seatbelt, thinking. “Baek thinks it’s too close after the Asian Championships. He wants me to rest. I’d be going straight from Seoul to China and back again. He said I’d burn out before mid-season.”

“That sounds reasonable,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “You’ve been going nonstop since All England.”

He hums, quiet agreement. “Yeah, I guess.” Then, after a pause: “So I’ll be here a bit longer than I thought.”

You try to play it cool, but your heart gives itself away first—a small, sharp jolt that makes your throat go dry. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning to look at you like he’s trying to read your face. “I checked with the apartment manager too. The renovation’s still not done. Apparently the plumbing’s delayed again. So I won’t be able to move back before I leave for the Championships.”

You nod slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “That’s… unfortunate.”

He snorts softly. “You sound really heartbroken for me.”

“Don’t start.”

Seungkwan laughs, easy and bright. The sound fills the car in a way that makes your chest feel a little too tight.

Then, softer: “I’ll move out once I’m back, though. After the Asian Championships. Should be done by then.”

You hum, pretending to focus on a red light. “Right. Makes sense.”

He nods, like he’s saying it to himself as much as to you. “Yeah. Back to my place, back to normal.”

Back to normal.

“That soon, huh?” you manage after a second.

He looks at you, smile fading just slightly. “You sound disappointed.”

You huff out a laugh. “You wish.”

He grins, but it’s lopsided and a little too soft, a little too sincere. “Maybe I do.”

You blink, thrown off enough to miss the green light for a second. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, turning to face the window, voice dipping. “Just saying, you’ll miss having someone around to nag, that’s all.”

You scoff. “Please. I’ll finally have peace.”

“Peace is boring,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Then, like he can’t help it: “You’d miss me after a day.”

You turn to look at him then to see that he’s half-smiling, still watching the streetlights pass by through the glass, but his knee is bouncing, thumb fidgeting against the hem of his sleeve. He says it like it’s a joke, but the words sit somewhere heavier.

You swallow. “Confident, aren’t you?”

Seungkwan clears his throat awkwardly, before turning to you again. “Hey, can we grab dinner outside?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Now?”

He nods, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to make it sound casual. “Yeah. I haven’t had anything that didn’t come out of a Tupperware in a week.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What about your nutrition plan?”

He waves a hand dismissively, lips twitching. “Baek doesn’t need to know.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re terrible.”

“Hungry,” he corrects, glancing at you again, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And kind of craving something that isn’t chicken breast and steamed broccoli.”

“You could just say you want company.”

He hums, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I do.”

You tap your fingers against the steering wheel. “Fine. But if your coach finds out you broke your meal plan, I’m not covering for you.”

Seungkwan’s grin spreads, triumphant and boyish. “Deal.”

He relaxes into the seat again, turning his head to look out the window, but you catch the faintest curve of a smile that doesn’t fade for the rest of the drive.

And you tell yourself you agreed because it’s just dinner. Nothing else. But when he glances at you again, with his eyes softer than you expected, you start to think you’re both lying a little.

You find a convenience store that’s still open, and park the car close by. The sign hums faintly in the quiet, half of the letters flickering like they’re tired too. You both step out, stretching a little, the night air soft against your skin.

Inside, it’s the usual mix of fluorescent brightness and low, tinny music. You make a beeline for the noodle aisle while Seungkwan trails behind, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking between you and the shelves like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be looking at.

He hasn’t been this close to you in days. Not really. You’ve been passing each other like clock hands—just missing, always moving. Now, you’re crouched down on the floor comparing prices, lips pursed in concentration, and it hits him how stupidly familiar it feels. How good it feels.

He tilts his head. “You’re really analyzing cup noodles right now?”

“Don’t mock my process,” you say, still scanning the shelf. “You always say I pick the best ones.”

He hums, leaning against the opposite shelf. “That’s true. You do.”

You glance up. “You’re agreeing with me too easily.”

“I’m pacing myself. Saving energy for a real argument later.”

You roll your eyes, toss a pair of ramen cups into the basket, and brush past him to grab drinks. He should step aside, but he doesn’t. Not right away, at least. The corner of your sleeve catches his for a second. It’s barely a touch, accidental, but it leaves a warmth that spreads slowly and stubbornly under his skin.

By the time you reach the counter, Seungkwan’s smiling to himself. He can’t remember when it started feeling like this—like every small thing you do has its own gravity. Like even the silence between you hums with the feelings he’s trying too hard to not name.

You pay, exchange a few words with the cashier, and then the two of you are outside again, walking toward the steps by the river. The city hums quietly around you in the form of distant traffic, laughter, the occasional bark of a dog. You sit first, balancing the ramen between you, steam rising into the cool air.

He sits closer than he needs to. You don’t say anything about it.

The conversation drifts from there, easy and looping. You tell him about your week, your building’s broken elevator, how your coworker mistook chili paste for jam. He listens, mostly, but you don’t notice how quiet he’s gotten.

Because he’s realizing it all at once, with terrifying clarity.

That he’s missed you every day this week, even when you were home.

That your voice makes the world sound a little less heavy.

That he wants you, in the quiet, unexplainable, irreversible way that people want something they know they shouldn’t.

He doesn’t even notice when his ramen goes cold. You’re still talking, your hands moving animatedly, the wind tugging at your sleeve, and he’s sitting there like someone who’s just been hit and is pretending not to bleed.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, leaning closer to peer into his bowl. “You’re not eating.”

He blinks, jerking back to reality. “What?”

“You haven’t even touched it.”

“Oh.” He looks down, then up at you again, half-laughing. “Guess I got distracted.”

You grin, bumping your knee lightly against his. “Airhead. Aren’t you hungry?”

He wants to answer, but the truth gets caught somewhere in his chest. He’s starving, just not for food. It’s almost pathetic, how easily you pull him back in. Every time he thinks he’s found the right distance, you do something small—laugh, reach over, smile like that—and the space between you folds in on itself. 

It’s not new. It’s never been new. He’s liked you before—more times than he can count, each one sneaking up on him like it was the first.

The earliest he can remember is when he was thirteen. You’d been sitting on the bleachers by the school court, swinging your legs, eating an ice pop that kept dripping down your fingers. He’d been waiting for his turn to play, pretending not to stare. You’d looked over at him suddenly, offered him a bite, and laughed when he flinched because it was too cold. That was the first time he’d felt it—the ridiculous flutter in his chest.

The second time, he’d been seventeen, right before he left Jeju for training in Seoul. You’d shown up at the airport in your uniform, holding a paper bag of tangerines, saying, “For vitamin C. Don’t catch a cold.” He’d promised he’d come back soon, and you’d said, “You better.”  You'd waved, smiling until he couldn't see you anymore and during takeoff he’d pressed his forehead to the window, pretending he wasn’t already missing you.

The third time, you were both twenty-one, at some end-of-term party on a beach back home. The others were setting off sparklers, but you’d wandered off with him toward the water, shoes dangling from one hand. He’d said something stupid, you’d splashed him, and he’d chased you until you both ended up breathless and soaked, laughing into the wind. The night smelled like salt and smoke from the barbeque and something he couldn’t name. He hadn’t kissed you. He’d wanted to.

He looks at you now, the glow from the streetlamps catching on your hair, your face soft with amusement, and he thinks: this is how it starts again. The quiet tug he can’t fight. The steady thrum in his ribs whenever you’re near.

Seungkwan thinks that he’s kept you at arm’s length for so long his whole body aches from it. That he’s tried to reason it away, to say it’s friendship, history, comfort. But it’s none of those things anymore. It’s you. It’s always been you. 

He thinks that maybe he’s doomed to love every version of you, a bit too early, or a bit too late, no matter how much he tries not to. There’s never a right time for him.

You nudge him now, expression worried. “Hey, seriously. What’s up? What are you even thinking of?”

Seungkwan shakes his head, pushing away the thoughts. He stares at you, and decides that he has to let you know at some point, anyway.

“I need to leave a bit early, by the way.” He mumbles, glancing away and towards the water. “Media obligations. My flight is in three days.”

And with the way your face falls, you’re glad he’s not looking.

Seungkwan packs in the same distracted way that he always does— half folding, half pacing, and glancing at his checklist every few minutes. 

“You’ve been saying you’d pack for days,” you say from where you’re sitting on his bed, chin propped on your knee. “And yet here we are. The night before.”

He hums, rolling another shirt into a neat cylinder. “Some of us thrive under pressure.”

“You? You panic under pressure.”

“Lies.” 

He’s grinning, but you can tell he’s wound up. He always gets like this before leaving—restless, on edge, one foot already halfway out the door. When you were kids, it was about field trips; he’d check his backpack ten times before bed, wake up at dawn, still convinced he’d forgotten something. That hasn’t changed much.

You get up, wandering over to his suitcase to mess with one of the neatly rolled shirts. “You’re gonna wear the same thing every day anyway.”

He scoffs. “I can’t repeat outfits when there are cameras.”

“Oh, right. The curse of being famous.”

He flicks a sock at you. “Shut up.”

You laugh before slumping back onto his bed, watching him in the mirror. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

He exhales, a little too sharp. “Yeah. I just hate this part.”

“The leaving?”

He shrugs, eyes on his hands. “Feels like I forget how to exist anywhere else, every time I start to feel settled.”

You don’t really know what to say to that. So you just throw a stray sock on his bed at him, one that he’s forgotten to put in. 

He catches it midair, barely, and tosses it back at you with a huff of laughter. “Very supportive.”

“I’m helping you not forget things,” you say, holding up your hands in mock innocence.

“By weaponizing my laundry.”

He shakes his head but the smile lingers, just enough to ease that small crease between his brows. He goes back to folding while you lie on your side, the sheets cool beneath your cheek.

“Are you going to sleep at all tonight?” You ask after a while, a yawn slipping past your lips as he zips and unzips compartments just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

“Probably not,” he admits, closing the suitcase halfway. “I feel like I just had three cups of coffee and I swear I haven’t touched caffeine in the last few days.”

“Classic you.”

“Classic me,” he echoes, voice drifting. 

He starts checking his toiletries bag next, muttering things under his breath—razor, shaving cream, that one mint toothpaste he uses that almost burns your tongue. 

“You nervous?” you ask quietly, words tumbling into each other in your sleepy state.

He pauses, looking up through the mirror. “A little. Baek says I shouldn’t be, but it’s the Championships, you know?”

You hum. “Yeah… But you’re ready.”

He smiles at that. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Something flickers in his eyes, soft and almost fond enough to hurt. 

You let your head fall onto his pillow, swearing that you won’t fall asleep and that you’ll just rest your eyes and stay up with him until he’s done packing. Seungkwan moves across the room, tucking his passport into the front pocket of his bag and arranging a few things on his dresser like he’s delaying the inevitable. 

Seungkwan slips out quietly, his phone screen glowingly dimly in his hand, the checklist he’s edited and re-edited all week open on it.

In the corner of the living room, his kit bag leans against the wall, already half-zipped. He crouches down and goes through it again, more out of habit than necessity. Three newly strung rackets, grip tapes still in their plastic, spare overgrips, scissors, towels, electrolytes, resistance bands, an extra pair of socks. Everything’s there, but he still checks.

He flips through the edge of his notebook, glances at the small foam roller poking out of the side compartment, and opens one last zipper, his lucky Yonex wristband folded neatly beside a stack of match shirts. He exhales, counting the shirts one more time, even though he already knows there are five.

It’s not about forgetting things. Not really. It’s about control, about the ritual of it. Packing means he’s almost gone, and maybe if he does it slow enough, he can make the hours stretch a little longer.

When he finally straightens, rolling his shoulders, the digital checklist blinks with a satisfying row of green ticks. He taps the screen off and pockets the phone, glancing toward the door again.

When he walks into his room again, he stops short.

You’ve already fallen asleep.

You’re half-curled, blanket caught under your legs, one hand tucked under your cheek, your hair a little messy from where you’d turned on the pillow. The soft hum of the air conditioner fills the room, blending with the sound of your even breathing.

Seungkwan leans against the doorframe for a second, his eyes softening at the sight. You must’ve been trying to stay up. He can tell that you didn’t even move the pillow he gave you earlier, and your phone’s still beside your hand, screen dimmed.

For a moment, he just watches. The crease between your brows, the slow rise and fall of your shoulders. He remembers nights like this from when you were younger—when you’d both fall asleep after playdates, study sessions or long days at the court or university, heads bumping, your notebooks scattered on the floor. But now, the sight hits him differently.

He sighs quietly, moving closer, the floor creaking under his feet ands bends down, fingers catching the edge of the blanket, before gently pulls it up over your shoulders. It takes some maneuvering—the sheets tangle, the corner catches under your knee—but he manages, careful not to wake you.

Seungkwan hesitates before lying down. He could go to the couch, or the floor, but the thought of leaving the room feels strangely unbearable tonight. So he slides under the blanket, slow and deliberate, keeping to the far edge, his back turned toward you.

He faces the wall, staring at the faint shadows the streetlight casts through the curtains. It’s been years since you were just kids who could fall asleep shoulder to shoulder without a second thought. Now, every inch of distance feels intentional.

He keeps still, hands tucked under his chin. The air smells faintly like your lotion. He shuts his eyes, tells himself to sleep, to not think about the way the mattress dips where your body lies, or the steady rhythm of your breathing just behind him.

It feels wrong, somehow, to want this so badly when he knows it’s not innocent anymore. Wrong to be lying here while his heart’s already given itself away. He shifts slightly, just enough to put an inch more space between you, but it doesn’t help. The air still feels electric.

He exhales, low and careful. Don’t make it weird, he tells himself. Don’t ruin it.

Eventually, sleep wins out.

Sometime in the night, you stir.

Seungkwan lies on his side, facing the wall, blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His breathing is slow, steady, the kind of rhythm that means he’s completely asleep. You watch the rise and fall of his back, the faint movement of his hair against the pillow. He’s close enough that you can see the soft curve of his neck, the line of his jaw half-hidden by shadow.

You tell yourself to go back to sleep. To stay where you are. But the space between you feels unbearable—like something’s missing, like something’s always missing.

You swallow hard, your hand hesitating in the middle of the blanket. It’s stupid, you know. It’s late, and he’s leaving in the morning, and you’ll see him again soon. Two weeks isn’t long. But the thought doesn’t make it hurt less. It only makes it sharper, like you’ve been holding something fragile in your hands and pretending it’s fine not to have it anymore.

You shift closer, slow enough that the mattress barely moves. Your fingers brush his arm, then still. He doesn’t stir.

It shouldn’t feel like this. It should be easy, like it used to be when you were kids and shared a blanket at sleepovers without thinking twice. But you’re not kids anymore. You know that. You know exactly what you’re doing when you inch forward again, until your forehead is resting lightly between his shoulder blades, until your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

You swear you’ll get up in a minute. Just one minute.

You just need to hold him for a little while to feel the weight of him, the quiet proof that he’s real and here, before the world pulls him away again.

So you stay like that. Breathing in his warmth and letting the ache settle somewhere behind your ribs.

At some point, Seungkwan must have turned in his sleep, because when morning comes, you’re in his arms.

He doesn’t remember when it happened. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was something he’s been holding back for too long. Now, with soft light filtering through the curtains and your head tucked beneath his chin, he can’t bring himself to move.

You’re still asleep, face pressed lightly against his chest, breathing slow and even. The blanket has slipped a little, but you look warm. Peaceful and tired in a way that makes something twist quietly inside him.

He should get up. The clock on his phone says it’s barely past six, and there’s still a list of things to do—shower, check his bags again, meet the car waiting downstairs. He knows he should move.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

For a few minutes, Seungkwan lets himself stay there and pretend this is what mornings could be like. The warmth of you beside him could be enough to make everything else fade. He traces the line of your shoulder with his eyes, memorizing the way the light hits your hair. He lets himself want this, even if only for a moment.

Then he forces himself to let go.

You don’t stir when he finally slips out of bed. Not when he moves around the room, gathering his things and zipping his suitcase closed. Not when he pauses by the door and looks back at you one last time.

You’ve been tired lately. You deserve the rest.

A selfish part of him still wants to wake you up—to see your face, to hear you mumble something half-asleep, to have you walk him to the door like you always do. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer, crouches slightly, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

It’s familiar. Something he’s done before, something he can tell himself is normal.

If it lingers a little too long, if his hand almost reaches for yours before he stops himself, no one has to know.

Seungkwan tells himself it’s fine. That this is what friends do. That he hasn’t been playing house for the past three weeks, pretending this isn’t the closest he’s ever been to admitting he’d rather die than be just your friend.

Then he exhales, straightens up, and leaves before he can change his mind.

tags: @fancypeacepersona @strawbabyz

[mirisss]

The Weight of Silver

Wang Yixiang (Nicholas) x female reader

Wordcount ≈  23.4k

Summary: After escaping a life of chains, fighting, and fear, Nicholas finds himself placed in the home of (Y/n), a gentle soul still healing from her own past. What begins as caution and trembling uncertainty slowly unfolds into safety, trust, and something neither of them expected. Together, they learn what it means to breathe freely, to choose their own future, and to find home in another person.

Warnings: past abuse and trauma, implied violence, panic/anxiety episodes, mild possessive behavior, themes of captivity, rescue, and recovery, light emotional hurt/comfort, but also very fluffy!

If you know me, you know I’m obsessed with hybrid fics, so I just had to write one for &Team! And if you guys also enjoy reading these types of fics, don’t be scared to send a request for more! I also already have an idea to continue this one!

Please reblog if you enjoyed it! 

Taglist: @voucearse

Networks: @k-records

The rain had been falling for hours, tracing silver lines down the wide windows of (Y/n)’s apartment. The soft hum of her monitors filled the studio as the cursor blinked on an unfinished lyric. A half-empty mug of tea sat forgotten beside her keyboard, long since gone cold.

Music was usually her escape, the quiet rhythm of her fingers on piano keys, the subtle layering of sound until something clicked. But tonight, she couldn’t quite find it. Something in the air felt heavy, restless. Her phone buzzed against the desk. Harua. She hesitated before answering. It was nearly midnight. Harua wasn’t the type to call this late unless something was wrong.

“Hey,” she said, voice low. “You know what time it is, right?” “(Y/n), I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent.” His voice was rough, rushed, the kind of tired that came from more than just a long day. “We need your help.” Her chair creaked as she leaned back. “The shelter?” “Yeah. We, we just got someone new in. A hybrid. He’s… complicated.” That word hung in the air between them. Complicated. (Y/n) knew what it meant. Aggressive. Traumatized. Dangerous, maybe. “Harua, I’m not,”

“Please, just listen. We don’t have room left. Taki’s got the med bay full, and Jo’s trying to calm down the new rescues, but this one, he’s different. If we can’t find him a foster tonight, they’re talking about transferring him out.” Transferring out, was just a softer way to say put down. (Y/n) swallowed hard. “You can’t find anyone else?” “You’re the only one I trust with this. You’ve got the space, and,” He exhaled shakily. “I know it’s asking a lot, but please. Just until we sort things out.”

The cursor blinked on her screen, a faint pulse of light in the quiet. (Y/n) looked around her apartment, the soft clutter of notebooks and instruments, the safety of her world, and felt that familiar ache in her chest. She wanted to say no. She really did. But she’d helped build that shelter. She’d watched Harua, Taki, and Jo work themselves to the bone trying to give hybrids a chance to live like people, not property. And if they were calling her now… things had to be bad.

She exhaled, pressing her thumb and forefinger to her temple. “Alright. I’ll come by. Send me the details.” “You’re a lifesaver, (Y/n). I owe you.” “Yeah, yeah. You can pay me back in coffee.” She ended the call and stood, grabbing her coat from the rack by the door. The city outside was blurred by rain, every streetlight a smear of gold. Her reflection in the window looked smaller than she felt, tired eyes, hair tied back messily, the faint shadow of someone who cared too much.

By the time she reached her car, the rain had picked up again, drumming on the roof like static. She drove through near-empty streets, wipers squeaking, her mind replaying Harua’s words. Hybrid. Complicated. When she finally pulled into the shelter’s small lot, she spotted the glow of a single light through the rain. Harua stood under the awning, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead.

He looked relieved when he saw her. “You really came,” he said, breath fogging in the cold. “Yeah,” (Y/n) muttered, pulling her hood tighter. “Let’s just get this over with.” And as she followed him inside, the smell of antiseptic and wet fur filling the air.

Harua led her inside, shaking rain from his coat as he moved quickly through the narrow hallway. The shelter smelled faintly of disinfectant and wet fur, a mix of clinical sharpness and homey warmth that always made her feel slightly on edge. At the desk, Jo was slouched in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, water dripping from his soaked hair onto the papers in front of him. His voice, usually soft and measured, was sharp and insistent.

“No, no, more measures have to be taken! They can’t get away with this… they need to be prosecuted!” Jo snapped, his fingers tapping furiously on the desk. “I don’t care what it takes, this stops here!” (Y/n) froze for a moment, only half-listening. She couldn’t help but guess that this was connected to the hybrid she’d been called about, the one Harua was dragging her to meet. She’d never heard Jo sound this angry before; even the gentlest of the trio could be fierce, but this… it was something else.

Jo finally noticed her and waved, trying to give a reassuring smile before returning to his call. (Y/n) ducked her head, feeling slightly guilty for intruding on his frustration, but Harua pulled her down the hall toward a quieter part of the shelter. “We don’t have much time,” he murmured. “He’s… not in good shape. Just got rescued from an illegal fighting ring tonight. He’s twenty-three, barely talked to anyone yet. It’s a rough situation.”

(Y/n) nodded slowly, absorbing the information. She tried to imagine what “rough shape” meant, bruises, scars, exhaustion, distrust, and her chest tightened. She had the space. She had the means. But she wasn’t naive; she knew hybrids from fighting rings didn’t just recover overnight. “And… his type?” she asked gently, trying not to push too hard.

Harua hesitated, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter right now. We just need someone who can… hold ground until he’s safe.” (Y/n) drew in a deep breath. The weight of the night pressed on her shoulders. “Alright. Show me.” Harua led her past a series of kennels, the soft padding of the floor muffling their steps. Harua led her to a room at the far end of the shelter. From the moment she approached, she could hear muffled voices and the clink of medical instruments. Someone was trying to talk to the hybrid, likely doing a checkup, which meant Taki was in there.

A low, guttural growl echoed from inside, making her stomach tighten. She froze, listening. Then the door burst open, and Taki stumbled out, arm bleeding where a scratch had caught him. His expression was a mix of frustration and disbelief. (Y/n) turned to Harua, her voice quiet but tense. “Exactly what breed is he? And… how aggressive are we talking?”

Harua exhaled, the weight of the night showing in his shoulders. He had hoped to shield her from some of the details, knowing the truth might scare her off. But he could see in her eyes that she wouldn’t back down. “He’s… a panther,” Harua said finally. “And the aggression… it varies. Depends on who comes near him. Some people he won’t even acknowledge, others… well, he’s dangerous.”

(Y/n) blinked, letting the information settle. A panther hybrid. Dangerous. And yet, the curiosity in her chest began to bloom alongside the worry. She’d seen aggressive hybrids before, but there was something in the way Harua said it, almost like he was hoping she’d see past the danger. She nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll do it, but only if he agrees.” Harua gave her a small, grateful smile. “I knew I could count on you.” (Y/n) squared her shoulders, trying to shake off the unease settling in her stomach. Tonight, she would meet the hybrid, and somehow… they’d have to find a way to live together.

(Y/n) turned to Taki, concern knitting her brows. “What happened?” Taki shrugged, a faint, apologetic smile on his face despite the scratch on his arm. “I was just trying to do a standard checkup. He’s… he’s covered in bruises and small cuts. But the second I tried to touch him, he scratched me. Nothing serious. I’m fine.” (Y/n) exhaled, a mix of relief and worry washing over her. Taki’s optimism was unshakable, but that didn’t make her any less nervous.

She looked at Harua, letting her gaze linger on him for a moment. “Alright. Let’s do this.” Harua gave a slight nod and, with careful hands, began to open the door. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp fur. And there he was. The hybrid sat a few feet away, silhouetted against the dim light. He was tall, taller than both Harua and Taki, maybe just a little shorter than Jo, who they often joked was “as tall as a tree.” His hair was pitch black, slightly wild, with ears sticking up through it. A long tail flicked back and forth behind him, betraying a restless energy she could already feel.

Her eyes immediately went to the chain at his ankle. He was restrained, something she had never seen her friends do. Harua noticed her gaze and gave a small, tight-lipped shrug. “The people who brought him here… they required it,” he explained quietly. “Even though it goes against our rules. We didn’t have a choice.”

(Y/n) swallowed, her throat dry. Seeing him like this, powerful, wary, and chained, made her chest tighten. She’d seen hybrids in tough situations before, but there was something raw and… almost regal about him. Something that made her want to reach out, despite the danger. Harua looked at her, a silent question in his eyes: Are you ready? She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s see if we can make this work.”

(Y/n) slowly lowered herself to the floor by the door, keeping a cautious distance. She didn’t want to startle him, or make him feel cornered. The hybrid lifted his head, golden eyes glinting in the dim light. His gaze was sharp, assessing, predatory. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and he bared his fangs, a warning she didn’t take lightly. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t make a sudden movement. She simply tilted her head slightly and said, softly, “Hi… I’m (Y/n). I’m going to be helping you tonight.”

The growl faltered for a moment as he regarded her warily, clearly surprised by her lack of fear. His tail flicked sharply, a tense rhythm, but he stayed where he was. (Y/n) exhaled quietly, trying to steady the nervous energy rising in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to do next, she couldn’t force him to cooperate, and she knew that even her experience with hybrids wouldn’t instantly make him trust her. So she did the only thing she could think of: she spoke honestly.

“I know no one’s really talked to you,” she said carefully, keeping her voice calm. “They’ve only… spoken like you weren’t here. But I want you to understand what’s happening. I can foster you while Harua, Taki, and Jo figure out a permanent solution. But… only if you agree to it. I won’t be forcing you. You get to choose. But if you don’t… they’ll put you down.” She paused, letting the words sink in.

The hybrid’s golden eyes didn’t leave her face. He stayed still, listening, the growl now a low, uncertain murmur. So far, no one had ever spoken to him like this. He had been handled, examined, assessed, never spoken to. (Y/n) stayed seated, giving him space. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she added gently. “I just want to help. But you have to decide for yourself.”

The room was quiet except for the distant drip of rain against the shelter windows. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the hybrid’s posture shifted. He didn’t move closer, didn’t relax fully, but he stayed. He listened. For the first time in who knew how long, someone was talking with him, not about him.

For the first time since he’d arrived, the hybrid spoke. His voice was low, deep, resonant, the kind of tone that carried both caution and a trace of danger. “Why… do you want a hybrid like me?” he asked, his golden eyes locked on hers. (Y/n) met his gaze calmly. “I’m here because Harua asked me to help,” she said. “I didn’t even know you were a panther until I got to this door.” She shifted slightly but didn’t move closer, letting him have his space. “It’s not the first time I’ve fostered a hybrid when my friends needed me. But… this will be the first time I’ve fostered one who’s considered aggressive.”

The hybrid studied her carefully, his eyes sweeping over her body language, the way she held herself, the tone of her voice, even the subtle scent she carried. Every detail mattered to him, every micro-expression a clue. And yet, after a long, tense moment, he found nothing. Nothing that suggested deceit. Nothing that suggested she had any hidden agenda.

(Y/n) exhaled softly, letting the silence stretch without forcing it. She wasn’t here to intimidate him, to dominate him, or to force him into anything. She simply wanted to make it clear that he had a choice, and that choice might be his first chance at safety in a long time. The hybrid’s tail flicked, slower this time, but still tense. He didn’t respond immediately, but his gaze lingered on her, curious, cautious… and perhaps just a little intrigued.

He watched her for another long, silent moment before speaking again. “Why do you only foster hybrids?” His tone wasn’t accusing, just genuinely curious, almost suspiciously so, like he expected there to be a darker reason. (Y/n) drew in a slow breath, her fingers curling slightly at her knees. She didn’t want to talk about this, she never talked about this, but something in his question, in the quiet intensity of his gaze, pushed the truth to the surface.

“…I did want to adopt,” she said softly. “Really badly.” She paused, steadying her voice. “But my ex wouldn’t allow it. He hated whenever I fostered hybrids. And at first it was just… yelling, guilt-tripping, little things to make me feel stupid.” She swallowed hard. “Then, a year ago, he became physically abusive.” Nicholas didn’t move, but his ears twitched, sharply. (Y/n) kept going, voice trembling. “So I stopped. I didn’t help out, I didn’t foster, I was too scared. For a long time. But two months ago, I finally… escaped.”

Her breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, tears blurred her vision. She pressed a hand to her mouth, embarrassed by how raw it all felt. This was the first time she had told anyone who wasn’t Harua, Taki, or Jo. Her chest felt tight, her voice cracking as the memories clawed their way up. Harua moved automatically, kneeling beside her and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His touch was steady, grounding. “You’re safe now,” he murmured. “And you don’t have to explain any of this if you don’t want to.”

Nicholas watched all of it, her trembling breaths, the way Harua comforted her, the genuine grief and exhaustion etched into her expression. His golden eyes narrowed, not in anger at her, but in focus. He was analyzing every detail: her scent, which carried fear but not deception; the tremor in her voice, too real to fake; the tension in her posture, the vulnerability in her tears. He searched for lies, for exaggeration, manipulation, hidden motives. But he found nothing. No deceit. No performance. Just pain. And honesty.

Nicholas was silent for a long time. Too long. (Y/n) wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, embarrassed, steadying her breathing while Harua gave her shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back. The room felt painfully still, like everyone was waiting for a verdict they weren’t sure they wanted to hear. The panther hybrid sat perfectly still, his tail only flicking once, slowly, as he evaluated the situation with the cold precision of someone who’d survived far too much.

He thought of his options. He could refuse. He could stay here, chained like an animal, waiting for strangers to decide he wasn’t worth the trouble. He could be transferred, or well, put down. A part of him wouldn’t miss the pain, the fighting, the fear. But another part of him, deep, buried, determined, still wanted to live. Trusting someone, though… That was the terrifying part. But then he looked at her again. At the way she sat there, not trying to hide the remnants of her tears. At the way her hands trembled slightly but she still met his gaze, still held herself steady. At the faint scent of fear and sorrow and something else, something honest. If he was going to take a risk… If he was going to trust anyone… It might as well be her.

He exhaled slowly. “…I’ll go with you,” he said at last, voice low, almost reluctant. “For now.” (Y/n)’s breath caught, relief softening her shoulders. Harua let out a quiet sigh, almost collapsing against the wall. Nicholas’s golden eyes flicked between them before he added, after a brief pause: “…My name is Nicholas.” It was the first personal detail he’d given anyone since being rescued. And he’d given it to her.

(Y/n) offered him a gentle smile, small, soft, but real. “I’m glad you decided to come with me,” she said. “But… before we leave, you have to let Taki check your wounds. Just to make sure nothing needs immediate treatment.” Nicholas’s ears flattened slightly, irritation flashing across his face. He didn’t like being told what to do. He especially didn’t like the idea of someone touching him again. He opened his mouth to argue, but then she quietly added: “…please?”

The word hit him harder than he expected. No force. No threat. Just a request. Nicholas exhaled roughly through his nose, tension rolling through his shoulders. “…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll try.” Taki, who had been standing quietly nearby, blinked in surprise. “Really? Uh, okay, great. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Harua stepped forward, giving Nicholas an approving nod before turning to (Y/n). “While Taki checks him, you should come with me to sign the paperwork. It won’t take long, but we need it before you can officially take him home.” (Y/n) hesitated, glancing back at Nicholas. His jaw tightened, golden eyes narrowing slightly. He clearly didn’t like the idea of her leaving. He didn’t know Taki well enough to trust him. He didn’t know any of them.

But he also wanted this to be over, the chains, the cold room, the eyes always watching him. And if the fastest way out was letting her go sign some papers. “…Fine,” he said again, though this time the word was slower, heavier. (Y/n) gave him a reassuring look as she stood. “I’ll be right back. Just a few minutes.” Nicholas didn’t answer, but his tail flicked once, sharply, as he watched her leave, his ears angling toward the door long after it closed behind her. Taki approached carefully, keeping his voice soft. “Okay… let’s take this slow, alright?” Nicholas grumbled under his breath but didn’t lash out. Not yet. Because she had said please. And because she was coming back.

~~~

(Y/n) knew what fostering paperwork looked like, she’d done it several times before. But when Harua dropped the stack in front of her, her eyebrows shot up. “This is… double the usual,” she muttered. Harua and Jo exchanged a tired, knowing look before Jo spoke up, rubbing his temples. “Yeah. All the extra forms are because Nicholas came from a fighting ring. Liability clauses, behavioral warnings, documentation about his injuries, statements that you understand he might lash out, that he’s considered high risk…” He sighed deeply. “It’s a lot. Even for us.”

(Y/n) let her eyes skim the top pages, the bold words aggressive tendencies, trauma-related responses, safety measures. It wasn’t surprising, not after what she’d seen, but it was still unsettling. Jo leaned on the desk, voice softer. “Are you sure you’re up for this? You’ve been through so much this past year. No one would blame you if this is too much.” She looked up at him, shaking her head with firm resolve. “No. I want to do this. I’ve missed helping out. I’ve missed… being part of this.” Her smile was small but sincere. “And Nicholas agreed. So I’m not backing out.” Harua’s shoulders relaxed a little, and Jo gave her a warm, relieved smile.

It took time, signatures, initials, dated lines, emergency numbers, foster responsibilities, transport agreements. Each completed page brought her closer to the door where Nicholas waited. When she finally set down the pen, Harua took the papers and neatly stacked them. “Alright. That’s everything.” Jo exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “Let’s get you back to him.”

Harua led her down the hall again, boots squeaking softly on the floor. As they approached the room, the faint, low sound of Nicholas’s growl filtered through the door, not loud, not angry, just… anxious. Taki stepped out at the perfect moment, closing the door behind him with a relieved sigh. “Oh! You’re back.” He gave (Y/n) a smile and held up his uninjured arm proudly. “Good news, the exam went well this time.” (Y/n) blinked. “Really?” Taki nodded enthusiastically. “He didn’t scratch me once. He was tense, but he listened. I think… maybe he’s trying.” Harua gave (Y/n) a small smile as he held the door halfway open for her. Inside, Nicholas waited, and the moment she stepped in, his golden eyes locked onto her like she was the only familiar thing in the room.

Harua held up the key between two fingers, the metal glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. “Here,” he said quietly. “It’s probably best if you do it. He… seems to trust you. Or at least tolerate you more than the rest of us.” There was a gentleness in his voice, not pity, but hope. (Y/n) accepted the key, feeling the weight of it settle into her palm. It was oddly heavy for something so small. She turned toward Nicholas.

He was sitting where they’d left him, posture tense, shoulders squared, his tail curled protectively around one leg. His golden eyes tracked her every movement, not threatening, just watchful. A predator gauging intention. (Y/n) lifted the key slightly, letting him see it. “Can I come closer?” she asked softly. “I need to unlock this so we can leave.” Nicholas’s jaw tightened for a second, a reflexive flash of uncertainty, before he dipped his head once. A small, deliberate nod. He shifted just enough to give her access to the shackle around his ankle. The movement was cautious but cooperative, and that tiny gesture meant more than he understood.

She stepped closer, slow and careful, making sure he could see her hands at all times. The chain clinked softly as she crouched down in front of him. Up close, she could see the bruises on his skin, the faint cuts, the dried blood matted in his dark fur at the edges of his tail. He’d been through hell. The lock was old, stubborn, and her hands were shaking a bit, from nerves or adrenaline, she wasn’t sure.

“Hold on,” she murmured when the key stuck halfway. “It’s… being difficult.” Nicholas didn’t move, but she could feel his eyes on the top of her head, tracking every breath she took. The air felt tight, tense, but not dangerous. Just… charged. Finally, with a sharp click, the lock released. The chain slid off his ankle. For the first time since he’d arrived, Nicholas was unrestrained. She lifted her head to meet his gaze, offering him a small, encouraging smile, warm but not patronizing. “All done,” she whispered. “Let’s go home.”

Something in Nicholas’s expression shifted, the faintest flicker of surprise, maybe disbelief. Home. The word clearly struck somewhere deep. He rose slowly to his full height, towering over her but not looming. His ears twitched once, tail flicking behind him as if he couldn’t fully hide his nerves. But he didn’t growl. He didn’t bare his fangs. He just stood there, looking at her, as though trying to decide what home could possibly mean for someone like him. And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded again. A silent agreement.

It felt strange, wrong, almost, to walk through a hallway without the tug of a chain against his ankle or the pressure of a handler directing his steps. Nicholas’s muscles were tight, every movement cautious, his senses sharpened by habit. The shelter hall echoed with faint sounds from other rooms: soft whimpers, shuffling, a bark, the hiss of a feline hybrid unsettled by strangers.

Every time they passed a door, Nicholas let out a low growl. Not aggressive… more instinctive. A warning, or maybe a defense. Old habits clinging to him like scars. (Y/n) didn’t flinch. She simply walked beside him, not too close, not too far. Just… there. The closer they got to the exit, the louder the rain became, hammering against the glass doors like it was trying to break inside. (Y/n) sighed.

“I, uh… rushed out so fast I forgot to bring an umbrella.” Harua winced apologetically. “We’re out of spares too. It’s been a busy night.” Nicholas blinked at them. “It’s just water.” He shrugged, almost confused at the concern. “How bad can it be?” The way he said it, so blunt, so literal, made something in (Y/n) bubble with unexpected laughter. “How bad could it be, right?” she echoed with a small giggle. “It’s not far to the car.” She turned to her friends, exchanging quick hugs and tired smiles. “Text us when you get home,” Jo said, still looking slightly worried. “And if anything happens, call,” Taki added. “We mean it,” Harua chimed in. “Anything.” (Y/n) nodded firmly. “I’ll be fine. Promise.” With that, she pushed the door open.

The rain hit instantly, cold, relentless, drenching. Nicholas grunted at the sudden shock, ears flattening slightly as water ran down his hair and over the dark fur of his tail. He didn’t complain though. No hissing, no growling. He simply followed her into the storm. The car wasn’t far, but every inch of them was soaked by the time they arrived. Nicholas stopped beside the passenger door, hesitating. He glanced inside, then at the backseat, then at her again. He looked… uncertain. Maybe he’d never had the choice of where to sit before.

(Y/n) noticed immediately and motioned him forward, her smile gentle despite the rain dripping off her chin. “Front seat,” she said warmly. “Come on. Let’s go.” For just a moment, his golden eyes softened, confusion flickering into something almost like relief. He opened the door and climbed in. No chains. No handlers. Just him… and her… and the sound of the rain pounding on the roof as she slid into the driver’s seat beside him.

The ride was quiet in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable, just heavy, thick with everything Nicholas had been through and everything (Y/n) didn’t want to pressure him to talk about. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of rain on the roof and the soft hum of the engine.

(Y/n) kept her eyes on the road but spoke gently, her voice soft enough not to startle him. “Did you… eat anything at the shelter?” Silence. She glanced sideways. Nicholas sat rigidly, his shoulders tense, eyes fixed out the window like he was watching for threats in every passing shadow. Then… grrnnnnk. The unmistakable rumble of his stomach. Nicholas’s ears twitched, and he exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed at his own body for betraying him. (Y/n) smiled a little. “That answers that, I guess.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t say anything at all. But the tension in the air eased just a fraction. “When we get home, I can make something,” she continued. “I haven’t eaten dinner either, so it works out.” Another quiet rumble from his stomach, softer this time, almost embarrassed. She pretended not to notice. A few minutes passed before she spoke again, careful not to overwhelm him. “And… tomorrow,” she said gently, “we can go out and get you some clothes. You only have what you’re wearing right now, right?”

Nicholas’s posture stiffened, just barely. He didn’t answer, but that silence said enough. “I might have a few of Jo’s or Taki’s clothes lying around from when they crashed at my place,” she added lightly. “For tonight, I mean. If that’s okay with you.” This time he did look at her, not directly, but from the corner of his eye. Something cautious but thoughtful in the movement. “…If they fit,” he murmured, his voice rough, uncertain, as if he wasn’t used to being given options.

Heat warmed her chest. He was talking again. That was something. “I’ll find something,” she assured him, turning the car onto her street. “We’ll make it work.” He didn’t respond, but he didn’t retreat either. He just watched her hands on the steering wheel, the rain streaming down the windshield, and the glow of warm apartment windows they were slowly approaching.

As soon as the car rolled into the underground garage, Nicholas felt his chest tighten. The moment he stepped out, the smell of concrete, oil, damp metal. It all hit him at once. Too close. Too familiar. Too much like the fighting ring’s holding cells. His tail went rigid. His ears flattened. His steps grew quieter, more controlled, like he was preparing for something to lunge at him from the shadows. (Y/n) noticed the change immediately but didn’t comment. She simply slowed her pace, letting him walk beside her instead of behind.

The elevator was another new experience. As the doors slid shut, Nicholas tensed, muscles coiling as if ready to spring. But when the floor began to rise smoothly beneath their feet, his eyes widened, curiosity flickering through the nerves. He stayed completely silent, though, swallowing down whatever instinct told him enclosed spaces meant danger. And then, finally, they reached her floor. (Y/n) walked a few steps ahead, unlocked her door, and pushed it open with a small, warm smile.

“Welcome home,” she said, stepping aside so he could enter. The word settled over him again, home. He didn’t know what to do with it. But he stepped inside anyway. The air was warm, soft, scented faintly with something floral and something musical, like ink on paper, old wood, and the lingering sweetness of candles. It was… gentle. Nothing like the cement hells he knew. They both slipped off their wet shoes by the door. Their clothes were still damp, clinging to skin and fur, though the heat from the car had helped a little.

“Nicholas, wait here a second,” (Y/n) said, already hurrying down the hallway. He stayed obediently where he was, though his eyes scanned the space, mapping exits, corners, shadows, an instinct he couldn’t turn off. She returned only seconds later, holding a soft, fluffy towel. She crouched down and laid it on the floor in front of him. “There,” she said. “Your pants are still soaked. They’re dragging, and I don’t want you walking around on cold, wet fabric. Try to dry them off a bit.”

Nicholas looked down at the towel, then at her. No one had ever cared if he was uncomfortable. No one had ever tried to help like this, not for him, not for a hybrid from a ring. He swallowed, his chest tightening in a different way now, strange, foreign, unsettling. “…Thank you,” he said quietly, the words rough but genuine.

He stepped onto the towel, shifting slightly as he let the fabric wick the water from the hems of his pants. His tail flicked once, still uncertain, still tense, but the smallest bit more at ease than before. (Y/n) smiled softly. “Of course. Come on, let’s get you settled.” (Y/n) led him down the short hallway to the bathroom, flicking on the light with a soft click. The warm, yellow glow filled the small space, bouncing off the clean tiles and fogged glass of the shower. Compared to the shelter, and the ring before it, the room must have looked almost unreal to him. Safe. Private. Human.

She stepped inside just enough to point things out. “Okay, so, this is the shower. This handle controls the temperature. Hot is this way, cold is the other. And this button switches it from the showerhead to the faucet. Towels are here.” She gestured to a neatly folded stack. “Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, all on the shelf.”

Nicholas watched everything she showed him with sharp, attentive eyes, soaking up the information like he expected to be quizzed on it later. His tail flicked once, betraying nerves he didn’t voice. “I think… you should take a shower first,” she said softly. “It’ll help. Just… wash away the rain. The dirt. The… everything.” She didn’t say fighting ring, but she didn’t have to. Nicholas nodded once. “Fine.”

And then, before she even stepped out, he reached for the hem of his shirt, already pulling it up. (Y/n)’s eyes widened. “Oh, wait! Wait.” She threw a hand up and spun halfway around. “I’ll, um, I’ll go wait outside. You can… take your time.” Nicholas froze mid-movement, confusion flickering across his face. He didn’t understand. Not immediately. Because at the fighting ring… privacy wasn’t a thing. Bodies weren’t your own. You washed when you were told, in front of whoever ordered it. You changed in cages or corners or not at all. His personal boundaries had been ground down to nothing.

So her reaction, her respect for his space, was foreign. He slowly lowered his shirt back into place and nodded stiffly. “…Right.” (Y/n) stepped out, pulling the door to a gentle close behind her. “Take as long as you need,” she said through the wood. “Really.” She walked away, giving him space for the first time in, he didn’t even know how long. And inside the bathroom, Nicholas stood still for a moment, staring at the door, trying to process the strange luxury of being… alone.

Meanwhile, (Y/n) moved down the hall toward her bedroom, already rummaging through drawers and storage bins where she kept spare clothes her friends had accidentally, or deliberately, left behind. Something warm tightened in her chest. He deserved clean clothes. He deserved a shower. He deserved privacy. He deserved a chance. And she was going to make sure he got it. After a while of digging through drawers, baskets, and a few “temporary storage” piles she’d been meaning to sort for weeks, (Y/n) finally gathered a decent stack of clothes. Mostly Jo’s and Taki’s, Taki’s softer hoodies and loose sweats, Jo’s slightly oversized shirts and pants that tended to run long.

None of them had tail openings, of course. They weren’t hybrid clothing. But Jo would laugh and tell her to cut whatever she needed, and Taki would probably thank her for giving his old clothes “a noble purpose.” Nicholas mattered more right now. A lot more. She set the clothes on the bed and changed into something dry herself, soft lounge pants, an oversized sweater, something warm and comfortable. She ran a towel through her damp hair once more, then gathered the entire pile of borrowed clothes into her arms.

Better to bring everything. He could pick what felt right. As she stepped into the hallway, she paused at the bathroom door. The faint sound of running water drifted through it, steady, unbroken. Nicholas was still in the shower. A small smile tugged at her lips. Good. He was taking his time. That alone meant he was starting to understand he wasn’t going to be rushed or watched or ordered around.

She waited until she heard the water shut off. A moment later came a rustle, the soft sound of a towel, maybe two. Then silence again. (Y/n) cleared her throat gently so she didn’t startle him. “Nicholas? I found some clothes. I’m just going to leave them by the door, okay?” A pause. Then his voice, rough but quieter than before: “…Okay.” She set the pile down neatly beside the bathroom door, careful to keep everything dry, and straightened up. “I don’t know what will fit,” she admitted through the door. “But pick whatever’s comfortable. If we need to adjust something for your tail, we’ll fix it,”

Another pause, longer this time. She wondered if he was unsure how to respond, or maybe no one had ever asked him what was comfortable before. Finally, she heard him speak again. “…Thank you.” Two words, barely above a murmur, but enough to warm her chest all over again. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said softly. “Take your time.” And she walked away, giving him space.

(Y/n) headed into the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves as she opened the fridge. She didn’t have anything extravagant prepared, she hadn’t exactly planned on fostering someone tonight, but she had enough for a simple meal. And hybrids from exotic species… they usually preferred meat. She scanned the shelves, mentally piecing together options until her eyes landed on the pack of steak she’d bought earlier in the week. Perfect. Steak and rice. Not fancy. Not impressive. But warm, filling, and easy, and tonight, that was more than enough.

She set a pan on the stove, the soft click of the burner filling the quiet apartment. Soon the gentle sizzle of heating oil joined it. She rinsed rice, set it to cook, and was just beginning to season the steak when she heard it: Soft shuffling. A hesitant step. Then another. She turned around. Nicholas stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

His hair was damp, pushed back from his face. His ears twitched, still drying. He wore one of Jo’s shirts, a little big in the shoulders, a little short in the sleeves, and a pair of Taki’s sweatpants that he was holding up awkwardly with one hand. And behind him, his panther tail flicked uselessly under the waistband, trapped and uncomfortable. He looked… unsure. Out of place. But clean. And somehow softer. (Y/n) opened her mouth to say something, but Nicholas beat her to it. “I need…” He paused, like he had to find the right word. “…Scissors. Or something. For the tail.”

He sounded tense, like he expected her to be annoyed or frustrated or tell him to deal with it. His ears tipped back slightly with that nervous, defensive instinct he hadn’t shaken off yet. Instead, she smiled gently. “Should I help you with it?” Nicholas froze. He looked at her, really looked, searching her eyes, her posture, her scent, trying to decide if helping him was a trick, a trap, or genuine kindness. A long moment passed. And then he nodded, just once. Slow. Careful. Trusting her enough to let her close again. “Okay,” he murmured.

(Y/n) wiped her hands on a towel, grabbed a small pair of fabric scissors from the drawer, and stepped closer to him. “Tell me where you want the hole,” she said softly. Nicholas turned half away from her, guiding her to the spot with a slight lift of his tail. “Here,” he said quietly, voice low but steady. She crouched down and held the fabric gently, cutting a small, clean opening exactly where he’d indicated. Her movements were slow, deliberate. And every so often she asked, “Is this okay?” “Does that feel right?” “Too tight?” Each time, he answered softly. “…It’s fine.” “…A little higher.” “…That’s good.”

When she finished, she brushed a stray thread off the fabric and stepped back. “There. Try it.” Nicholas slipped his tail through the opening, the long, sleek appendage swaying freely behind him. He adjusted the waistband once, twice, then let go of the pants entirely. They stayed in place. He exhaled, a quiet, relieved sound he probably didn’t even know he made. “…Better,” he admitted. (Y/n) smiled. “Good. I’m glad.” Nicholas watched her for a moment, something unreadable in his golden eyes, curiosity, confusion, maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express yet.

Then the sizzling pan behind her cracked loudly, making him flinch. She turned quickly. “Dinner will be done soon,” she said gently. “Go ahead and sit down, okay? Make yourself comfortable.” Nicholas hesitated. But then he nodded again and moved toward the living room, tail flicking lightly through its new opening, finally free. When (Y/n) finished cooking, the apartment smelled warm and comforting, seared steak, butter, a hint of seasoning. It felt like the kind of smell that could soften even the sharpest edges of a long day.

She plated the food, simple but satisfying, and carried both plates into the living room. Nicholas was sitting stiffly on the couch, tail coiled neatly beside him like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to let it drape anywhere. His posture was tense, but his nose twitched subtly as she approached, the scent of steak clearly catching his interest. She set one plate down on the coffee table in front of him. “Here you go,” she said gently.

Nicholas stared at the food for a moment, really stared, like he wasn’t convinced it was actually for him. The steam from the rice drifted upward, and his pupils widened slightly at the sight of the meat. (Y/n) smiled softly. “What do you want to drink?” He blinked, startled by the question. “I… don’t know.” He hesitated, the words thick on his tongue. “Water, I guess.” He said it like it was the only answer allowed. At the ring, it probably was.

(Y/n) nodded without pushing. “Okay. I’ll bring some.” She ducked back into the kitchen, grabbing a tray, then carrying out: three glasses, a jug of cold water, and, after a moment’s thought, a container of milk Big cat or not, panther or not, some feline hybrids preferred it. Some didn’t. But offering options felt important. Letting him choose anything felt important.

She set everything down on the table. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” she explained, keeping her tone light, easy. “So I brought choices. You can have whichever you want. Or both. Or neither.” Nicholas’s eyes flicked between the glasses, the jug, the milk, then up to her face. No one had ever given him options before. Not like this. Not casual, not kind. “…I’ll try…” He paused, tail shifting behind him. “…the milk.” There was a tiny embarrassment in his voice, like he expected her to laugh or tease. But she only smiled warmly. “Then milk it is.”

She poured it for him without any fanfare. Nicholas watched the white stream fill the glass, his ears angling forward in cautious curiosity. When she set the glass in front of him, he reached out slowly and wrapped his hand around it. For a second he just held it, as if testing the idea of being allowed to have it. Then he took a sip. A small, subtle sound escaped him, barely more than a hum, but unmistakably pleased. (Y/n) hid her smile behind her own glass of water and settled onto the couch beside him, leaving just enough space so he didn’t feel crowded.

“Eat as much as you want,” she said softly. “There’s more in the kitchen if you’re still hungry.” Nicholas looked at her again, something warm flickering behind those golden eyes. “…Thank you,” he murmured. Not out of obligation. Not out of fear. But something slowly, tentatively real. And then he took his first bite of dinner, his first real meal in who knows how long, in a home where no one was waiting to take it away.

(Y/n)’s smile warmed when she saw Nicholas’ empty plate… and then watched him quietly serve himself seconds. She hadn’t expected him to feel comfortable enough for that.  When they finished, she stood and stretched a little. “Okay,” she said gently, “let me show you around. Then you can choose whichever room you want.” Nicholas stared at the dishes, a faint crease forming between his brows. His body shifted like he was preparing to gather everything, the automatic response beaten into him over the years.

But when he lifted his gaze, (Y/n) wasn’t looking at him expectantly. She wasn’t waiting for him to clean up. She was simply… waiting for him. Waiting for him to come along. Something in him eased. He stood and followed her. The first stop was the balcony, where she cracked the door open so he could peek out at the rain-blurred city lights. He sniffed the cool air quietly, tail flicking once. It smelled clean. Open. Nothing like the damp concrete and metal he was used to.

Next she brought him to her studio, a music studio. Soft LEDs glowed along the walls, mixing with warm lamp light. There were soundproofing panels, two mics, a keyboard, a guitar stand, a desk stacked with equipment, neatly labeled cables, and papers covered in scribbled lyrics. Nicholas paused in the doorway, golden eyes taking everything in. It didn’t smell like fear. Or sweat. Or stale blood. It smelled like warm electronics, ink, and her scent layered over everything, calm, steady, creative. He didn’t step inside, but he looked. Really looked. She told him softly, “This is where I do most of my work. You’re welcome in here whenever the door’s open.” He nodded once, absorbing that.

Next she showed him her own room, only briefly, soft blankets, gentle lighting, shelves with books and vinyls. The personal scent of a life lived in safety. Then the guest rooms. One across from her room. One right beside it. “Pick whichever one you like,” she told him. “This is your home now too. Choose what feels right.” Nicholas stood there, tail low but relaxed, eyes flicking between the doors. Distance felt wrong. Being across the hall meant unpredictability, not being able to sense her clearly. Being close… That meant safety. His instincts hummed quietly but insistently. He touched the doorframe of the room beside hers. “…This one,” he said. (Y/n) smiled, soft with understanding. “Alright. And if you ever want to switch later, that’s completely okay.”

He stepped inside the room. Clean sheets. Real blankets. Space. Light. A window. And right next door, her presence. Steady. Familiar now. Safe. Nicholas exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. “…It’s good,” he murmured. For the first time since arriving at the shelter earlier that day, he looked like he actually meant it. (Y/n) leaned lightly against the doorframe, watching Nicholas take in his new room piece by piece. His ears flicked, tail moving in slow, uncertain sweeps, still alert, still cautious, but nothing like the coiled tension he’d held at the shelter.

“Before you settle in,” she said softly, drawing his attention, “I want you to know something.” His golden eyes lifted to hers. “You’re free here, Nicholas. If you want to eat in the middle of the night, you can. The kitchen’s always open.” She smiled a little. “Just maybe try to be quiet so you don’t wake me up.” He blinked, slowly, like he wasn’t used to rules that gentle. “And if you ever get scared, or worried, or… anything,” she continued, voice warm and sure, “you can knock on my door. No matter the time. You won’t bother me.”

Nicholas swallowed. His tail flicked once behind him, betraying something unsettled but touched. He didn’t say he’d use the offer, maybe he didn’t believe he deserved it, but he heard her. And she could see that he heard her. “Tomorrow,” she added, “we’ll go to the mall. Get you clothes that actually fit, and anything else you want. But for now…” she gave a soft laugh, “we should get some sleep. It’s late.” Nicholas nodded, hesitating for a second before giving the quietest, roughest, “…Good night.” “Good night, Nicholas.”

He stepped into his room and closed the door gently behind him. He didn’t expect to sleep. He didn’t expect to feel comfortable. The room was too soft, too quiet, too warm, too different from every nightmare space he’d lived in. He lay on the bed anyway, muscles tight, preparing for the tossing and turning he assumed would follow. But the mattress gave under him. The blankets smelled clean. And faintly, through the wall, he could hear (Y/n)’s soft, rhythmic movements as she got ready for bed.

For the first time in years… nothing hurt. No one shouted. No one dragged him up. No one chained him down. His body relaxed before he even realized it was happening. And the moment his eyes closed, he was out. Completely. Like someone had flipped a switch.

~~~

The next morning, (Y/n) woke early, letting the soft morning light ease her out of bed rather than her alarm. She stretched, yawned, and took a long, warm shower to shake off the weight of last night. A part of her wondered how Nicholas had slept, if he’d slept at all, but she refused to wake him. He deserved the chance to wake up naturally, without orders or fear or someone banging on a door. In the kitchen, she hesitated before opening the fridge, not sure what a traumatized panther hybrid who hadn’t lived in a real home for who-knew-how-long wanted for breakfast. So she made a little of everything. Cereal. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. A whole spread, simple, warm, inviting.

The apartment filled with the smell of food, and she was setting down the last plate when she heard shuffling. She turned. Nicholas emerged from the hallway like he’d been half-dragged out of sleep. His hair stuck out in all possible directions, wild and fluffy, and his eyes were barely open, slits of gold that blinked slowly as if the light personally offended him. His tail swayed in a lazy, sleepy arc behind him. He looked absolutely adorable. (Y/n) bit her lip to hold back a smile.

Nicholas stopped in the kitchen doorway, sniffing the air once, twice, the instinct so natural and unconscious she doubted he even registered doing it. He looked at the food next, then at her. “…Morning,” he murmured, voice impossibly deep and raspy from sleep. “Morning,” she replied warmly. “I, uh… wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I made a mix.” Nicholas blinked again, hair flopping slightly with the motion. He looked… disarmed. Like no one had ever cooked breakfast for him. Like the concept itself was foreign. His stomach rumbled quietly. “…Smells good,” he admitted, almost shyly, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand like a much smaller cat. (Y/n) finally let herself smile. “Come sit,” she said gently. “Eat whatever you want.” Nicholas shuffled forward, still half asleep, and for the first time she could see him without the tension, the alertness, the constant readiness to fight or run. Just… Nicholas. And it was the cutest thing she’d ever seen.

They ate in a comfortable quiet, not awkward, just new. (Y/n) sipped her tea as she watched Nicholas sample the food. He seemed cautious at first, picking at a slice of toast, then trying a bit of egg, sniffing everything like he needed to map each scent before committing. But once he tried the cereal? His ears perked. Just a little. (Y/n) noticed. It wasn’t the cereal itself that seemed to win him over, but the milk. He kept lifting the bowl for another sip, tail flicking slowly behind him, more relaxed than he had been even the night before. It made her smile without even thinking about it.

Nicholas didn’t gorge himself, but he tried everything, like he was testing what “breakfast” was supposed to be. His movements were careful, almost polite, as if he expected to be judged for choosing wrong. After a few minutes, (Y/n) asked softly, “Is there anything you’ve been thinking you might want to get today? Clothes, stuff for your room… anything at all?” Nicholas paused mid-bite, blinking at her with a faint frown of confusion. “I… don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t… really know what I’m supposed to want.” His voice wasn’t defensive, just honest. (Y/n)’s heart tugged painfully.

“That’s okay,” she said immediately, offering a reassuring smile. “We don’t have to decide everything today. We can just walk around the mall and see what you like. Or we can stay home. Or go tomorrow.” Nicholas stared at her. Not suspicious. Just… trying to process the idea of choice. She added gently, “There’s no rush. We can figure things out together.” Nicholas looked down at his bowl, ears lowering slightly but not in fear, more in a shy, uncertain way. “…Together,” he repeated quietly.

And for a moment, (Y/n) saw it again, that glimpse of the person he might become once he learns he’s safe. A version of Nicholas who wasn’t always bracing for pain. He took another sip of milk, and this time, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in something that almost resembled a smile. When they finished eating, Nicholas stood almost abruptly, gathering the plates before (Y/n) could reach for them. He moved with a restless sort of urgency, as if stillness itself was uncomfortable.

“I can do the dishes,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “I… want to.” (Y/n) opened her mouth to say he didn’t have to, that he was a guest, that chores weren’t a requirement, but the look in his eyes stopped her. He wasn’t asking because he felt obligated to her. It was habit. Muscle memory. A need to be useful so he wouldn’t be punished for existing. “You can, if you really want to,” she said softly. “Just know it’s not a rule. I’m not making you.” Nicholas nodded. “I know. I just… want something to do.” So she let him. And she stayed close, leaning against the counter, watching him run the water and scrub each plate carefully, almost too carefully, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.

After a minute, she asked lightly, “How did you sleep?” Nicholas paused, sponge mid-swipe. “…Good,” he admitted. “The best I have in years.” He tensed up immediately after saying it, shoulders rising like he expected the confession to get him in trouble. He swallowed, glancing at her, then added stiffly: “There was… an incident, though.” (Y/n)’s worry snapped to attention. “What happened? Are you hurt?” He shook his head quickly, pointing to his cheek. A shallow cut, one from the night before, ran along his skin, looking a little reopened. “It bled during the night,” he said. “I think I… moved wrong. One of the pillows is stained.” He said it like a confession. Like he’d broken something important. Like he was waiting for the explosion.

(Y/n) put a hand to her chest, letting out a breath of pure relief. “That’s all?” she asked. Nicholas blinked. “…Yes?” She stepped closer, her expression softening. “Nicholas, I thought you meant something serious. You scared me.” He stiffened, bracing for anger, for the rant, the blame, the lecture. But instead of scolding him, she asked, voice warm with concern: “Are you okay?” Nicholas stared at her, completely thrown off. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she added. “It’s just a pillow. Things can be washed. What matters is that you’re alright.” His tail flicked once, uncertain. His jaw tightened like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of response, like it didn’t fit with the world he knew. “…Oh,” he said quietly. And for a brief, fragile moment, he looked younger than he was, confused, cautious, and not at all used to being met with care instead of anger.

(Y/n) waited until he’d rinsed another plate before gently asking, “Do you mind if I go check the pillow? Just to see if I need to wash it now.” Nicholas’s head snapped up. He looked genuinely startled. “…You’re asking?” he said quietly, like the concept confused him. “It’s your apartment.” (Y/n) offered a soft smile. “It’s your room. So yes, I’m asking.” Nicholas didn’t know what to do with that. He blinked twice, tail flicking in uncertainty, but eventually nodded. “…Yeah. It’s fine.” She noticed the shock in his expression, but she didn’t point it out. He would learn. Slowly. Carefully. Respect wasn’t supposed to be rare, but for him, it clearly was.

She walked down the hall and stepped into his room. It looked untouched, except for the slight dip in the mattress where he’d slept. She approached the bed, expecting a large red stain, something dramatic from the way he’d sounded. Instead, she found, a dot. Barely the size of a pea, barely visible against the fabric unless you were looking for it. Her heart tightened painfully. That was what he was afraid of? A tiny stain? Something so harmless? She gently removed the pillowcase, checking the pillow itself, perfectly clean. Just the case needed washing.

Nicholas appeared in the doorway moments later, moving cautiously as if bracing for judgment. His hair was still a mess, and his expression carried that guarded neutrality he wore like armor. “I’m… sorry,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. (Y/n) looked up sharply. “Why? Nicholas, it’s just an accident.” He opened his mouth like he was about to argue, to explain why accidents weren’t allowed, why anything that inconvenienced someone else required punishment, but she stepped forward first. “It’s okay,” she said firmly. “Really. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Nicholas’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His ears lowered slightly, not in fear this time, but in a strange combination of confusion and… relief. Just a hint of it. She folded the pillowcase in her arms. “I’ll wash this later. No big deal.”

Once the pillowcase was tucked into the laundry bin, (Y/n) dusted her hands off lightly and turned toward Nicholas. “Alright,” she said with a warm smile, “are you ready to head out?” Nicholas glanced at the laundry bin again, ears tipping forward in curiosity. She remembered then, this system, this freedom to manage his own belongings, was all new to him. “Oh, and when we get you some clothes today,” she added gently, “you can put anything that needs washing right in here. I’ll show you which settings to use on the machine later, if you want to learn.” Nicholas blinked at the bin like it was a concept he needed a full minute to process. But then he nodded, slowly but deliberately. “…Okay. I’ll remember.” She smiled at that, feeling an unexpected rush of pride at such a small, simple thing. “Good.” She grabbed her bag from the hallway hook. “Then let’s get going.”

Nicholas straightened slightly, his tail giving one small twitch as he shifted into a more alert posture, the world outside was still unfamiliar territory. But he followed her as she stepped out of the room, out of the apartment, and toward the elevator. On the way down, he stayed near her, not touching but close enough that she could feel his presence steadying itself.

By the time they reached the garage and she unlocked the car, he didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t hesitate. He just opened the front passenger door and settled in, letting his tail drape comfortably around his legs. When she started the engine, he looked out the window with a faint furrow between his brows, not worried, exactly, but quietly bracing himself for the unknown. (Y/n) pulled out of the garage and smiled softly as the city opened up around them. “Ready for your first mall trip?” she asked, tone light and teasing. Nicholas huffed through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. “…I guess,” he admitted. “I’ve never been.” “Perfect,” she said. “Then we’ll take it slow.” The mall came into view minutes later, bright, crowded, buzzing with life. And for Nicholas, it would be an entirely new world.

The mall was packed. Voices, footsteps, chatter, the hum of escalators, the echo of music from some distant store, all of it crashed together into a wall of noise. Nicholas’s ears kept twitching, turning toward every sound like a radar dish stuck on high alert. He stayed close to (Y/n). Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that if she stopped, he would bump into her.

Crowds made his shoulders go tight, made his tail coil around his leg like a protective barrier. But every time the panic started creeping up his spine, he found her scent, her presence, the sound of her voice, and it grounded him. Eventually, they stepped into a quieter corner of the mall and entered a hybrid clothing store. The change was immediate. Only three other shoppers were inside. Soft music played. The lights weren’t harsh. The air smelled like fabric, not people. Nicholas’s shoulders slowly dropped from around his ears.

His tail swayed once, cautiously. (Y/n) smiled gently. “See? Not so bad in here.” He didn’t answer, but the tiny exhale he let out said enough. “Go ahead,” she encouraged. “Pick out anything that catches your eye.” Nicholas didn’t move at first. He walked with her, hands at his sides, eyes skimming the racks like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to want. His fingers twitched once toward a hoodie but retreated like he’d been caught doing something wrong. So (Y/n) stepped in with a soft, knowing smile. “Okay,” she said, lifting a black sweatshirt with hidden stretch seams for hybrid movement. “What about this one?”

Nicholas studied it, then gave a small shrug. “…It’s nice.” She tried a dark green shirt next. “And this?” He hesitated, then nodded. “…Yeah.” Piece by piece, she held up different clothes, shirts, hoodies, hybrid-fit jeans with tail openings, soft joggers that looked perfect for lounging. Nicholas offered quiet opinions, barely above a murmur, but clearer each time. Then, slowly, something shifted. He reached out.

A simple, pink hoodie caught his attention. He touched the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers, then glanced at her like he needed permission. “You like that one?” she asked gently. Nicholas swallowed. “It’s… soft.” “Then let’s get it,” she said immediately. A few minutes later, he picked another item. Then another. Then a pair of hybrid-fit gloves with padded palms. Then a charcoal-grey long-sleeve shirt. Each time, he grew a little more confident, his tail lifting slightly behind him, cautious but curious. (Y/n) watched him with a warm, proud smile. He was choosing things. For himself. And that was a bigger victory than he realized.

Soon, their shopping pile had grown large enough to require a serious trip to the changing rooms. Nicholas hesitated at the doorway, ears twitching, tail coiled tightly behind him. The bright lights, the soft murmur of other shoppers, even the scent of fabric seemed overwhelming all at once. “You can do this,” (Y/n) said softly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “I’ll be right here. No rush.” He blinked at her, golden eyes wide, then nodded. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped inside.

The next half hour passed in a blur of fabric and mirrors. A few shirts were far too big, some sleeves swallowing his arms; a few others were too tight, the seams pressing uncomfortably against his shoulders. But others, a soft hoodie, a long-sleeve shirt with just enough stretch for his tail, hybrid-fit joggers, fit perfectly, like they were made for him. They even found shoes, finally replacing the broken, threadbare pair he’d been wearing, soles barely holding together, worn to near nothing. Nicholas examined the new pair carefully, flexing them with his toes, then nodded in approval.

Through it all, (Y/n) stayed close, offering quiet encouragement and subtle guidance, never rushing, never hovering. By the time they were done, Nicholas’ tail flicked a few times nervously, and she could see the first signs of overstimulation: shoulders tight, ears twitching at every passing sound in the mall. “Almost done,” she whispered as they carried the pile to the counter. “But we need to stop by one more place before heading home, just a quick grocery store trip to get some food and snacks.”

Nicholas gave a small nod, tail flicking uncertainly. He stayed close to her side as they exited the store, and when a person tried to squeeze between them in the crowded corridor, his hand instinctively reached out and grabbed her arm. (Y/n) didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word. She simply let him hold her, giving him the reassurance he clearly needed. He didn’t speak, didn’t move away, just kept his hand lightly on her arm as they walked through the remaining crowds. And for Nicholas, that simple, unspoken permission, to lean on someone without being scolded or forced to let go, felt more like home than anything else had in years.

They loaded the shopping bags into the trunk, the car now heavy with their finds from the mall. As they drove to the grocery store, Nicholas stayed quiet, ears flicking at every sound outside the car, tail coiled low but slowly relaxing. The store itself was quieter, less crowded, and he visibly eased a little, though he never let more than a step or two of distance open between him and (Y/n). The thought of letting her out of his sight, even for a moment, sent a flicker of panic through him. The idea of losing her, even accidentally, felt almost as terrifying as the fighting ring. She had, in just a few hours, shown him more kindness than anyone had ever dared to give. And now, he didn’t know how to let go of that.

(Y/n) moved down an aisle, reaching for a box of cereal placed just slightly out of reach. She frowned, stretching on her tiptoes. “Nicholas, could you grab that for me?” she asked, her voice soft and even, not commanding. Nicholas blinked at her, ears twitching. Then, after a brief hesitation, he stepped closer, lifted the box easily, and handed it to her. (Y/n) smiled brightly, the kind of smile that warmed the space around them. “Thank you so much,” she said, brushing her fingers lightly over the cereal box as she took it from him.

He nodded quietly, tail flicking, a small ripple of pride running through him. They continued down the aisles together, filling the cart with fresh fruits, vegetables, and snacks, some familiar, some completely new to him. Nicholas stayed close the whole time, matching her pace, following her guidance, but gradually beginning to make small decisions on his own, a pack of berries, a bag of rice, a snack he thought looked good.

(Y/n) noticed him, quietly pleased, and didn’t comment, letting him explore his new sense of choice at his own speed. For Nicholas, each small moment like this, a simple favor, a quiet decision, a shared smile, slowly built trust. And as they moved toward the checkout, he realized just how different life could feel when someone actually cared.

The meat aisle was colder than the rest of the store, the chill sinking into Nicholas’s skin in a way he didn’t mind. The scents here were strong, sharp, raw beef, chicken, pork, familiar in a comforting, primal way. (Y/n) stood beside him, comparing two packs of steak, holding them up to the light. “What do you think?” she asked. “This one looks good, but this one might be softer.” Nicholas shrugged, leaning in slightly to sniff at them out of habit before catching himself and pulling back. She didn’t seem to mind, just smiled as she put one pack in the cart.

He was just beginning to relax, the store wasn’t crowded, the fluorescent lights weren’t too bright, and the sounds were muted enough not to overwhelm him, when a loud, irritated voice broke the quiet. “Hey!” They both turned. A middle-aged man stood a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest, glare sharp and unfriendly. His face twisted with disgust as his eyes landed on Nicholas. “You should leash your beast,” the man said, loud enough that two shoppers down the aisle turned to look. “Before it hurts someone.” The words hit Nicholas like a slap. His muscles tensed instantly. Ears flattened. Tail puffed slightly in irritation. Then the growl came, low, deep, instinctive. He stepped closer to (Y/n), not behind her but beside her, eyes narrowed, pupils thinning into dangerous slits.

The man flinched but kept talking, as if too proud, or too stupid, to back down. “Seriously. Animals like that don’t belong in public without restraints. You’re putting people at risk.” Nicholas felt heat rising under his skin, felt the familiar tug of adrenaline telling him to fight, to defend, to strike.  A gentle hand touched his arm. (Y/n). “Nicholas,” she murmured softly, turning toward him. “It’s alright. We’re okay.”

Her voice cut through the rising panic, grounding him. Slowly, with visible effort, he forced the growl to quiet, though his fangs still showed in a silent snarl aimed at the man, not attacking, just warning. A promise: Back off. Satisfied he wasn’t going to lash out, (Y/n) stepped forward, placing herself between Nicholas and the stranger. Her expression was calm but steeled, her posture protective in a way that startled Nicholas. No one had ever stepped in front of him to defend him before.

“Mind your own business,” she said, voice sharp enough to cut ice. “Nicholas isn’t hurting anyone.” The man scoffed. “Yet.” (Y/n)’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not a beast,” she snapped, tone icy. “He’s a panther hybrid. And he’s with me. If you have a problem with that, keep it to yourself.” The aisle went quiet. Even the humming refrigerator units felt muted. The man looked between her and Nicholas, the determined woman and the towering hybrid with golden eyes fixed on him. His bravado cracked, just a bit. He grumbled something under his breath and turned away. “Ridiculous,” he muttered as he walked off, but he didn’t look back.

The moment he was gone, (Y/n) exhaled slowly, tension leaving her shoulders. She turned back to Nicholas, her expression softening. “Hey,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry he talked to you like that.” Nicholas blinked at her, utterly confused. She was apologizing? To him? “…It wasn’t your fault,” he said awkwardly. “It wasn’t yours either,” she replied instantly, gently brushing her thumb along his arm in reassurance. “People like that don’t know anything about you. About hybrids. They’re just ignorant.”

He didn’t know how to respond. Not used to kindness. Not used to someone standing up for him. Not used to being worth defending. So he tried to smile at her, at least, what he hoped was a smile. His lips pulled back, showing a few too many teeth. It was instinctual, more of a friendly snarl than a human smile. (Y/n) laughed softly, shaking her head. “There it is,” she said. “Your version of a smile. I like it.” For a moment, the world didn’t feel so hostile. And he stayed close to her for the rest of the aisle, not out of fear… but because being near her felt safe.

The checkout area was bustling, the beeping of scanners and chatter of shoppers blending together in a steady hum. Nicholas stayed close beside (Y/n), his tail brushing her leg occasionally when someone walked too close. His nerves were already thin from the confrontation earlier, and the crowded line didn’t help. And then he saw him. The man. Standing two lanes over, staring at them with a look that made Nicholas’s hackles rise. His lip curled in disgust as his eyes dragged from Nicholas to (Y/n), and then, quietly, he muttered something under his breath.

(Y/n) didn’t hear it. Nicholas did. It was her he insulted this time. Not him. A dark, furious growl rolled in Nicholas’s chest before he could stop it. His ears lowered, golden eyes narrowing to sharp slits as he glared daggers at the man. Every instinct screamed to lunge, to silence the insult, to protect the one person who’d shown him kindness in years.

He forced air into his lungs, fighting the instinct to attack. He searched for something to anchor himself to, so he stepped closer and slipped his hand into hers. His grip was gentle at first, uncertain, then firming when she didn’t pull away. The growl softened to a low rumble he couldn’t fully contain, a warning directed at the man. The stare Nicholas gave him was nothing short of predatory. The man paled, eyes darting away as he hurriedly grabbed his bags and almost stumbled out of the store.

(Y/n) had noticed the shift beside her, the subtle lean of his body, the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb brushed her hand like he needed the contact. She didn’t comment, not here, not now. Instead, she squeezed his hand once, quietly, letting him know she was there. When it was their turn, the familiar clerk lit up. “Oh! (Y/n)!” she greeted warmly. “Good to see you, dear.” “Hi, Meryl,” (Y/n) said with a soft smile, guiding the cart forward. “Busy today, huh?”

“Oh, always on Saturdays.” Meryl chuckled, then turned her attention to Nicholas, eyes widening slightly with friendly curiosity. “And who is this tall, handsome hybrid? New friend?” Nicholas blinked, taken aback. No disgust. No fear. No judgment. Just… kindness. (Y/n)’s smile widened with pride. “I’m fostering again. This is Nicholas.” “Well, aren’t you a handsome one,” Meryl said brightly. “And polite, too. I can tell.” Nicholas froze. Compliments weren’t something he received. Ever. He stared at her, waiting for the catch, a flinch, a mocking laugh, something cruel.

Nothing came. Her smile was genuine. Warm. Like (Y/n)’s. “…Thank you,” he said quietly, voice rough from unused manners. “Oh, listen to that!” Meryl beamed as she scanned the items. “What a lovely voice. You take care of him, (Y/n). Panthers can be absolute sweethearts once they feel safe.” Nicholas’s ears twitched, his tail flicking once in embarrassment. Safe. Such a foreign word. But standing between a kind clerk and the woman who had defended him, who let him hold her hand and touched him like he wasn’t dangerous. 

Meryl bagged the last item and handed the receipt to (Y/n) with a wink. “You two have a wonderful day.” “We will,” (Y/n) promised. And as they left the store, Nicholas kept her hand in his, not because he needed grounding anymore, but because now he simply wanted to.

Once the last of the grocery bags were loaded into the trunk, they climbed into the car. The soft thud of the doors closing muted the outside world, giving them a quiet bubble to breathe in. For a moment they sat in a comfortable silence. Then (Y/n) turned to him, her voice soft but direct. “Nicholas… what happened back in the line?” He stared ahead at the dashboard, jaw tight for a moment before he exhaled slowly. “I heard him insult you,” he said, voice low but steady. “Not me. You.” His ears flicked back in annoyance just remembering it. “I just… reacted.”

(Y/n) blinked, touched. His instinct hadn’t been to defend himself, he’d been protecting her. A warm smile curved her lips. “Thank you, Nicholas. Really. You didn’t have to do that, but you did.” She nudged his arm gently with her shoulder. “And it means a lot to me that you… that you feel safe enough to react like that around me. Safe enough to open up. Even a little.” Nicholas hesitated, then tried to smile again, an actual smile this time. It was small, a bit awkward, but no fangs, no threat. Just sincerity.

(Y/n)’s giggle was soft and bright. “That was a much better smile,” she teased lightly. “I knew you had one in you.” Nicholas huffed a quiet, almost amused breath. He wasn’t used to being teased kindly. It felt… warm. “So,” she said, buckling her seatbelt, “should we head home? I think we’ve had enough adventure for now.” Nicholas nodded, relaxing back into the seat, tail flicking against the floor in agreement. “Yes,” he said, a little softer this time. “Let’s go home.” And the word home didn’t feel strange on his tongue anymore. Not when she was the one driving him there.

As (Y/n) parked in the garage, she noticed Nicholas tense slightly the moment they stepped out of the car. She didn’t comment, only gave his shoulder a light squeeze, a small reassurance as they opened the trunk to unload the groceries and his new clothes. Immediately, Nicholas picked up the heaviest bags, holding them carefully. “I’ll take these,” he said quietly, lifting them without waiting for her to say anything. (Y/n) smiled softly, letting him do it. She knew he wanted to help, and there was no reason to stop him. “Alright,” she said simply, “carry what you want.”

They stepped into the elevator, standing side by side. The silence was comfortable, the hum of the elevator the only sound as they descended. After a moment, (Y/n) asked gently, “So… is there anything you want to eat for lunch?” Nicholas thought for a moment, glancing down at the bags he was holding. He remembered the frozen pizza she’d bought, something he’d never tried but had often seen people at the fighting ring eating. The scent had always been tempting.

“…Pizza,” he said finally. “I want to try that.” (Y/n)’s smile widened, warmth spreading in her chest. “Alright then,” she said. “I’ll start the oven once we get inside.” Nicholas gave a small nod, tail flicking lightly, and for the first time since leaving the shelter, he felt a little anticipation instead of unease. The idea of sitting down to a simple meal, in a place that was his too, felt… good.

When they reached their apartment door, (Y/n) unlocked it, and they stepped inside. They set the bags down on the floor and took off their shoes, the familiar scent of home immediately filling the space. Before (Y/n) could say anything, Nicholas had already picked up the grocery bags and carried them into the kitchen with ease. He returned a moment later, lifting the bags with his new clothes. “…Can I go unpack these?” he asked, looking at her with a small, hopeful expression. (Y/n) smiled, warmth in her eyes. “You don’t have to ask for permission,” she said gently. “And you didn’t have to carry the groceries into the kitchen either, but thank you. I appreciate it.” Nicholas shrugged slightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “It’s nothing much,” he said quietly.

With that, he headed down the hall toward his room, holding the bags carefully. The excitement of having his own space and new clothes made his steps light, tail flicking with anticipation. Meanwhile, (Y/n) moved into the kitchen, turning on the oven and beginning to unpack the groceries. She hummed softly to herself, organizing the ingredients and setting things in place. The apartment was warm and calm, a home slowly being filled with both their presence.

Nicholas, in his room, started exploring the bags of clothes, folding a few items and placing them neatly on the bed. Even small things, feeling the fabric, deciding what would go where, felt new and empowering. For both of them, the apartment already felt a little more like home.

Soon enough, Nicholas walked out of his room, now wearing some of the clothes they had bought, a pair of soft sweatpants and a cozy sweatshirt. They fit him perfectly, the length just right, and he looked comfortably warm. He shifted slightly, tugging at the cuffs of the sweatshirt, and (Y/n) couldn’t help but smile. “There’s only about five minutes left on the pizzas,” she said, nodding toward the oven. “While we wait, I’ll give you a quick tour of the kitchen.”

Nicholas followed her, eyes scanning everything with cautious curiosity. (Y/n) led him to the cabinets and drawers, showing him where the utensils, pots, and plates were. Then, with a playful smile, she stopped in front of one particular cabinet. “And this,” she said, opening the door, “is the snack cabinet. I always keep it stocked for long workdays, or if I wake up in the middle of the night and want something quick.” She looked at him warmly. “You’re free to take anything you want from here, anytime.”

Nicholas’s ears twitched slightly at the offer. He’d never been treated like this before, never had open access to things he could choose for himself. “The only rule,” she added, “is if something’s starting to run out, write it on the list on the counter so I know to get more.” Nicholas froze for a moment, tail flicking nervously. “…I… don’t know if I can write,” he admitted quietly. He hadn’t practiced writing since he was a child, five years old, maybe, and now, at twenty-three, it felt almost foreign.

(Y/n) reached out, touching his shoulder lightly. “That’s completely fine,” she said gently. “I can teach you whenever you want. Until then, you can just tell me, and I’ll add it to the list for you.” He blinked, a little relieved, and nodded. For the first time in years, rules didn’t feel like punishments, they felt like guidance, a gentle way to help him learn how to be part of a home. And with that, they both turned toward the oven, the scent of the pizza filling the air, signaling the start of something new.

When the oven timer chimed, (Y/n) grabbed two plates and carefully pulled out the pizzas, one simple margarita, the other topped with slices of salami. She set them on the counter for a moment before bringing them to the dining table. Nicholas stood nearby, watching her every movement with a quiet anticipation he didn’t even try to hide. “Alright,” she said as she cut the pizzas into even slices, “try whichever you like. Or both.”

Nicholas hesitated for just a second before taking a slice of each. He glanced at (Y/n), unsure of the proper way to eat it. She picked up her slice with her hands and took a big bite. Nicholas copied her immediately, almost like a reflex, and then, his eyes widened. The flavors hit him all at once, the warmth, the salt, the cheese, the slightly crisp crust. Better than the scent. Better than anything he’d expected. “This is… really good,” he blurted out, unable to hide the surprised delight in his tone. (Y/n) laughed softly, happy just to see him enjoy something. “I’m glad you like it. This is just frozen pizza, though. Ordering fresh pizza is even better. We can do that one night soon.”

She barely finished the sentence before she noticed it, Nicholas’s tail, twitching, then wagging in a slow, unconsciously joyful sway. Like he couldn’t contain the happiness that bubbled up inside him. His eyes had a spark in them now, faint but unmistakably brighter than yesterday. He swallowed another bite, ears perked forward. “Fresh pizza… that sounds nice.” “Then we’ll make it happen,” she said, smiling warmly at him over her slice.

For a moment, they simply ate together, quiet, peaceful, comfortable. And as Nicholas leaned forward to take another bite, tail still lightly swaying, (Y/n) felt something soften in her chest. He wasn’t healed. Not yet. But he was taking steps. Tiny ones. Brave ones. And she was honored to walk beside him.

After they finished eating, (Y/n) gathered their plates and placed them in the sink to wash later, and Nicholas followed her into the living room. He didn’t sit until she did, still unsure of what the rules were, still defaulting to those old, harsh instincts, but when she patted the cushion beside her, he settled down carefully.

(Y/n) grabbed the remote and put on a movie. Something light, something comforting. Nicholas stared at the screen as though he expected to be tested on the plot afterward, completely focused, shoulders a little stiff, eyes wide and attentive. Every now and then he flicked a glance at her, checking if he was watching it the “right” way, but after a while, his focus returned fully to the story. He seemed to enjoy it, even if he didn’t quite know how to show it.

But about halfway through, (Y/n)’s eyelids began to droop. She blinked, fought it, lost, blinked again, and then, softly, silently, she fell asleep, her head tilting slightly to the side. Nicholas noticed almost instantly. He froze. She, she fell asleep? Here? Next to him? His heartbeat quickened, confusion swirling with something warm he couldn’t name. Nobody ever slept around him before. Nobody trusted him enough to. He stared at her for a long moment, unsure what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to wake her? Move? Stay still? He didn’t know. But… she looked peaceful. Safe. He hoped that was because of him, not in spite of him. Slowly, carefully, he stood from the couch.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft sounds of the movie still playing. He took the chance to wander a bit on his own, an unfamiliar privilege, and one he tested gingerly. He walked to her music studio, peeking in but not touching anything. Then down the hallway, glancing into the rooms she’d already shown him. Eventually, he gravitated toward the balcony. He unlocked the door and stepped out. The cool air hit him instantly. Everything was still damp from last night’s heavy rain, the railing, the chairs, even the smell of the city felt rinsed clean. He stepped only onto the dry patch near the entrance, his bare feet instinctively avoiding the wet tiles.

The view stretched far beyond the building. Streets. Windows. People. A world he had almost forgotten existed in full. He breathed in deeply. Fresh air. Open sky. No walls. No cages. No shouting. No blood. A strange, dizzying sense of freedom washed over him. He could run. He realized it with a jolt. He could just… go. Sprint down the stairs, disappear into the city, vanish. No chains. No locked doors. Nothing stopping him.

But when he turned his head and looked through the glass door, he saw the soft glow of the living room, the faint flicker of the movie still running… and (Y/n), curled gently on the couch, sleeping peacefully. His chest tightened. He didn’t want to run. Not from this. Not from her. Not from this home that didn’t feel like a prison. For the first time in years, maybe ever, Nicholas didn’t want to escape.

He stepped back inside, closing the balcony door quietly so it wouldn’t wake her, and returned to the living room. The movie continued playing in soft colors across the screen, and (Y/n)’s breathing was slow and steady. Nicholas sat down beside her again—not too close, but close enough to watch over her, and let himself relax. This time, he didn’t need the couch to feel comfortable. The apartment itself felt safe enough.

As the movie reached its final, dramatic stretch, a sudden burst of sound, the music swelling too loud, made (Y/n) jolt awake. She blinked rapidly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her gaze swept the room in sleepy confusion before finally landing on Nicholas still seated beside her. She smiled, soft and sheepish. A tiny giggle slipped out. “Sorry… guess I fell asleep on you during our quality time.” Nicholas shook his head immediately. “It’s fine. I didn’t mind.” His voice was low, almost careful, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reassure her. But then he hesitated, glancing at her tired eyes.

“Did you… not sleep well last night?” (Y/n) stretched a little, sitting up straighter as the last traces of sleep left her. She shrugged, though the weight behind the gesture was obvious. “I don’t usually sleep well,” she admitted softly. “Not since my ex.” Nicholas tensed at the word. She continued, her voice gentle but honest. “I get nightmares. Or I just… lie awake, because I can’t make myself feel safe. It’s better now than it used to be, though.”

Her gaze drifted around the apartment as she spoke, a quiet fondness in her expression. “When everything ended, Harua, Jo, and Taki came over and helped me repaint the entire place. Every room. They changed out most of the furniture, too. Wanted to make sure it felt like mine again.” She smiled faintly. “And it helped. A lot. But memories… they’re stubborn. Hard to erase completely.”

Nicholas listened silently, his brows drawn together, not in anger, but in something protective. Something almost pained. He didn’t like the thought of anyone hurting her. The idea of someone making her feel unsafe in her own home made his claws itch. He didn’t growl, but his tail flicked once, a sharp, irritated movement he couldn’t quite suppress. (Y/n) noticed, of course. She always noticed. But instead of addressing it, she simply gave him a reassuring smile. “Sorry, that got kind of heavy,” she murmured. Nicholas shook his head again, this time more firmly. “You don’t have to apologize.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “I… I’m glad you told me.” She looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. And Nicholas, for once, didn’t look away.

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice soft, careful. “Nicholas… do you want to talk about your time in the fighting ring?” His ears twitched slightly, his shoulders tensing. She quickly added, “You don’t have to. Only if you want to. I just… want you to know I’m here to listen.” Nicholas was quiet for a few long seconds, his golden eyes fixed on the floor. His tail lay still behind him, not flicking, not restless, just heavy.

Finally, he drew a slow breath and spoke. “It was bad.” The words came out blunt, as if there was no other way to begin. “The handlers… most of them were rough. They didn’t care about us. Not really.” His voice stayed level, but his jaw clenched. “If we lost a fight, they got worse. A lot worse.” (Y/n)’s heart twisted painfully. “They needed us to win,” he continued. “But they barely fed us enough to stand. If you lost, you might not get food for a couple days. Sometimes longer. And some handlers preferred… other punishments.”

He didn’t elaborate, but the silence that followed said more than enough. (Y/n)’s breath caught. “Nicholas…” He kept going, almost mechanically, as if the only way through was forward. “I was treated better than most,” he admitted bitterly. “Because I won. I won a lot. Being a panther, my agility helped. My stamina. My reflexes.” He paused. “Winning meant you got a little more food. Not much. But more.” He lifted his gaze slightly, his expression empty in a way that made (Y/n)’s chest ache. “They kept us in this underground place. A basement, basically. Concrete everywhere. No windows. No sunlight. We barely ever saw the outdoors. Only when they moved us to fight, or when they brought in new hybrids.” His voice dipped lower. “It wasn’t a life. Just… waiting for the next fight.”

(Y/n) pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. She couldn’t believe people could treat someone, anyone, like that. The image of Nicholas, starving and dirty, locked in a basement, punished for losing something he never chose to be part of—it made fury burn under her skin. “Oh my god,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Nicholas… that’s… that’s horrible.” He finally looked at her, almost expecting disgust or fear. But all he found in her expression was heartbreak, and fierce, protective anger on his behalf. She shifted closer, not touching him, but making sure he knew she was right there. “I’m so sorry you went through all of that,” she said quietly. “You didn’t deserve any of it. Not a single bit.” Nicholas blinked. As if he couldn’t understand why someone was apologizing to him. As if kindness still felt foreign enough to confuse him.

Nicholas swallowed hard, his gaze drifting somewhere past the coffee table, somewhere far away. “The day the rescue team found us…” he began slowly, “I had just come out of a fight.” His fingers curled slightly against his knee. “I lost. Again. Third loss in a row.” He let out a bitter, humorless huff. “Three losses meant you were done. They didn’t let you fight anymore. They… sent you to the others instead.”

(Y/n)’s breath hitched softly. “Others?” she whispered carefully. Nicholas nodded once. “The hybrids who were completely gone. The ones who killed for fun. Nothing left in their eyes. No morals. No hesitation. Just violence.” His voice hollowed. “You get thrown in there with them and… well. It’s a death sentence.” His tail lowered until it rested flat on the couch. “I had already accepted it. I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of just… existing like that. I thought maybe dying would be easier.”

(Y/n)’s eyes stung, but she didn’t interrupt. “And then the rescue team came,” Nicholas said quietly. “Just stormed the place. Tore everything apart. Took us out of our cages. It felt unreal. Like I was dreaming.” For a moment he almost smiled, but it faded quickly. “But when they brought me to the shelter…” He shook his head. “I knew why they kept me separate. Why they chained me down. I am dangerous. I know that.” He flicked a glance at her, then quickly back down. “I thought it was only a matter of time before they put me down. Or before I snapped. Lost control again.” His shoulders rose in a tense shrug. “I didn’t expect anything else.” He paused, his throat working as he swallowed. “But then… then you came.” His voice dropped to a softer, almost disbelieving tone. “And Harua. And Jo. And Taki. You were all… different.”

Nicholas looked at her fully now, really looked, and there was something vulnerable in his golden eyes, something exposed. “You talked to me,” he murmured. “Not about me. Not around me. You didn’t flinch when I growled. You listened. You treated me like…” He hesitated, struggling for a word he hadn’t used in years. “…like a person.” (Y/n) felt her chest tighten. Nicholas exhaled slowly, ears dipping just slightly, his honesty raw and unguarded. “So… yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m… really thankful you didn’t give up on me. Even if it’s only been a day.”

A small silence followed, warm, fragile. (Y/n) reached out gently, not touching him yet, but offering her hand if he wanted it. “Nicholas,” she said softly, “I’m not going to give up on you. Not now. Not ever.” He reached out, slow, hesitant, and placed his hand in hers. (Y/n) blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears from spilling, but they only welled faster. A shaky laugh escaped her, soft and breathless. “Even if it’s only been a day,” she whispered, “I… I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

Nicholas’s ears twitched, his eyes widening just a fraction, surprised, almost disbelieving. She squeezed his hand gently. “I’ve fostered hybrids before,” she continued, voice trembling, “but I’ve never felt like this. Not this strongly. Not this quickly. There’s just something about you, Nicholas. Something… different.” She inhaled shakily. “Maybe it’s because you’re the first hybrid I’ve taken in since my ex. Maybe it’s because I’m finally safe, and I want you to feel safe too. Or maybe it’s just you.”

Nicholas stared at her, stunned into stillness. He wasn’t used to being wanted, not truly, not for who he was rather than what he could do. But here she was, crying because she cared about him. Slowly, almost cautiously, he tightened his grip on her hand, like he needed the anchor. “I…” He swallowed, forcing the words out through the emotion tightening his throat. “I like being here with you too.” His voice was rough, low, honest.

“You make it feel like… like I’m allowed to breathe. Like I’m not just some weapon someone threw away.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, small, unsure, but intentional. “I’ve never felt that before.” Her heart clenched at his sincerity, tears spilling freely now. Nicholas leaned slightly closer, not enough to overwhelm, but enough to show he meant every word. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” he murmured. “Not anymore. Not when you’re here.” And for the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to hope.

(Y/n) wiped her tears with the back of her free hand, still smiling, soft, a little wobbly, but real. “Alright,” she sniffed lightly, squeezing his fingers once more, “is there anything you want to do now?” Nicholas glanced around the apartment as if the answer might be hiding somewhere in the room. His gaze drifted past the couch, toward the sliding glass door. The balcony glowed with afternoon light, sunlight spilling across the floorboards.

His ears twitched, his eyes brightening with something gentle and childlike. “I… want to go outside,” he said quietly. “For a walk. The sun feels good today.” (Y/n)’s smile widened, warm and immediate. “A walk sounds perfect. There’s a park a few blocks from here, lots of trees, flowers, and paths. We can go there if you’d like.” Nicholas nodded quickly, too quickly, excitement flickering through him in a way she hadn’t seen before. It made him look younger, lighter. “Can we go now?” he asked, tail giving the smallest, hopeful twitch behind him. (Y/n) let out a soft laugh, bright and melodic, the kind of sound that made Nicholas’s chest feel strange in a good way. “Of course we can. Let me grab my keys.”

Nicholas was already standing, practically buzzing with anticipation. He slipped on his shoes with an eagerness that pulled another quiet laugh from her. She grabbed her keys, her phone, and a light jacket before joining him at the door. “Ready?” she asked. He nodded, and for the first time since she’d met him, the smile he wore felt natural, unforced and free. Together, they stepped out of the apartment and headed into the sunlit afternoon, beginning their first walk side by side.

As they walked down the hallway toward a door Nicholas hadn’t seen before, since they’d always used the garage entrance, (Y/n) slowed a little and pointed down a side corridor. “Down there,” she said, “is the gym everyone in the building can use. Tenants and hybrids.” Nicholas stopped mid-step, ears flicking in surprise. “Hybrids? They let hybrids use it? Even alone?” “Mm-hm.” (Y/n) lifted her keys and held up a small plastic tag attached to them. “You just tap this on the reader, and it unlocks. As long as you live here, you’re allowed inside.” Nicholas stared at the tag like it was some kind of magic token. “They… trust hybrids that much?”

“The owners of the building is really hybrid-friendly,” (Y/n) explained. “They’ve worked with the shelter too, helping with fostering and even donating money. The rules are simple: don’t break anything, clean up after yourself, and try to be nice to the other people using it.” Nicholas nodded slowly, clearly both surprised and intrigued. “I’ve never been in a gym before. Not a real one.” “Well,” she said with a soft smile, nudging his arm gently, “you can go anytime you want. I can come with you, yoo, though I don’t really like working out that much.” He didn’t say anything, but his tail swayed once, like a quiet yes he wasn’t ready to speak yet.

They continued walking, reaching the door at the end of the hallway. (Y/n) pushed it open, and warm sunlight spilled over them instantly. Nicholas blinked against the brightness, then tilted his head back, letting the sun wash over his face. A slow breath left him, shoulders lowering, posture easing, like he was absorbing every bit of warmth the sky offered. He stepped outside fully, and the sunlight seemed to lift him, like something heavy slid off his back. “Feels good?” (Y/n) asked gently. Nicholas nodded, eyes half-closed, voice soft with a kind of wonder. “Yeah… it does.” And then, side by side, they started their walk toward the park.

They crossed the street and entered the park, the path opening into a wide stretch of green dotted with trees. Nicholas slowed slightly, his eyes moving everywhere at once. People strolled with their dogs, a few hybrids played fetch or lounged in the grass, children shrieked with laughter as they chased each other, and couples walked hand in hand. Life was everywhere, free, loud, unafraid. It was the opposite of everything he’d known.

(Y/n) glanced up at him, noticing how he kept taking everything in like he was trying to memorize it. “Is there a particular direction you want to go?” she asked softly. Nicholas blinked, looking around again. He didn’t really know what the options were, not yet. So he just lifted a hand and pointed toward a path winding under a row of tall trees. “That way.” “Alright,” she said, smiling as they headed in that direction.

As they walked, Nicholas kept observing the hybrids around them. Some walked freely beside their owners, chatting or playing. Others wore simple collars that matched their clothes. A few had leashes clipped to them, not tight, not pulling, but there. He couldn’t help it, his hand drifted up to his own neck. There was nothing there. No collar. No chain. No tag. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how he felt. The absence was freeing… no weight, no restraint, no sign that he was property.

But at the same time, something about the collars some hybrids wore, soft ones, decorative ones, looked different. Not like ownership. More like belonging. Like a sign that they were wanted somewhere, wanted by someone. He swallowed, eyes dropping to (Y/n) at his side. Would a collar mean he belonged with her? Was that something he was even supposed to want? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the thought didn’t scare him. Not if it was her.

They kept following the shaded path until the smell of something sweet drifted through the air. Just around a bend, a tiny ice cream stall came into view, bright umbrellas, a handwritten menu board, and a cheerful vendor waving at passing families. (Y/n) lit up instantly. “Oh! Ice cream!” she practically sang, turning to Nicholas with eyes full of excitement. “Have you ever had any?” Nicholas blinked, then shook his head. “No… I don’t even know what it is.” Her jaw dropped playfully. “What? Okay, no, we’re fixing that right now.”

Before he could react, she grabbed his hand and tugged him into a light jog toward the stall. The sudden enthusiasm made his tail flick in a startled, but happy, motion behind him. They reached the counter, and she pointed up at the list of flavors. “Pick anything that sounds good,” she said. He stared at the names. Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, mint chip, caramel swirl… He had no idea what any of them meant. Everything was new. Everything was unknown. So he looked at her. She was already pointing at strawberry. He trusted her. “I… I’ll take the same,” he said quietly.

(Y/n) grinned, placing the order for two strawberry cones. When the vendor handed them over, she gave one to Nicholas. “Here. Try it.” Nicholas sniffed it first, cautious. Then he leaned in and gave a small lick. His entire body jerked back at the cold. “What?” He stared at the cone, wide-eyed. “It’s freezing!” (Y/n) burst into laughter, not mocking, just delighted. “That’s part of the fun. Keep going.” He hesitated… then took another small lick. And his ears instantly perked up, twitching in a rapid little flick of pure excitement he didn’t even realize he was doing.

The sweetness, the fruitiness, the softness, it was incredible. Cold, yes, but so good his tail swayed behind him like an excited cat. “This is…” He looked down at the cone, stunned. “This is really good.” (Y/n) giggled at his reaction, covering her smile with her hand. “I can tell.” He licked the ice cream again, longer this time, savoring it, and she just watched, eyes soft, as if seeing him discover something new and gentle in the world was the best part of her day.

As they continued strolling down the sun-washed path, Nicholas working on his ice cream with careful little licks, (Y/n)’s phone suddenly buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw the name on the screen. “Taki,” she murmured, glancing up at Nicholas. “I need to take this. Is that okay?” He nodded immediately. She stepped only half a foot away, close enough that he could still feel safe, far enough not to be rude, and answered.

“Hey, Taki.” His voice burst through the speaker loud enough that even Nicholas winced. “(Y/n)! How’s it going? How’s Nicholas? Is he eating? Did he destroy anything? Do you need backup?” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “We’re good. Better than good, actually.” She looked over at Nicholas as she spoke. He was walking beside her, cone in one hand, tail relaxed, ears flicking curiously every time a dog barked or a child squealed nearby. He looked… peaceful. More peaceful than he had at any point since they picked him up.

“He’s a very different hybrid from a few hours ago,” she said honestly. “I mean it. He’s trying so hard. He’s… opening up.” Taki let out a relieved sigh. “God, that’s good to hear. We’ve all been worrying. Just call me, or any of us, if you need help, okay?” “I know,” she said with a smile. “Thank you. Really.” They said their goodbyes, and she tucked her phone back into her pocket.

Nicholas glanced at her, licking his ice cream once more. He didn’t ask if he was supposed to have heard. He didn’t even pretend he hadn’t. “You told him I’m different now,” Nicholas said quietly. She nodded. “Because you are.” He held her gaze for a moment, ears slightly lowered but not in fear, more like he was embarrassed yet hopeful. “…I’m trying,” he said. And she smiled, soft and warm. “I know. And I’m proud of you.”

They finished their ice creams slowly, savoring the sweetness and the breeze, before turning around and beginning the walk back toward the apartment. Everything about the moment felt calm, simple, safe. Until someone shouted. “(Y/n)! Hey, (Y/n), wait up!” The voice came from across the street. Nicholas glanced over, but (Y/n) froze before he even understood who it was. Her whole body went rigid. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven. The scent that had slowly become familiar to him, warm, gentle, sharpened into something thin and frightened.

The man jogged a little closer, waving as if they were old friends. Nicholas didn’t know him. But he didn’t have to. Her reaction told him everything. This wasn’t someone they were going to talk to. He moved without thinking, slipping his hand into hers and giving a firm, steady pull. “Come on,” he murmured, low enough that only she would hear. “Let’s go.” She didn’t argue, couldn’t, really. She let him lead her, picking up her pace as the man kept calling her name, louder, more insistent, closing the distance bit by bit.

Nicholas felt his protectiveness flare hot in his chest. His ears were back, tail stiff, but he kept himself focused, walking fast, almost running, toward the apartment entrance. “(Y/n)! Seriously, stop a second, I just wanna talk!” Her hand trembled in his, and Nicholas tightened his grip. When they reached the door, Nicholas stopped abruptly, realizing he didn’t have the key. (Y/n) was already digging through her bag with shaking hands, the rustling frantic. She finally found the key and pressed it into his palm.

He didn’t waste a second. He shoved the key into the lock, turned it, and yanked the door open just as footsteps grew closer behind them. He pulled (Y/n) inside and slammed the door shut. Not even a heartbeat later, the man reached it and knocked, hard. “(Y/n), come on! I just want to talk!” Nicholas positioned himself between her and the door without hesitation, chest heaving, muscles tense. He could see the man through the small window, smug, entitled, leaning in as if he owned the right to stand there.

Nicholas’ lips curled back. A deep, resonant growl built in his chest as he bared his fangs fully, eyes locked onto the man’s through the glass. His expression left no room for interpretation. Back. Off. The man paled, stumbling back a step, eyes wide. He looked between Nicholas’ bared teeth and (Y/n) trembling behind him, and for once, he made the reasonable choice. He turned and walked away quickly, disappearing down the sidewalk without another word. Nicholas kept staring until he was fully out of sight. Only then did he let the growl fade.

Slowly, he turned around. (Y/n) stood there clutching her bag, eyes glassy, breath uneven, but when she looked at him, there was relief too. Relief and something like gratitude flickering through the fear. He stepped closer, ears lowering as his voice softened. “He’s gone,” he murmured. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone like that get near you.”

They walked toward the elevator, (Y/n)’s hand still lightly curled in Nicholas’s. Her steps were a little unsteady, but she kept moving, focusing on the simple act of breathing. Nicholas stayed close, close enough that their arms brushed, close enough that she could feel the quiet rumble still lingering in his chest from the confrontation. Once the elevator doors slid shut behind them, enclosing them in the quiet space, Nicholas finally asked, voice low and careful, “Who… was that?”

(Y/n) swallowed, crossing her arms as if trying to hold herself together. “A friend of my ex,” she said softly. “Or, well… he used to be. I haven’t seen him since the breakup. I haven’t talked to any of them.” She shook her head, taking a shaky breath. “Just being near anyone from that time makes me panic. That’s why I reacted like that.” Nicholas watched her, ears angled forward in concern. He wasn’t used to asking personal questions, but he wanted to understand, needed to, if he was going to keep her safe.

“So you don’t know what he wanted?” he asked. “No clue,” she admitted, leaning her back against the elevator wall. “I’m not in contact with any of them. I’ve avoided that entire part of my life since the day it ended. Running into someone today was just… completely out of nowhere.” Nicholas nodded slowly. He understood more than she probably realized. He understood what it felt like to freeze when the past suddenly showed its face. To feel trapped in memories that refused to let go. To react before you could think. They were more alike than he had ever imagined.

The elevator hummed softly as it climbed, and after a long moment, (Y/n) lifted her gaze to him, a small, tired smile appearing. “But… I’m really glad you were there,” she said gently. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” Nicholas felt something warm flare in his chest. He wasn’t good with words, not yet, but he stepped a little closer, brushing his arm against hers in a quiet, instinctive gesture. “I’m… glad I was with you too,” he said. “I’ll always help you.” The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to their floor, and they stepped out together, still close, still synced, both calmer than they had been minutes before.

Once inside the apartment, (Y/n) kicked off her shoes without even looking down, her body moving on autopilot. She walked straight to the couch and dropped onto it face-first before rolling onto her back with a dramatic groan. Nicholas stepped in more carefully, closing the door and locking it before heading over to her.

He sat at the end of the couch, posture tense for a moment, ready to protect her again if he had to, but as the quiet of the apartment settled around them, he relaxed, tail curling loosely around his ankle. (Y/n) tilted her head back, looking at him upside-down, her hair spilling off the couch cushion. “Y’know,” she said out of nowhere, “that little… incident made me realize something.” Nicholas lifted an eyebrow, waiting. She pointed at him, her finger wobbling slightly in the air from her odd angle. “You need keys.” “…Keys?” he echoed, clearly confused.

“To the apartment. And the building. And the garage. And the mailbox. All of it.” She nodded determinedly. “Right now I only have one set, because after the breakup I was too scared to have extras lying around. But I trust you. You live here now. And you need to be able to come and go whenever you want.” Nicholas blinked at her, startled. His ears twitched. He opened his mouth, immediately protesting. “I don’t need keys. I don’t need any of that,” he said, shaking his head. “You can just, let me in. I’m fine without,” “Nope.” (Y/n) sat up halfway, stabbing her finger toward him again. “You’re getting keys. You need them.”

He frowned slightly, like he wasn’t used to being given things that weren’t tools or weapons or restrictions. “I don’t plan on going anywhere without you,” he mumbled. “That’s sweet,” she smiled, “but you still need keys.” Nicholas looked away, tail flicking once behind him, wrestling with the unfamiliar feeling of someone trusting him with access, real access, to their home. To their life. Finally, he exhaled, shoulders dropping. “…Alright,” he said softly. “If you want me to have them… then okay. I’ll take them.” (Y/n) grinned triumphantly. “Good. We’ll get a new set made tomorrow.” Nicholas glanced back at her, the corner of his mouth lifting, the closest he’d ever come to a natural smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. For the keys. For the trust. For a life he never thought he’d have.

(Y/n) grabbed the remote from where it had slipped between the cushions and put on a random series, something light, something that didn’t demand attention. She wasn’t really watching it, but Nicholas seemed to; his eyes tracked every movement on the screen, ears flicking subtly at new sounds, his tail curling and uncurling at the slow pace of the episode.

It was comforting, in its own way, seeing him relax. But her mind… her mind wouldn’t sit still. She stared at the TV without seeing a thing, her chest tightening as the memory replayed: the sudden shout of her name, the freezing of her muscles, the way her pulse had spiked so hard she thought she might pass out. She hugged a pillow to her chest, fingers sinking into the fabric.

She’d never liked that guy. Something about him had always been off, too smug, too sharp, too close to her ex for her comfort. He had laughed when her ex belittled her. Had stood by doing nothing the night everything fell apart. Seeing him now, here, in her neighborhood, made her skin crawl. She glanced at Nicholas. He was sitting close enough to touch, but not crowding her. Alert, but calm now that the danger had passed. He had reacted so fast earlier… and she was grateful. If he hadn’t been there, if she had been alone. She swallowed, trying to steady her breathing before it got uneven again. God, she really might have had a full-blown panic attack.

A part of her dreaded what came next. That guy wasn’t known for keeping his mouth shut. If he had seen her, recognized her, there was a chance her ex would hear about it. A chance he might come looking. Her stomach twisted at the thought. She sank deeper into the couch, pulling the pillow over her stomach like a shield. Please… she thought. Please let today have been a one-time thing.

Nicholas glanced over suddenly, maybe sensing her shifting scent, or the way she’d gone quiet, and his eyes softened a little, his ears tilting down with concern. But he didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Nicholas hesitated only a second. He’d seen it on the show, one character lying down, resting their head in another’s lap. It had looked… comforting. Safe. And (Y/n) looked like she needed something soft right now. Something grounding.

So he took a quiet breath, shifted onto his side, and gently lowered himself until his head rested against her lap. His movement nudged the pillow she was hugging, pushing it out of the way. (Y/n) blinked in surprise, then laughed, a bright, warm sound that loosened the tightness in the air. She set the pillow aside completely, adjusting so his head could settle more comfortably across her thighs. Her fingers slipped into his hair almost immediately.

Nicholas’s eyes fluttered half-closed as she scratched gently behind his ears, slow, soothing strokes he didn’t even know he needed. The touch sparked something unfamiliar but instinctive inside him. Something soft. A quiet vibration built in his chest. It startled him for a moment, this deep, involuntary rumble, but he didn’t pull away. (Y/n) stilled, then smiled with awe. “…You’re purring,” she whispered. “I,” He hadn’t meant to. Wasn’t sure he could. But he couldn’t stop either. The gentle resonance rolled through him, echoing warmly under her touch, calming him from the inside out. And calming her, too.

She relaxed back into the couch, her fingers still threading through his hair, following the curve of his scalp. Every time her nails lightly grazed behind his ear, the purring deepened, vibrating against her legs like a soft, living lullaby. Her heartbeat, which had been frantic minutes ago, slowed. Her breathing evened out. The anxiety lingering in her scent eased. Nicholas let his eyes fall shut completely. He didn’t know he could feel this safe. He didn’t know he could make someone else feel safe. But curled there with her hands in his hair and the steady hum in his chest, he knew one thing for certain: He never wanted to move from her lap again.

They stayed like that far longer than either of them realized. The show kept playing, episodes drifting by unnoticed, while (Y/n)’s fingers idly moved through Nicholas’s hair, and his soft purring rose and fell in gentle waves. Her heartbeat stayed slow. His breathing stayed steady. For that whole hour, it felt like the world outside didn’t even exist.

Eventually, Nicholas shifted. The purring faded as he braced his hands on the couch and pushed himself upright, blinking groggily. His hair was sticking up in every direction, fluffed and tousled from her constant petting. One ear bent the wrong way until it flicked itself back into place. (Y/n) smiled at the sight.

Nicholas stretched, a long, lazy movement, a small yawn slipping out before he could stop it. Then he looked at her, really looked, meeting her gaze with a flicker of uncertainty in his amber eyes. “…I’m hungry again,” he said quietly, as if the admission might annoy her. His fingers fidgeted against the seam of his pants. “Sorry. I just, I’m still hungry.” (Y/n)’s expression softened immediately. “I’m hungry too,” she said, pushing herself up from the couch. She reached her arms over her head, stretching with a small groan. “I’ll start dinner.”

Nicholas stood up right after her, almost instinctively. “You don’t have to follow me,” she said gently, turning toward the kitchen. “I want to help,” he replied quickly, no hesitation this time, just a quiet determination. “Please. Let me help.” (Y/n) paused, watching him. His posture was straight, but his tail flicked with nervous energy behind him; he really meant it. “…Alright,” she said with a warm smile. “You can help.”

Nicholas’s ears perked, his shoulders relaxing with visible relief. He stepped closer, ready to follow her into the kitchen, not because he was told to, not because he felt he should, but because he wanted to be there with her, wanted to be useful, wanted to make dinner together. Together felt right.

Even though (Y/n) could’ve made dinner on her own with no trouble, she didn’t. She kept Nicholas beside her the whole time, handing him small tasks, giving him things to do so he felt like part of the process. “Can you grab me the paprika?” “Could you stir this for a moment?” “Think you can set the table?” None of it was difficult, but every time she asked him something, Nicholas’s eyes lit up just a little. He liked being useful, liked being included. And she made sure he was.

By the time the food was ready, the table was neatly set, forks carefully aligned, glasses placed just right. Nicholas hovered beside his chair, waiting until she sat before he did too. Dinner was quiet at first, but a comfortable kind of quiet. Nicholas ate a lot, far more than earlier, and every emptying spoonful made (Y/n) smile to herself. She didn’t say anything about it; she didn’t want to embarrass him. But the sight made her heart warm.

Halfway through the meal, (Y/n) brought up the next day. “I have a work meeting in the morning,” she said between bites. “So you’ll have to make your own breakfast. Maybe some cereal? It’s easy.” Nicholas nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Cereal… okay. I can do that.” “After the meeting, we can go fix your keys,” she continued. “For the building, the apartment, everything.” Nicholas froze for a split second, spoon halfway to his mouth, as if the idea still felt strangely big. But then he nodded again, slower this time, accepting it. “And after that,” (Y/n) added with a soft smile, “we’re free to do whatever we want.” Nicholas relaxed in his seat, tail giving a small flick of contentment. He liked the sound of that, we.

Night came and went, and the following days blended together in a surprisingly gentle way. A routine formed so naturally it almost felt like they’d been living together far longer than they actually had. (Y/n) had her meeting the next morning, exactly as planned. Nicholas made his own breakfast, too much cereal spilling into the bowl at first, but he ate it proudly anyway. Then they went out and got his keys: one for the front entrance, one for the mailbox area, one for the apartment. He kept them on a small ring, holding it tight in his hand on the way home like it was some kind of treasure.

The days that followed were warm and quiet. They cooked together every evening. They watched movies and curled up on the couch, sometimes with Nicholas’s head in her lap, sometimes with him leaning against her shoulder. They took walks in the park, bought groceries like any other pair living together, and every day he grew more comfortable… more himself. The haunted look faded from his eyes. His tail moved more freely. He smiled more. Everything felt normal now. Safe.

And then, a week and a half later, that safety was tested just a bit. They sat in the car, heading toward the shelter. Taki had insisted on checking Nicholas’s wounds, both the visible ones and the ones (Y/n) wasn’t trained to assess. Nicholas sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, ears low in displeasure. He didn’t like the idea of going back. Not the place. Not the memories.

But he went. Because (Y/n) had squeezed his hand earlier and told him it would be fine. Because she had promised she wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Now, as the building came into view, Nicholas shifted uncomfortably, claws tapping anxiously on his knee. He didn’t speak, but his tension was obvious. (Y/n) glanced over at him, offering a soft, steadying smile. “We’ll be in and out,” she assured gently. “Taki just wants to make sure everything’s healing properly.” Nicholas exhaled through his nose, trying to appear braver than he felt. “…Okay,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

The shelter parking lot came closer, and (Y/n) pulled into a space. She turned off the engine, the quiet settling between them. But when she reached for her door, Nicholas’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, not to stop her, but to ground himself. She looked at him. His voice was quiet. “You… you’ll stay with me the whole time, right?” Her smile softened even further. “Of course I will,” she said. “I’m not leaving your side.” Only then did Nicholas let go, lowering his ears but nodding. Together, they got out of the car and walked toward the entrance.

Taki met them the moment they stepped through the shelter doors. “(Y/n)!” he exclaimed, practically launching himself forward to hug her. She laughed, hugging him back warmly. Nicholas’s ears flattened slightly. His brows pulled together in a tight frown, his tail tip twitching in clear disapproval. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. Jo and Harua, coming down the hall, noticed immediately. They exchanged a look, then both snorted trying to hold in their laughter. (Y/n) pulled away from the hug just in time to catch the expression on Nicholas’s face. Before she could tease him, Taki clapped his hands together.

“All right, come with me! Let’s get this over with so you two can enjoy the rest of your day.” He led them down the familiar hallway and into one of the exam rooms. The second the door shut, the air in the room grew tense. Nicholas hated it here. The metal table. The harsh light. The smell of antiseptic. The memories. Still, he behaved. Because (Y/n) was standing beside him, her hand resting gently between his shoulder blades. And he wanted her to be proud of him.

Taki worked quickly. He checked Nicholas’s healing bruises, the remaining cuts, the motion in his shoulders and ribs. Every time Taki’s fingers pressed against a sore spot, Nicholas’s jaw tensed, a faint growl vibrating low in his chest. Taki didn’t react, he was used to hybrids being uneasy during exams, but (Y/n) ran her thumb reassuringly across Nicholas’s back, and he forced himself to breathe.

When it was finally over, Taki stepped back with a satisfied nod. “Everything is healing really well,” he said. “No infections, and his energy looks great. You’ve been taking good care of him, (Y/n).” Nicholas puffed up slightly at that, not because of the compliment, but because it was directed at her. Taki grabbed a clipboard. “Now, I just need you to fill out the additional paperwork we talked about. Should only take a few minutes.”

Nicholas immediately leaned away from the table. “In here?” he asked, ears flicking uneasily. “No,” Taki waved his hand. “(Y/n) can come with me. You just stay here for a little bit.” Nicholas’s frown deepened. His tail stiffened behind him. He did not like that idea. (Y/n) stepped in quickly, placing a hand on his forearm. “It’ll be super fast,” she promised softly. “I’ll come right back. I won’t leave you alone any longer than I have to.” His shoulders loosened by maybe a millimeter. “…Okay,” he murmured, though unhappily. He sat down on the bench beside the exam table, arms crossed, glaring at the floor like it had personally offended him.

(Y/n) gave his hand one last squeeze before following Taki out of the room. Nicholas waited until the door closed. Then he scowled even harder. He hated this room. He hated waiting. And he hated being away from her, even for a moment. Still… She said she would be quick. So he stayed.

(Y/n) followed Taki down the hallway, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve even as she tried to hide her excitement. “Did you guys prepare everything?” she whispered. Taki flashed her a bright grin. “Of course we did. Harua and Jo spent the whole morning setting it up. Everything’s ready.” Relief washed over her. She nodded, heart pounding. “Good. Thank you.” They turned a corner and found Jo and Harua waiting in one of the staff rooms. Both of them were smiling, the soft, knowing kind that made her chest feel warm.

Harua, held a stack of papers in his hands. Jo leaned against the table, practically vibrating with excitement. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Harua asked gently. “Once you sign these, there’s no going back.” (Y/n) didn’t even blink. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” Harua exhaled, relieved, and set the papers down on the small table. Jo immediately handed her a pen, eyes shining. (Y/n) sat down, pulling the papers closer. She scanned the first page, even though she already knew what they were. Official hybrid adoption papers.

Her throat tightened. Her vision prickled. This was real. This was happening. She signed each page with a steady, determined hand. When she finished the last signature, Jo let out an excited little sound before catching himself. Taki elbowed him, grinning. Then Jo reached into a drawer and pulled out a small box, one she recognized instantly. He opened it and revealed a silver necklace inside. Simple. Stylish. Masculine. The same one Nicholas had paused to look at through the shop window earlier in the week.

Taki nudged her shoulder. “We picked it up the day after you messaged us. And yes,” he added teasingly, “we kept the receipt.” (Y/n) rolled her eyes but smiled brightly, pulling out her wallet and handing them the money she owed. Harua accepted it and tucked it away. She lifted the necklace from its box. It glinted softly in her palm, lightweight, strong, and meaningful without being restrictive. A perfect symbolic collar. A perfect gift. A perfect welcome into a real home. Harua crossed his arms, smiling softly. “He’s going to love it. And the fact that you chose it for him? Even more.” (Y/n) closed her fingers around the chain, her heart full. Nicholas wasn’t just being fosterd anymore. He was hers, officially. And she couldn’t wait to tell him.

(Y/n) slipped the necklace into her pocket before heading back down the hall. Her heart pounded with a mix of nerves and excitement. When she reached the exam room, she could already hear Nicholas shifting restlessly inside. He had been waiting only a few minutes, but to him it felt like hours. The moment she opened the door, his ears perked up, shoulders relaxing. She stepped inside with a warm smile. “All done,” she said softly.

Nicholas immediately stood, walking toward her, but she lifted her hand to stop him. “Wait, just a second,” she said. “And… close your eyes.” Nicholas blinked, confused. His head tilted the slightest bit, ears twitching. “Why?” (Y/n) only smiled wider. “Trust me.” He hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he closed his eyes, taking a steady breath. (Y/n) stepped behind him quietly, pulling the necklace from her pocket with slow, careful movements so he wouldn’t hear the soft clink of the chain. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck gently as she fastened it, making sure the clasp didn’t catch on his hair. When it finally settled around his throat, resting perfectly against his skin, she stepped back.

“Okay,” she breathed. “You can open your eyes now.” Nicholas opened them instantly. His hand went up, fingertips brushing the cool metal. His brows furrowed, then lifted in surprise as realization flickered across his face. He turned toward the small mirror on the wall. There it was. The same necklace he had paused to admire through the shop window days ago. Nicholas tore his gaze away from the mirror and looked at (Y/n), his hand still resting over the necklace. “What… what is it?” he asked quietly. (Y/n) stepped closer, her smile warm and soft. “Well… it’s a collar. Sort of,” she explained. “All adopted hybrids have to wear one. It needs a tag with their name and their owner’s information.”

Nicholas immediately turned the necklace between his fingers until he found the small tag. His eyes widened as he read it, his name engraved cleanly on one side… and (Y/n)’s name on the other. He looked back up at her, confusion and awe mixing in his expression. “But… why does it have?” “Because,” (Y/n) said gently, “I just signed the papers.” She swallowed, heart racing. “If you want to stay with me… for good.” For a moment, Nicholas didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Then everything hit him at once. He stepped forward so fast it startled her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight, crushing hug. His voice was rough, trembling, repeating the same word over and over: “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” (Y/n) laughed, hugging him back just as tightly. “Okay, okay, good. Then let’s go home.” Nicholas didn’t let go for a long moment, but when he finally did, his smile was brighter than she had ever seen.

As they stepped out of the exam room, Taki, Harua, and Jo were already waiting in the hall. The second they saw the necklace around Nicholas’ neck, their faces lit up with wide smiles. “Congratulations, Nicholas!” Harua said warmly. “Welcome to the family, for real this time,” Jo added with a grin. For the first time ever, Nicholas smiled back at them. It was still a little stiff, still unsure, but it was a real smile. The three men looked pleasantly shocked, exchanging a quick glance, they knew exactly how big that was.

Taki moved in to hug (Y/n), practically bouncing with excitement. But before he could reach her, Nicholas stepped forward, one arm sliding around her waist as he pulled her slightly back behind him. His fangs weren’t bared, but the glare he sent Taki absolutely got the message across. (Y/n) burst out laughing. “He’s a bit possessive,” she said, patting Nicholas’ arm lightly. All three guys cracked up. “Yes, I noticed,” Taki said with a playful huff. “My apologies, mighty panther. I’ll ask for permission next time.”

Nicholas looked between them, still not entirely sure what the joke was, but he huffed, tail flicking once. Then he looked at (Y/n), tugged gently at her sleeve, and said simply, “I want to go home.” (Y/n) giggled, slipping her hand into his. “Then let’s go.” And with one last round of goodbyes, they left the shelter, together. As a family.

As they walked toward the car, Nicholas kept one hand curled around the silver necklace, thumb brushing over the tag as if making sure it was real. His other hand was wrapped gently, almost shyly, around (Y/n)’s. And he was smiling. Really smiling. His entire face was lit up, eyes bright, ears perked, tail swaying behind him in loose, relaxed movements she had never seen before. Her heart squeezed at the sight. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him this happy, not even close.

When they reached the car, he hesitated. His grip on her hand tightened, as if letting go meant something would change now that everything was official. She squeezed back softly, telling him nothing was different, except that now he was hers in every way that mattered. Reassured, he let go long enough for them to climb inside.

(Y/n) started the engine, and the radio clicked on. A soft, familiar melody filled the car, the intro to one of her songs, one that had been playing in a few stores lately. She’d written it long before she met Nicholas, but suddenly it felt like it was about him. Nicholas’ ears perked immediately. Then, to her surprise, he started singing along, quietly at first, but then with more confidence. He didn’t know every word, but he knew enough, his voice slipping into the melody in a way that made (Y/n)’s breath catch.

He sounded… amazing. Warm. Rich. Clear. She stared at him, stunned, until he noticed and flushed, ears folding back as he looked down at his lap in embarrassment. “You’re really good,” she said, awe in her voice. His cheeks darkened even further, but the smile remained, soft this time, full of something tender and unfamiliar. “Thank you,” he murmured. His thumb brushed over his new tag once more. “I’m… happy. With you. With having a home.”

~~~

A few weeks slipped by like warm sunlight, quiet, steady, healing. And Nicholas? He wasn’t the same hybrid who’d stepped trembling into her life. The timid, cautious panther who flinched at footsteps and trailed behind her like a shadow… was gone. Replaced instead with someone louder, brighter, alive. Someone who stretched like a lazy cat in the mornings and complained dramatically when she tried to get out of bed without giving him at least five minutes of hair–scratching first.

He wandered the apartment confidently now, talking more, laughing more, purring openly whenever she combed her fingers through his hair. Gone were the nervous glances and stiff posture. Nicholas sprawled across the couch as if he owned it, stole her blankets without shame, snuck up behind her just to wrap his arms around her waist because he could.

Clingy didn’t even begin to cover it. He followed her everywhere, into the kitchen, the balcony, even the laundry room, asking questions, offering help, brushing his tail against her leg just to feel her close. And she didn’t mind. Not one bit. But the possessiveness? That hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had grown.

Especially the day the boys from the shelter came over for dinner. He liked them, he truly did. Taki’s smart mouth made him laugh, Jo’s calmness soothed him, and Harua’s gentle teasing no longer made him bristle. They were good people, good friends of (Y/n)…but Nicholas still kept himself glued to her side, one hand resting casually on her lower back whenever Taki got too enthusiastic, or when Harua leaned a little too close while showing her something on his phone. And Jo’s attempts to hug her hello were met with a low, warning rumble until Jo raised both hands and backed off, laughing.

The boys noticed, of course. “Damn,” Taki had whispered to Jo. “He really said, ‘She’s mine, touch her and die.’” Nicholas just bared his fangs, playfully, but still. (Y/n) rolled her eyes, nudging him gently, though she didn’t tell him to stop. It was harmless, soft, almost endearing. And seeing him like this, confident, expressive, protective, happy, it warmed something deep inside her.

Timid Nicholas, the one chained to the darkness of the fighting ring, felt like a shadow from another lifetime. A distant memory. Because this Nicholas, the one who laughed, who teased, who stole her side of the bed in the morning, who leaned into every touch with absolute trust, this was the real him. The one he was allowed to become. And he was blooming.

[suunani]

written in the stars [ sim jaeyun ]

you come home to an adorably nervous jake and a gift crafted from the depths of his heart.

❛ content 2.2k words, established relationship, soft domestic fluff, jake is the cutest boy ever, lots of tenderness and kisses, tears (happy ones!!), jake wears glasses, handmade gift.

the first thing you noticed when you unlocked the door to your shared apartment was the silence. it was a thick, unusual kind of quiet, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator.

normally, you’d be greeted by the soft sound of a video game soundtrack or the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar, accompanied by jake’s humming.

“jakey? i’m home,” you called out, toeing off your shoes and lining them up neatly beside his well-worn, slightly scuffed sneakers. so he was home.

a muffled thump came from the direction of the bedroom, followed by a beat of silence.

“in here!” his voice floated out, a little too high, a little too bright, like a lightbulb about to flicker out.

you found jake sitting cross-legged on your neatly made bed — a testimony to his morning, as you were usually the one who made it. he had his black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and a thick textbook was open in his lap, but his fingers were drumming a restless, staccato rhythm on its glossy pages.

the sight of him in his glasses always did something warm and tender to your chest; it amplified the innate, earnest sweetness in his face, making him look like the smartest, kindest boy in the entire world.

“hey, you,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

jake’s eyes, wide and a little startled behind his lenses, snapped up to meet yours. a smile stretched across his pretty lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. it was a nervous, twitchy thing.

“hi. how, uh, how was your day?”

you pushed off the doorframe and walked over, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight. sitting on the edge of the bed, you reached out and stilled his fidgeting hand, lacing your fingers through his.

his skin was warm, almost clammy.

“well, it was really long. missed you,” you brought his knuckles to your lips for a quick kiss. “what about you? you look… tense.”

it was more than tense.

the usual relaxed slope of jake’s shoulders was gone, replaced by a rigid line. there was a faint crease between his brows, the one that only appeared when he was deeply concentrating or deeply worried.

“me? no, i’m good! just, you know. studying,” he gestured vaguely at the textbook, but his gaze kept darting towards the closet, where the doors were firmly shut. “lots of… complicated stuff.”

you hummed, not convinced at all. you knew every single cadence of his voice, every micro-expression that flitted across his face.

this was the jake who had accidentally broken your favorite mug and tried to hide the pieces for two days before confessing with tear-filled eyes. this was the jake who’d been planning a surprise birthday party for you and nearly gave himself an ulcer from the stress of keeping it a secret.

“okay,” you said simply, deciding not to push.

you squeezed jake’s hand and leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead, right above the frame of his glasses.

“well, i’m gonna go change. want to order some tteokbokki and watch that new anime tonight?”

his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

“yeah,” he said, his voice softening into something more genuine. “that sounds perfect.”

but as you stood up and walked toward the dresser, you saw jake from the corner of your eye. his hand went up to nervously adjust his glasses, and he bit his lip, his eyes once again straying to the closet door.

the tteokbokki arrived, spicy and steaming, and you ate it on the couch with bowls balanced on your laps.

jake seemed a little more relaxed, laughing at a funny scene in the anime, his body leaning into yours. the physical contact was a balm to him; you could feel the coiled energy in his frame slowly start to unwind as he rested his head on your shoulder.

but then his phone, which was face-down on the coffee table, vibrated with a notification. he jolted as if electrocuted, nearly spilling his drink.

“whoa, easy there,” you chuckled, steadying his bowl.

“sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, snatching the phone and quickly checking the screen.

his eyes widened, and he typed out a frantic, one handed reply before slamming it back down on the table, screen-side once more.

“everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light and non-accusatory.

“hmm? oh, yeah. just… sunghoon. being annoying. you know how he is.”

jake gave you a quick, tight smile before turning his attention back to the TV, but the comfortable moment was broken. his leg started bouncing, a nervous tremor you could feel through the couch cushions.

you paused the anime. the sudden silence felt heavy.

“sim jaeyun.”

he flinched at the use of his full name. “yeah?”

“look at me.”

he hesitated, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, before slowly turning his head to you. his brown eyes, magnified by his glasses, were swimming with a potent mix of anxiety and guilt.

he looked so vulnerable.

“you’ve been a bundle of nerves since i got home,” you said, your voice gentle.

you reached out and cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking the soft skin just below his glasses.

“your jaw is so tight i’m surprised you can chew. you keep looking at the closet like it’s about to sprout legs and run away. and you’re jumping at every little sound. whatever it is, you can tell me. did you… did you get another parking ticket?”

it was a weak joke, but you hoped it would at least break the tension. well, it didn’t.

a wave of sheer panic crossed jake’s face.

“no! it’s not—it’s nothing bad, i promise,” he took a deep, shuddering breath, his hand coming up to cover yours on his cheek. his skin was so warm. “it’s just… i have something for you. a gift.”

the confession seemed to suck all the air out of the room. your brows furrowed. “a gift? it’s not my birthday. it’s not our anniversary.”

“i know!” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “it’s just… because. because i saw it and i thought of you and i… i worked on it. like—a lot. and now i’m… i’m just scared you won’t like it.”

the last part came out in a rushed, pained whisper.

your heart clenched so hard it was almost physical. this was what all the stress was about?

this incredible, beautiful man, who held the entire universe in his smile, was sitting here, terrified that a simple gift wouldn’t meet your approval.

“jake,” you breathed out, your voice thick with emotion. “you ridiculous, wonderful man. i could never not like something you gave me. the thought alone is—”

“no, but this is different,” he interrupted, his eyes pleading with you to understand. “it’s not just a bought thing. i made it. i put it together. and i wanted it to be so perfect for you because you’re… you’re just so incredible, and you deserve perfect things.”

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. you leaned forward, closing the small distance between you, and pressed your forehead against his. the cool plastic of his glasses frames pressed against your skin.

“hey,” you whispered. “look at me. i love you. you. sim jaeyun. not the gifts you give me. you. that will never, ever change. okay?”

a single tear escaped from under jake’s glasses and traced a path down his pink cheek. you wiped it away with your thumb.

“okay,” he whispered back, his breath hitching. jake took another deep breath, finally seeming to gather his courage. “okay. wait here.”

he untangled himself from you and walked to the bedroom with the stiff gait of a man heading to his own execution. you heard the closet door slide open, some rustling, and then he emerged, holding a large, flat, rectangular object wrapped clumsily in what looked like one of your old galaxy-print bedsheets.

jake held it in front of himself like a shield, his knuckles white where he gripped the edges. he looked so endearingly nervous, his bottom lip caught between his teeth again.

“here,” he said, his voice small as he carefully handed it to you.

it was heavier than it looked.

you took it, your heart swelling with so much love you felt like you might burst. you placed the bundle on your lap and slowly, carefully, began to unwrap it. the fabric fell away to reveal a stunning, deep-set, custom-built wooden frame. and inside it…

you gasped.

it was a map. but not just any map.

it was a beautifully illustrated, incredibly detailed star chart of the night sky. the background was a deep, rich navy blue, speckled with tiny, hand-painted silver stars that formed intricate constellations. swirling, elegant script labeled them in both korean and latin.

but that wasn't the most breathtaking part.

arcing across the center of the map, in a glowing, golden line, was a path. and along that path, at specific, marked points, were dates and tiny, perfect little engravings.

you leaned closer, your eyes tracing the golden path.

the first point was labeled First Meeting – University Library. a tiny, adorable engraving of two stacked books with cute little hearts floating above them. further along, First Date – Namsan Tower. a miniature, perfect rendering of the namsan seoul tower. First 'I Love You' – Han River. a little picnic blanket and two little stick figures sitting close together.

it went on and on, tracing the entire trajectory of your relationship with jake. every major milestone, every inside joke, every cherished memory was meticulously charted among the stars.

the final point, at the very edge of the known constellations, was simply labeled Our Future, with a tiny, hopeful shooting star blazing past it.

the level of detail was staggering. the wood of the frame was smooth and polished, the colors were vibrant, the calligraphy was flawless. he must have spent weeks, maybe months, on this. planning, painting, engraving, worrying over every single tiny star.

you were speechless.

a lump the size of a fist had formed in your throat, and your vision blurred with unshed tears. you could only stare, your fingers trembling as they hovered over the glass, tracing the golden path of your love story, written in the stars by the boy sitting next to you.

a choked sob finally broke through your silence.

jake, who had been watching you with bated breath, flinched at the sound.

“you hate it,” he whispered, his voice devastated. “i knew it was too nerdy, too much, i—”

you turned to him, the tears now streaming freely down your face, and you saw the sheer, raw panic in his eyes dissolve into confusion as you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder.

“i love it,” you choked out, your body shaking with the force of your emotions. “jake, i love it so much. it’s the most beautiful, the most thoughtful, the most perfect thing anyone has ever given me.”

he froze for a second, processing, before his arms came up to wrap around you, holding you so tightly it was as if he were trying to fuse you together. a shuddering sigh of relief escaped him, warm against your neck.

“really?” he asked, his voice small and hopeful. “you’re not just saying that?”

you pulled back just enough to cradle his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, to see the absolute, unwavering truth in your tear-filled eyes.

“i am saying that this is… this is us. you put us in the stars. you took all our memories and you made them eternal,” you laughed, a wet, happy sound. “it’s the nerdiest, most romantic, most you thing in the entire world. and i will treasure it for the rest of my life.”

the tension finally, completely, left his body. the worry lines smoothed from his forehead, and the smile that spread across his face was the real one — the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole being glow. it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

jake laughed too, a sound of pure relief and joy.

“i was so scared,” he admitted, leaning his forehead against yours. “i spent forever on the constellations. i wanted the alignment to be accurate for the dates. and heeseung had to help me with the wood-burning for the little engravings because i kept burning my fingers…”

you listened, your heart feeling so full of love it was a physical ache, as he rambled on about the process, all his secretive calls and late nights finally making sense. you peppered jake’s face with little kisses between his words — on his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids, making him giggle and squirm.

“my brilliant, nerdy, incredible boyfriend,” you murmured against his lips before finally kissing him properly.

it was soft and deep and tasted like tteokbokki, relief, and boundless love.

when you parted, both of you were breathless and smiling. you looked from his sparkling, happy eyes back to the star chart, now propped up on the coffee table. it was more than a gift. it was a promise, a story, an universe contained in a frame, all created because sim jaeyun loved you.

“where should we hang it?” you asked, your voice still a little thick.

he beamed, snuggling into your side and resting his head on your shoulder, his glasses nudging your cheek.

“wherever we can see it every day,” he said softly. “se we can always remember where we’ve been, and where we’re going.”

you held him close, your fingers gently combing through his soft hair, and knew, with absolute certainty, that there was no star in any galaxy luckier than you.

🐙 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 <𝟯 !!